Archive of Our Own ^beta

Jamie’s phone lights up with yet another call from “Dad” in the middle of gym time with the lads, which ought to be a fucking criminal penalty. He swipes to dismiss it, but Jan sees the screen first and looks at him with a raised eyebrow.

“What does he want?” Jan asks, gentle as a fucking brick to the head as ever. “Just to shout at you?”

“I don’t know, do I, because I didn’t answer.” He does know. This has been going on for over a week. His dad owes money to some people it’s a bad idea to owe money to. He doesn’t have the money. He wants Jamie to give it to him. And Jamie will, because he always does, but he doesn’t want to deal with this shit right now. He is at work, isn’t he?

And maybe he wants to make his dad squirm a bit first. He’s only human.

“You should block his number,” Jan says. “He doesn’t seem to be a positive part of your life.”

Jamie grunts, probably sounding like Roy fucking Kent, because what is he supposed to do with that painfully obvious statement? Of course his dad isn’t a positive part of his life. Of course he should block the number. But he can’t, because it’s his fucking dad, and family means something, don’t it?

He doesn’t get much done the rest of the training session. He’ll have to make up for it some other day.

He checks his phone again before leaving and there’s another missed call, plus a text message. It says I am running out of patience with you being a moody little bitch Jamie.

Well. That’s just fucking lovely.

**

No more calls or texts the rest of that day, or up til training the next. Later, he’ll realize that should have worried him. At the time, it’s a relief.

It’s a short training day, since they have a match coming up. A few of the lads are talking about getting together to watch something or play video games, but Jamie’s tired and wants to take some time with some nonspecific and absolutely not banned herbal remedies for his aches and pains. It is a good plan that he is very excited about.

He gets home, he eats his nutritionist-approved meal, he sits for a few minutes scrolling through his phone, and just as he’s about to go upstairs and lie down with his remedies, there’s a knock at the door.

It’s the modern fucking era, he’s got Ring, so he checks the app on his phone, and his stomach twists into a complicated series of knots as he sees that it’s Denbo and Bug standing there, jacket collars turned up, solid and unmoveable as stones.

Jamie shuffles to the door and opens it a hand’s width. “What are you two doing here?”

“Hello, Jamie,” Bug says. Denbo gives a wave and a particularly cold look. “Need to talk to you. It’s about your father.”

“I know he needs money. He’s been on my fucking case about it.” He glances up and down the street as best he can from this angle. “He’s not here with you? He sent the two of you all the way down from Manchester?”

“He’s being a bit cautious about leaving the house right now,” Denbo rumbles. “What with his own flesh and blood giving him shit instead of helping him out with his problem.”

“Has he thought about not borrowing money from fucking loan sharks?” Jamie drags his hand through his hair. “Because that would help, I think.”

Bug shifts his weight forward, and before Jamie quite realizes it, he’s got the toe of his heavy work boot jammed in the gap in the door. “We’re coming inside to discuss this, Jamie.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Look, I’ll transfer him the fucking money, all right? I’ll do it right now.” He fumbles for his phone, fucking stupid, because that moment of diverted attention is enough for them to push the door open and come inside.

Bug closes the door behind them and throws the deadbolt, which sends Jamie’s heart into a rabbit-fast sprint that leaves him dizzy. “I said I’ll transfer him the money.”

“That’s not good enough anymore.”

Denbo unzips his jacket and produces that fucking crowbar, the one Jamie has seen move back and forth amongst the three men, their cars, their flats. He’s heard stories about it. Seen people threatened with it. He’s never seen it used but it’s been a near fucking thing, and now not only is his heart pounding but his breath is choking in his throat.

“Your father,” Bug says, “would like to see an extra ten thousand on top of what he asked for, for his distress at you being a fucking ungrateful little twat.”

He has the money. The problem isn’t the fucking money. “Look, could you two just… just sit down and put that fucking thing away, and I’ll do it, I’ll send him… all of that.”

Denbo taps the crowbar against his hand. “Are you sorry for how you’ve acted?”

Christ, he’s never been more sorry in his life. “Yes. I am.”

“Won’t happen again, will it?” Denbo points the crowbar at him. “You do need both legs unbroken to play football, don’t you?”

“You got insurance on them things?” Bug asks. “I heard the clubs do that now. Insure legs.”

Jamie closes his eyes tightly. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good lad.” Bug’s hand on his shoulder, steering him to sit down at the table. “Now, you do your little transfer, and don’t even think about trying to call anyone, understand? We’re going to watch what you do.”

Right. Right. He pulls up his banking app and clicks around carefully. He knows his dad’s banking information is in the past transactions from the other times he paid off something or other… there. He types in the amount, hits the advance button, hits the confirmation button. Yes, he’s sure he wants to do this. He wants to keep his fucking legs whole. He doesn’t want to be cowering in front of these two men, like he did when he was a fucking child and they were laughing at him for being awkward and spotty and a virgin.

“There,” he says, holding the phone up so they can see the Transfer approved screen. “It’ll take a little bit of time to go through since it’s a large amount, but he’ll have it probably tomorrow.”

“Easy, wasn’t it, once you stopped being a little shit?” Bug takes the mobile and hands it to Denbo, who places it on the floor and smashes the crowbar down against it, one two three times, until it’s a shattered mess of glass and plastic instead of a phone at all.

He doesn’t care. It’s fine. He can get another one. As soon as they’re gone, and he remembers how to breathe again, he’ll go get another one. It will be fine. He’ll call Keeley, have her recommend someone who can come in and fix the marks the crowbar left on the floor. She knows decorators who know contractors who do things like that. It will be all right. As soon as they’re gone.

They’re still there, looking at him.

Denbo glances at Bug and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. Bug nods, and Jamie’s stomach twists and aches again.

“Now, there’s just one more thing we need to do, and that’s make sure you remember this,” Bug says, as Denbo circles around to stand behind Jamie’s chair. Jamie does not want him there, out of his line of sight.

“I said it won’t happen again,” he tries, but Bug just shakes his head.

“The problem, Jamie, is that nobody can believe you. You’re not trustworthy. You lie.” Denbo’s arm curves loosely around Jamie’s throat, elbow tucked under his chin. Bug takes Jamie’s wrist and places his left hand on the table, palm flat.

“Please don’t do this,” Jamie whispers.

“Aw, now. It’s all right. You don’t need your hands to play footy, do you? Course not.” Bug has the crowbar now, somehow. He taps the curved end of it against the back of Jamie’s hand. “Now. There are two ways we can do this. I can hit you with this, here, and break all the little bits of bone in your hand. End up with sort of a bag full of matches effect. Or I can just break a couple of your fingers. But you have to ask me nicely to get that one. You have to ask pretty. Can you do that?”

Jamie closes his eyes. “Please, just break my fingers. Please, Bug. I’m asking you. I know you’re a… a decent man, and you’ve known me since I was—”

“I knew you before you were born, you little piece of shit,” Bug says benevolently. “I remember when your bitch of a mum were pregnant with you. Big as a fucking house, she was. We all expected a big strong boy and instead the prince twat of twatland showed up.”

Jamie drags in another breath. “Please. Please just break my fingers.”

“What do you think?” Bug asks Denbo over Jamie’s head. “Was that pretty enough?”

“Was all right,” comes the response, the arm around Jamie’s throat tightening just a fraction. “We need to get on with it anyway.”

“True.” Bug puts the crowbar down on the table and picks up Jamie’s hand. He closes his fist around the middle and fourth fingers, and before Jamie has a chance to realize what’s going on, he’s twisting, as hard as he can.

Pain shoots up Jamie’s arm like lightning, and Denbo cuts off his air before he can scream. The pop of the joints is horribly loud, making Bug grunt in satisfaction before he twists them back the other way for good measure. The index and fifth fingers don’t get left out; Bug yanks them backward toward Jamie’s wrist until they all hear the snaps, and then Jamie loses a few moments in a grayish haze.

When he comes back to himself, they’re gone, leaving behind the crowbar marks on the floor, the shattered phone, and the mess of his fingers, which are twisted into shapes they shouldn’t be able to make, bloody from where the skin tore in places. He can’t move through the pain, can only sit there cradling his hand to his chest.

His phone is wrecked, he thinks distantly. Can’t call an ambulance. Can’t call anyone for help. He can’t drive himself to A&E like this, either, steering the car one-handed won’t work. There’s nothing he can do but sit here, in his own house, which isn’t fucking safe, which will never be safe again.

His iPad is in the other room. He can call for help from that. Just has to get on his feet without collapsing on the floor. Just has to walk across, what, four meters? Sit down on the couch. Wake the thing with his working hand. Find the FaceTime app. His head is swimming and he wants to vomit.

Why he calls Keeley, he couldn’t say. It just happens. But when her voice comes through the speaker, a bright and cheery Hi, Jamie, he manages to take in a proper amount of air for the first time since he opened the door.

“What d’you need?” she asks after a moment, when he’s silent. “Did you dial me by accident? Jamie?”

“I… I need help,” he finally gets out, each word sticking and choking in his throat. “Can you come get me?”

“What happened? What’s wrong?” Then, angled away from the phone, “Roy, get your keys, something’s wrong with Jamie.”

Christ, he doesn’t want Roy here, doesn’t want his coach to see him like this. But he can’t possibly explain that to her. “Think I need to… hospital,” he manages, and she takes a sharp breath.

“Where are you, love? We’re on our way.”

Shouldn’t call me that, he thinks, since part of his brain refuses to participate in this shite anymore and is spinning off in the stratosphere. Going to make Roy angry and he might break my other fucking hand.

“At home,” he says finally. “Please come.”

“We’re coming. Don’t worry. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”

**

He hears Roy’s voice first, coming up the walk. “Maybe I should stay out here and keep the car running.”

“If he’s fallen, I can’t lift him, Roy.”

“The fucking door’s open.” Their footsteps are inside the house now, loud on the flooring. Jamie knows he needs to sit up and call out to them, but everything feels very far away. “Oi! Tartt! Where are you?”

“Smashed his phone… is that blood? On the table? Fuck. Jamie!”

Right, okay. Breathe. Drag some air into his lungs so he can talk. “I’m in here.”

“Jamie!” Keeley runs to him, eyes wide. “What happened? Did someone break in?”

Jamie shakes his head. He can’t possibly explain what happened now, not when his head is swimming like this. “I need… I think…”

“You need to go to A&E.” Roy’s hands are on him, lifting him up off the couch. “Keeley, get his keys, his wallet, if you see them. Easy, lad. Just keep breathing. We’ll take care of you.”

“My hand.” He means be careful with it and don’t look at it and just a general that is what is wrong, what’s hurt, but he can only manage the two words.

“I see that. It’s going to be all right.” Roy’s voice is tight and tense but steady, a coach’s voice. “You’re in shock, that’s why you feel so strange. We’ve got you. There’s a step here… good lad.”

Jamie vaguely hears the front door closing—Keeley must be following them out—and feels the roughness of pavement under his feet as Roy moves him along. Then Keeley’s moving past them, rushing to open the car door.

“You’ll have to step up, sorry…” The steady rumble of Roy’s voice shouldn’t be a comfort, but it’s at least something to orient himself by, and that is comforting. “There we are. Keeley, get a seatbelt on him? Ride back here with him?”

“Yeah, course.” Her arm slips around his waist, warm and careful. “Do you know who did this, Jamie?” He can answer that just by nodding, thank god. “All right, good, we’ll call the police as soon as the doctors have helped you.”

Calling the police on his father’s friends is just as bad as calling them on his father, in terms of the hell that will rain down on him for it. He shudders, and Keely holds him tighter. Roy’s monster of a car rides smoothly, that’s nice of it. Maybe he can tuck his head onto Keeley’s shoulder and breathe in the smell of her perfume and go to sleep.

But Keeley won’t let him. “Stay awake, love, don’t pass out.”

“Don’t,” he mumbles. Don’t call me that, don’t make Roy angry now.

“Shh, shh. Don’t have to talk. Just stay awake.” She pets his hair, so carefully. “I think we’re almost there, right, Roy?”

“Two blocks.”

“It’s the hospital his sister works at, so he knows it like the back of his hand.” Pet, pet, pet. “They’ll give you some painkillers and then fix you up.”

He hopes they give him something that will let him be unconscious. Not having to fight to think and breathe and exist for a while would be fucking ace.

A&E is a blur of activity and nurses and questions being repeated in his face as if he’ll somehow magically gain the power to process and answer them. A dark-haired woman with Roy’s nose is there at one point, then gone again, and then finally there’s an IV in his arm pumping a warm fog into him and he can sleep.

**

When he wakes up, Keeley is there, typing away on her phone. He watches her for a bit, content just to lie there, until she looks up and sees him.

“Jamie!” She hurries to the side of the bed and cups his face in her hands. “Thank god.”

“You didn’t have to wait here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She kisses his forehead, which—didn’t expect that, probably shouldn’t allow that. “Roy and I both stayed, he just stepped out to get some coffee.”

“You really didn’t have to—”

“Hush.” She sits down on the edge of the mattress and studies him closely. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Rather not.” He looks at his hand instead, or what should be his hand; it’s wrapped in so much gauze and tape he can’t properly tell. “What did they say about this?”

“Dislocations, fractures. Everything’s back in joint and there are pins and splints in there. You’ll need surgery for the tendons and all but that will wait til the swelling goes down.”

“Can I play?”

She sighs. “Of course that’s what you ask. Roy asked the doctor that, too.”

“Well?”

“Technically you could but you would not enjoy how it felt to run around with it like that, and anyway the club won’t let you until you’ve had your surgery and healed.”

He lifts his head and thumps it back against the pillow. “Fuck.”

“What’s important is that you’re safe.” She touches his cheek, and he realizes her hand is shaking a little. “What happened, Jamie?”

“He’s awake?” Roy comes in the door, and for possibly the first time Jamie is profoundly glad to see him. “Knew I should’ve bought a third coffee. How are you feeling, Tartt?”

“Stoned.”

Roy nods in approval. “Enjoy it.”

“I am.” He grins at Roy despite himself. The drugs really are fucking lovely.

“If you two are done, we were going to get into what happened.” Keeley gives them both an aggrieved look. “Jamie?”

Fuck. Fine. “My dad’s mates dropped by to make a point.”

They both stare at him, and he shrugs. Not much else he can say.

“Your dad’s mates,” Roy echoes finally. “Your father had them do that to you?”

“I don’t know if he meant this specifically. He sent them to talk to me.” He tries to rub his face with his good hand, but there’s a hospital thing stuck in the back of it.

“Talk to you about what?” Keeley’s voice is higher than usual, which puts it quite off the scale.

Jamie sighs. “My dad owed money to… people you shouldn’t borrow money from. He’d been asking me to help him out, and I was ignoring him, so he sent Denbo and Bug to collect.”

“And you argued with them?” Roy asks.

“No, I did exactly what they said. Transferred Dad the money and extra as an apology.”

“Then why did they do that?”

“So I don’t ignore him in the future.” He tries moving his thumb; that wasn’t broken, that should be able to work. Ah, yeah, little wiggle. Good.

“Jesus fucking Christ.” Roy tilts his head and stares at the ceiling. “Please tell me you know that this is not normal or right behavior.”

Jamie tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a painful cough. “Fucking obviously, mate. But it’s normal for him, innit? He wanted something from me and I acted like a brat instead of giving it over, so he put me back in line.”

“He had his friends break your hand.”

“It could’ve been worse.” He closes his eyes, suddenly exhausted. Talking is too much. “They brought a fucking crowbar with them to break my fucking legs if I kept being a shit about sending the money. Then I would really be in a mess, wouldn’t I? And the club, too. Though the club would get the insurance payout on my legs, I think, right? They own the policy? I don’t really understand how it works, honestly.”

“Jamie.” Keeley sounds strange, and Jamie has to open his eyes again to see why. Oh. She’s crying.

“Don’t cry,” he says, a little desperately. “Aw, Keeley. Don’t.”

“It is… really, really terrible that this happened to you.” Her mascara is running in a terrible mess. Why aren’t there any tissues in this room? “And you’re so calm about it. Like it barely even matters.”

“He is on drugs, babe.” Roy produces a napkin from his pocket and gives it to her. “But yeah, Tartt, this is… if you wanted to be upset about this, that would be a normal response.”

“I’ll probably be upset later.” The drugs are making him too honest. “Usually that’s how it works, the first little bit after he does something I just feel numb and then I’m all upset for days, crawling out of my skin, end up doing something stupid to feel better.”

Keeley nods, wiping the black gunk from below her eyes with firm strokes. “Well, this time we’ll help you so you don’t have to do that.”

Roy is looking at him with narrowed eyes. “What stupid thing did you do after the match at Wembley?”

Ah. Fuck. “I… got very drunk and nicked an entire crystal display thing from a club. Like a sculpture that was on one of the tables?” He shrugs as they both stare at him. “It’s in me guest bathroom now.”

“Right,” Keeley says softly. “Well. We won’t let you do that again.”

“It isn’t either of your job to look after me, you know.”

Roy leans back to toss his coffee cup in the bin. “It’s volunteer work. Community service.”

Keeley doesn’t say anything, just sits there looking utterly devastated, and Jamie can’t bear it. “Keeley. C’mon. Don’t look like that.”

“I’m very upset,” she says quietly. “I’m very scared for you.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. He just lies there, and after a minute she reaches out and takes hold of his good hand, rubbing her thumb carefully over his knuckles.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” he says finally. “I was in such a state, and I didn’t know what to do, but I knew you would.”

“Of course,” she says, tucking his hand carefully under her chin, held in both of hers.

Roy doesn’t say anything, but that means he also doesn’t shout, and Jamie wonders about that until the drugs catch up with him and he falls back asleep.

**

He agrees to go back to Roy and Keeley’s house when the hospital discharges him, both to keep Keeley from crying any more and also because he’s scared to go back to his own. He won’t admit that out loud, but he is, and he hates it.

There’s an interview with the police, but he puts that out of his head as best he can as soon as it’s over. Sure, they can put a warrant out for Denbo and Bug, but those two are experts at avoiding the police, aren’t they, they won’t be picked up for who knows how long. Not worth thinking about. He’s got other things on his mind, mainly Roy and Keeley.

Staying with them is fine; the guest room is fucking posh, the groceries are delivered and he can tack whatever he wants onto the list, and the painkillers make him sleep a lot anyway. He takes an Uber to the club to have the team doctors look at him, and then home again, not bothering either of them for a ride. The first two days they hardly cross paths at all, actually, except at dinner, where Keeley fusses over him and Roy watches them with an unreadable expression.

Jamie is very careful not to be overly friendly with Keeley. Keeps the boundaries in place. He respects Roy and Keeley’s relationship and he’s not going to fuck that up.

He starts cutting his painkiller dose after those first few days, not because the doctors say he can but because the last thing he needs is to get dependent on them. That means he’s up one morning and downstairs making coffee before Keeley even comes down to go to work.

“Oh!” She looks at him in surprise, and he shrugs. “You’re up early.”

“Only took half a pill before bed last night.” He holds up another mug. “Your usual?”

“Yeah, please.” She leans on the counter, watching him. “Funny that you’re staying here but I think I’ve seen you less than I did before.”

“Not feeling very social, I guess.” He adds the creamer and sugar and mixes it up the way she likes it. “Thank you for letting me stay, though, have I said that?”

“You have, yeah.” She accepts the mug from him and touches his face with her free hand, rubbing her thumb along his jaw. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want.”

“Probably through the surgery, anyway? I’ll lose everything I’ve figured out how to do for myself so far while it’s healing.”

“Absolutely.” She glances at the clock and groans. “Fuck. Got to drink this fast and get going. I’m going to be late.”

He opens the cupboard again and produces a travel mug. “Pour it in here. Drive safe.”

“Thank you!” She spills a bit when she pours it over, but he’s got a towel ready for that. “You’re a saint, Jamie. See you tonight!”

He watches her go, knowing his smile is soppy and embarrassing, wipes down the counter, and turns to pick up his own mug, stopping halfway through the turn to jolt in alarm at the sight of Roy in the kitchen entryway. “Jesus Christ. How do you move so fucking quietly?”

“Years of practice.” Roy nods at the coffee maker. “Mind if I?”

“No, course not. It’s your kitchen, ain’t it?” Jamie shuffles to the side to make room for him. “You’re up early. Meetings?”

“Actually it’s our off day.” Roy rubs his knuckles over his eyes. “Which means I have no idea why I’m up so early. Cruel joke by the universe, I guess.”

Jamie nods slowly. “Think maybe you could do me a favor? After your coffee?”

“Depends on what it is.”

“Could you run me back to my place to get my car? There’s a few things I want to do today.”

Roy raises an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t it be easier for me to drive you? It’s going to be fucking difficult for you to drive with your hand like that.”

Jamie shrugs. “Don’t think you want to go on these errands with me, mate.”

Roy stills for a moment, then turns to face him. “What are you planning, Tartt?”

“It’s actually not anything stupid.” He thinks about that for a beat. “Not the bad kind of stupid, anyway. Not the kind you’re thinking of.”

“How about you tell me the specifics and let me decide that.”

Jamie sighs. Should’ve just lied. “Going to run up to Manchester, aren’t I.”

“The fuck you are.”

“I need to talk to my dad, Roy.”

“After what he did?”

“He didn’t do it!” Jamie exhales and puts his coffee mug down in the sink. “That’s one of the things I need to ask him. Why he couldn’t even fucking face me himself.”

“Well, you’re not going alone.” Roy shakes his head and opens the cupboard again, taking out another travel mug. “Come on. Get your shoes.”

“What?” Jamie stares at him. “You can’t.”

“The fuck I can’t. Shoes. Hurry up. It’s a fucking four-hour drive and we’re listening to my music, not yours.”

They compromise and listen to football podcasts instead, a series about old World Cups that Jamie is surprised to find as interesting as he does. Usually history is a giant blank to him, but the hosts do a good job of connecting the things that happened then to things going on in football now. It actually keeps him from thinking too much about what’s up ahead in Manchester.

When they reach the outskirts of the city, Roy switches the podcast off and Jamie’s chest starts to tighten up. “Is there a plan here, Tartt?”

“Figure he’s paid off the loan now, so he’ll be back at his flat. He was probably lying low before, but he should be home now. He won’t be… like he was at Wembley.” Explaining his father to someone else feels alien and wrong. These are things he doesn’t talk about. “At a match, when he’s been drinking with his mates like that, he’s up, he’s excited. After something like this, he’s been humbled, you know, embarrassed. It gets him low. He’ll be just sort of…” He trails off. “Cold. Mean.”

Roy glances at him. “Meaner than at Wembley?”

“Yeah.” Jamie shrugs. “Don’t worry, he won’t go for you.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about, Jamie.”

“I know, I know.” He sighs and picks up his phone, punching the name of his dad’s building into the GPS. “I’ll watch meself.”

It’s an ugly building, but decently kept. Jamie leads Roy around the back, where the first-floor flats have doors that open out into the courtyard. His dad’s has a table by the door with an old plate acting as an ashtray, some empty beers on the ground, a big Man City flag slowly rotting on its hanger. Jamie knocks firmly on the door and then steps back, moving to shove his hands into his pockets before he remembers that his left hand won’t fit.

It takes a minute before the door opens, and when it does he can tell right away that he was right about James’ mood. His eyes are sunken and dull, his hair a rumpled mess. He stares at the two of them for a moment, then spits into the grass. “What’re you doing here?”

Jamie holds his bandaged hand up. “Thought you might want to see.”

James looks at it with indifference. “Could’ve just done as you were asked.”

“Did you pay the Russians back yet?”

Roy looks back and forth between them. “The Russians?”

“There’s no fucking Russians.” James shakes his head. “I paid Eddie and Bob, yes. A little extra for their trouble, and a bet on your Richmond match this weekend.”

Jamie snorts. “To win or lose?”

“Lose, with you out.” James rubs at his mouth. “Suppose you want to come in.”

“No, this is fine.” Jamie presses his good hand against his thigh, trying to keep it from twitching or curling up in the end of his sleeve. “And if Eddie and Bob aren’t backed by the Russian fucking mafia these days, who are those big nasty blokes with Russian tattoos who hang round the shop?”

“It’s none of your fucking business, is it?”

“Other than that I’m the one paying them.” Jamie’s jaw fucking aches; he’s clenching his teeth between sentences like it’s what’s holding him together. “Look. I went to the police about Denbo and Bug. I’ve got cameras at my house, there’s video of them. Smart of you not to come, I don’t have anything on you, do I.”

“You called the police on Denbo and Bug?” James’ eyes narrow. “They’re like fucking uncles to you, you ungrateful little bitch.”

Jamie’s heart thumps painfully in his chest. “Well, Dad, the hospital wasn’t exactly going to believe I did this to meself, were they? They called the cops round without me even asking.”

“All you had to say is that you had nothing to say. Thought I taught you that. Never say anything to the bloody police.”

“Can we focus,” Roy cuts in, “on the part where it’s already been done, and you and your mates might want to find a hole to scuttle into or something?”

James’ attention shifts to Roy like some kind of hungry animal tracking from one bit of prey to another. Except Roy doesn’t act like prey, does he? Roy stares right back at him.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” James asks. “Little bitch needs someone to hold his hand, just to come talk to his own father?”

“I gave him a lift. Since your mates broke his hand, which makes it a bit tricky to drive.”

James shakes his head. “They could’ve done worse, you know. You should be grateful, Jamie.”

This was a bad idea. Jamie had known it on some level, but he’s fucking stupid, and he’d done it anyway, and now here he is. Stuck. “Yeah, I know. They told me the worse options.”

“Should’ve taken out your pretty fucking teeth, at least. Can’t believe you wasted money on—”

“Stop, all right? Can you just stop?” Heat stings behind Jamie’s eyes, threatening, and he has to push it back with all his strength. “I’m here to tell you that they’ve got warrants out for them, and if you ask me for money for this shit again, I’m not giving it. I’ve had enough, d’you understand?”

“You’ve had enough.” James looks him up and down with a sneer. “You wouldn’t be anywhere without me pushing you. You would’ve curled up and fucking died the first time things got difficult. Don’t think I don’t know you, Jamie. You never wanted to buckle down and work, you just wanted everything handed to you so you could run round with those fucking trash girls you always find, and dress yourself like some kind of clown, and give up the moment things get tough.”

Jamie rocks back on his heels and takes a deep breath. “I’m not doing it anymore. Stop borrowing money from these people, because I’m not bailing you out again. All right?”

“Abandoning your own father. The men who raised you like their own nephew. I knew since you were born that you were trash, Jamie, but I didn’t think you were this soulless.”

Roy’s hand catches Jamie’s elbow, sending him starting forward before he catches himself. “Let’s go,” Roy says quietly. “I don’t think saying more is going to help.”

Jamie lets Roy steer him around, move him back toward where they parked the car. James is still shouting behind them, a steady stream of speculation on sexual preference, things Jamie has or hasn’t done to get ahead, retribution that’s going to come if he doesn’t support his father. It all settles into a solid roar in Jamie’s head, no specific words standing out anymore.

Roy gets him in the car, climbs into the driver’s seat, hits the lock button for all the doors. “What the fucking fuck was that?”

Jamie shrugs, staring at his hands in his lap. A bit of tape is coming loose on his bandages. He takes hold of it and starts pulling, suddenly wanting to unravel all of it, to see the bruises and swelling and stitches, to press on them and feel the pain and know if any of it was real at all.

“Hey, hey. None of that.” Roy catches his good hand and drags it away before he can get more than an inch of tape up. “Christ. Don’t do that. Let’s get out of here, yeah? You’ll breathe better with some space between us and him.”

Jamie nods, the only thing he can manage, and Roy pulls out into the street, driving aimlessly until he comes across a carpark out of sight of James’ building and stops again.

“You’re probably hungry,” Jamie says after a few moments of silence. “We should find you something.”

“That’s the last fucking thing on my mind.” Roy turns in his seat, facing Jamie. “You know none of what he said was true.”

Jamie shrugs, shakes his head, shrugs again. He doesn’t know anything right now.

“You work incredibly hard.” Roy’s voice is low and steady, that coaching tone again, one that Jamie would turn toward even in his sleep. “That’s the least of what he said but I don’t even know how to touch the rest of it, so let me assure you on that point. You work hard. You don’t give up. I’m your coach, I was your teammate, I know that.”

“Gave up on City.” Jamie stares out the window, cars moving past, rain threatening but not quite falling. “Went off to do the show instead, that was giving up. Quitting.”

“That was an entirely different situation.” Roy sighs. “It was brave of you to do this.”

“It was stupid.”

“Brave and stupid.” Roy reaches over and taps him on the thigh. “Take the compliment, Tartt.”

Jamie has to laugh, breathless and aching. “He’s mad I sold them out because they’re like my uncles. Some fucking uncles, yeah? Denbo used to pin me facedown on the couch and sit on me til I couldn’t breathe. Bug would sneak up and yank my trousers off so everyone could see me in my pants. Real lovely uncles. Can’t wait to have them round for Christmas.”

“You never have to see them again. Not even in court, if you don’t want to.”

“I can’t ever live in that house again. My fucking house. I own it. Can’t go back to it.” He’s surprised to find his eyes wet; didn’t notice when that started. He wipes at them. “Have to sell it and find a new place and deal with all of that.”

“You can stay with me and Keeley for as long as you want.” Roy’s hand is still resting carefully on his thigh. Jamie looks down at it and blinks, sending tears down to land on Roy’s knuckles.

“Because you feel sorry for me.”

“Because I care about you, Tartt.”

Jamie jerks his gaze up to Roy’s face. “What?”

“You heard me. Don’t make me say it again.” Roy sighs and puts his hands back on the wheel. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, eh? Unless you want to drop in on your mum, too.”

“Christ. Not after that. She’d come over here and firebomb the building or some fucking thing.” He rubs his eyes one more time and sits up. “Yeah, let’s get on the road.”

“Have the GPS get me back to the M40.” Roy eases back into traffic, shaking his head. “What do you think, you might feel up to eating by the time we hit Stoke-on-Trent?”

“Probably? Birmingham for sure.” Jamie taps at his phone until it starts rattling off instructions again. “Roy?”

“Yeah?”

“You really think he was wrong about all of it?”

Roy nods, his jaw clenched in a line that could cut glass. “Absolutely.”

**

Keeley is less than thrilled when they get home. Roy sends Jamie up the stairs and intercepts her, catching her shoulders in his hands and steering her back to the sofa.

Obviously, Jamie stops on the stairs and listens in.

“Where have you been?” she asks. “You haven’t answered my calls or texts all day.”

“We went up to Manchester to see Jamie’s dad.”

“You what?”

“It was his idea. He wanted to talk to him. I went for moral support and to drive the car, because his hand doesn’t fucking work.”

Keeley’s quiet for a minute, and Jamie can imagine her annoyance warring with curiosity. “How did it go?”

“Oh, fucking awful. His dad said horrible shit and Jamie could barely get a word in, except he did tell him to fuck off and that he wasn’t bailing him out anymore. Proud of him for that.”

“Shit.” Keeley sighs. “Is he all right?”

“Think so. We had a nice lunch in Birmingham and when we got back near London he needed a pick-me-up so we went by his tattoo artist’s place and he got something else put on his arm.”

“Is he supposed to have fresh tattoos when he’s going into surgery?”

“Well, it’s all sterile, isn’t it? Surgery?” Jamie shuts his eyes and pictures the exasperated looks they must be giving each other. After a moment he can hear Roy planting a kiss on Keeley.

“Did you get a matching tat?” she asks after a moment.

“Fuck no. I just sat and watched. Too many needles.”

“Hm. Well, I haven’t eaten yet, come help me put something together.”

Jamie hurries the rest of the way up the stairs and along the hall to the guest room, closing the door behind him and throwing himself on the bed. It jolts both his bad hand and the fresh tattoo, and they both fucking hurt, but he probably deserves that.

He rolls over on his back and looks at the tattoo, tucked away under its wrap for the next few hours. It’s an old-fashioned smiley face, but with a tongue poking out of its smile and X’s for eyes. Just a stupid bit of flash he picked out of the book, nothing custom or fancy.

He’d figured it would be one where whenever he looks at it, it’ll remind him of standing up to his dad. Instead, looking at it now, he has a feeling it’s always going to remind him of Roy backing him up.

He doesn’t fall asleep, but he zones out or something, because suddenly it’s quite dark out and Keeley is tapping on the door, asking if he wants anything.

“Sorry,” he mutters, coming over to open the door. “Not sure what happened there, I was somewhere else.”

She touches his arm carefully, like he might break, and maybe he might, he doesn’t fucking know. “Roy said it was a bit of a rough day for you.”

“I should know better by now.” He looks down at his stupid bandaged hand. “I want very badly to unwrap this and punch the wall. Probably not a good idea, eh?”

“Definitely not.” She takes his good hand and tugs him out into the hall. “Come have some tea. And you haven’t eaten, have you, not since lunch? You’ll feel better if you eat. I’ve got some frozen things, they’re not healthy but they’ll get something in you.”

He doesn’t argue with her because it wouldn’t do any good, and maybe this hollow feeling in him is hunger after all. At least partially. Tea never does anything but it makes other people feel better to put it in front of him, so why not. He ought to be nice to Keeley, she’s always been nice to him, and anyway, he let his fucking dad talk badly about her earlier, he should apologize for that.

“You’re not trash,” he blurts out when she seats him at the table.

Keeley blinks at him. “I... know that. What’s making you bring it up?”

“My dad, when he was going on about me, one of the things he said was that I run around with trash girls, and you—you don’t deserve that. I can’t think of any girls I’ve been with who deserve that, actually.” He scrubs angrily at his eyes before they can betray him and leak tears. “He’s such a fucking dick.”

She nods and cups his face with her hand. “I think maybe you’re a little bit in shock again, yeah? Or at least not a good place in your head. Let’s get you fed and see if that helps.”

She brings him a cup of tea, and puts some frozen starchy awful things in the microwave. He shouldn’t eat it, it’s going to make him sick, it’s going to throw all of his nutrition plans off, but sipping the tea has made his stomach realize how empty it is. “Where’s Roy?” he asks, pressing his good hand against his torso.

“Over at his sister’s. She needed a hand with something.”

“He was really nice today. Helping me with my dad. Driving me all that way. He didn’t have to do that.”

“He likes you more than he’s willing to let on.” She brings the plate over and sets it in front of him. “Eat slowly.”

He takes a first, careful bite. Awful. “He told me he cares about me. Roy did. Not my dad. He doesn’t care about me at all.”

Keeley’s eyebrows dart upward. “Roy did?”

“Mm. Said he’d never say it again, though.” He takes a few more bites and then pushes the plate away. “Sorry. I can’t...”

“It’s all right. Keep at the tea, give it a minute. I’ll make you some toast, too, how’s that?”

The toast is better. The part of his brain that’s always ticking away at his calorie count and protein metrics and carb levels and all that wank is shrieking in alarm, but he’ll fix it later. Right now he just wants to stop feeling like he’s going to vomit.

Keeley coaxes him through three pieces of toast, a refill on his tea, and another few bites of the awful frozen thing before she seems satisfied. “Where are your painkillers? You need one of those, too.”

“I don’t want them. And I shouldn’t let you take care of me.” He slumps in his seat, exhausted again. At least his stomach feels better. “It’ll make Roy angry.”

“It won’t.” She taps the table in front of him. “Don’t move.” He follows instructions while she runs upstairs and comes back down again, holding his pill bottle up triumphantly. “Got it. Now, take this, and then you’re going to lie down and relax while it kicks in, and you’re going to stop frightening me quite so much, all right? Do we have a deal?”

“Sorry.” He’s so bad at this. He washes the pill down with the last of his tea and blinks up at her. “Am I the trash one? He said that, too.”

“Not at all. Don’t even think that.” She nods into the other room. “C’mon. Going to watch makeover shows. Got my mobile in case I need to call 999 for you.”

“I’m all right.” He lets her lead him to the sofa. “Just... my head’s all mushy. And loud.”

“Going to let it rest and be quiet now.” She gets settled with a pillow in her lap and nudges him around until he’s lying down with his head on it. “Nice quiet head. If you need anything I’ll get it for you. Don’t worry.”

He tries not to worry, but it’s hard. There’s so much to worry about. But the painkillers help, and the smell of Keeley’s body wash, and how warm she is. All of those help lull him to sleep.

**

Roy and Keeley drive him to the hospital for his surgery, even though he insists he can take an Uber. He doesn’t ask if they’re going to sit and wait through the whole thing, because it seems obvious that they won’t; he’s not anything to them, is he, there’s no reason to sit in a fucking hospital for hours while he gets his tendons stitched together and the pins in the bones checked and then gets tossed in a room for a while to come out from under the drugs.

But when he’s properly clear-headed again, there they are, sitting in the recovery room watching him with bemused expressions on their faces. “What?” he asks, boosting himself up carefully against the pillows. “Shouldn’t you both be at work?”

“You didn’t listen to anything we said this morning, did you?” Roy rolls his eyes. “Not surprising. Ring the nurse button, I want them to hurry up and clear you so we can go home.”

“You can go! I’ll get an Uber!”

“They won’t release you to an Uber,” Keeley says patiently. “They’ll want you to have someone to look after you tonight at least. And you already texted your agent and he told you no.”

“I did? When?”

“We stupidly gave you your phone when you first woke up.” Roy just looks pained now. “You texted him, Dani, and Beard before we got it away from you again.”

Jamie closes his eyes. “What did I say to Beard?”

“That you think he’s very smart and scary.”

“He is.”

“Yeah, that’s what he replied.” Roy taps his jacket pocket. “Don’t worry, I’ve got the phone right here, it’s secure.”

“You can give it back now.” Jamie can feel how hot his face is and wishes he had anywhere to hide it. “I’m in control of myself now.”

Keeley cocks her head. “You don’t want to know what you said to Dani?”

Jamie shrugs. “I know the sort of stuff I say to Dani when I’m drunk, can’t be that different.”

“Muchachos for life,” Roy says, like he’s memorized the texts. “And ‘you have beautiful hair.’”

“He does, that’s true.” Keeley nods. “All right, well, press the button, Jamie, let’s get this moving. You know it’s going to take two or three hours anyway.”

It doesn’t take quite as long, because the club has a fancy private surgeon’s office they contract with for this sort of thing—well. Not this specific sort of thing, but orthopedic injuries, anyway. They get Jamie discharged with a fresh prescription bottle and stack of instructions, an appointment for a week later, and instructions to do his physio fastidiously once he’s ready for it.

“It’s a good thing you’re not an artist or musician,” the doctor says, “and lucky we don’t have to worry about knitting or needlepoint, because delicate little movements like that are probably right out for you. But general life things, signing your name, catching the ball if it’s coming at you, those will all be fine.”

Jamie isn’t sure what to do with that—the assumption that he can’t possibly have anything artistic or delicate about him, because footballers don’t—so he just puts it out of his head, forgets he heard it. Roy and Keeley guide him out to the car and take him back to theirs, with one detour for carry-out. He’s still got too many drugs in his system to be hungry, but he picks at it to make them happy, sitting there at the nice little dining table in Keeley’s house.

I should go home, he keeps thinking. I ought to go home.

He doesn’t want to go home, though. His house is fucking… haunted, it’s diseased. He doesn’t have anywhere else to go, either, no option but to stay here. Imposing on teammates after a rowdy night out would be all right, but something like this… no. Keeley and Roy are the only people he can ever let see him like this, and he never wanted Roy to in the first place.

Too late now, though.

“You’re not eating.”

He looks up at the sound of Keeley’s voice, and her eyes widen in alarm, which is his first clue that he’s crying. Just… sitting there like an idiot, quiet-crying, tears rolling down his face without a sound.

He wipes at his face with his good hand, not accomplishing much. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” She grabs a pile of napkins and kneels down in front of him, dabbing at his face. “You’ve had a rough fucking week, Jamie. Not even a whole week. Just a few days.”

“Not an excuse to cry.”

“You don’t need an excuse. You can cry just because you want to. Or need to.” She cups his chin in her hands, and he hates it but loves it, too. It feels so nice and it’s so embarrassing and proof that he’s fucking weak and soft and useless.

“I should go home,” he says, giving in to the cycling words in his head, because if he lets them get out maybe Keeley will know what to do with them.

She shakes her head firmly, not letting go of his face. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m such a piece of shit.”

“You’re not.” She kisses his forehead, and he tries to pull away, but his body won’t move. It just sits there and keeps leaking tears out of its eyes.

Roy comes into the kitchen and stops, staring at them. “What’s going on?”

Jamie’s whole body goes numb with panic, but Keeley just stands up casually and turns to Roy. “Jamie’s not feeling well.”

“Of course he’s fucking not, he’s coming off all that surgery shit. But why’s he crying?”

“Just a bit overwhelmed.” Keeley nudges past Roy into the kitchen. “Can you make him some eggs and toast, babe? Might be easier for him to eat than the takeaway.”

“Should’ve thought of that.” Roy grumbles to himself and starts fussing over the stove. Jamie still can’t move, panic and exhaustion and the strange fuzzy slowness of the drugs combining to make him helpless. He doesn’t understand why no one is angry with him. Roy should be angry with him, for letting Keeley kiss him, and looking at her too much, and being here in her house at all instead of back at his…

He curls forward over himself and vomits on the floor. Luckily there’s not much to come up except water and the few bites of takeaway, but his body can’t seem to believe that’s the case, heaving and gagging painfully for what feels like ages.

“Fuck,” he hears Roy say, and then Keeley’s kneeling in front of him again, this time with a towel, cleaning up the mess and telling him it’s all right. It’s not fucking all right. But no one else seems to know that.

“Should we call the hospital?” Keeley asks.

“I’ll call my sister and ask what she thinks. Let’s move him to the sofa first, though. On his side so he doesn’t choke.”

Things go all blurry again for a while. He doesn’t have to come back into his head until a gentle hand is taking his wrist, and he opens his eyes to find the dark-haired woman with Roy’s nose from the hospital sitting by the sofa and taking his pulse.

“Hello there,” she says when she’s finished. “Got a penlight here, just need to take a look at your pupils… very good. Track the light, now? Good… good… all right.” She gets to her feet and pats him on the shoulder, then turns her head to talk to someone out of Jamie’s line of sight. “He’s all right, just overdid it a bit, I think.”

“He didn’t do anything,” comes Roy’s voice.

“He moved from the bed to your car, rode home, came inside, tried to eat, you said? That’s a lot for post-surgery. I know it’s supposedly a minor one but bodies react differently. It’s still a trauma. Really they shouldn’t have discharged him so soon, but obviously keeping beds turning over is the most important thing.”

The sarcasm in her voice at the end marks her even more clearly as a Kent. Jamie tries to sit up, only to get a hand flat on his chest pushing him back down. “You need to rest,” she says firmly. “I’d like to get you in a proper bed, but moving you up these stairs is tricky. Gorgeous design, nightmare with an incapacitated person.”

“I’m fine.” Definitely not incapacitated. The fuck.

She sighs. “Well, you’re welcome to try, but you’re not going to enjoy it when you fall down and can’t get yourself back up off the floor.”

“We were going to try eggs and toast, before he got sick.” Keeley’s voice, somewhere nearby. “Should we go ahead with that or just give him some water?”

“Try just the toast. Tea or water, or juice if you’ve got it. Just to get something in his system.” She brushes her hair off her face and pats Jamie’s shoulder. “Don’t try to help him upstairs until he’s significantly less pale, and stand him up slowly so he doesn’t pass out.”

“Understood.” Roy sounds more obedient than Jamie has ever heard him. “Thank you for coming round.”

“Of course. You know you only have to ask.” They all move off toward the kitchen, away from him, and Jamie closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. He can just drift for a while, and maybe they’ll forget about the toast and tea. Maybe they’ll forget about him entirely.

They don’t. They make him eat, and drink. And it does make him feel better, a bit, to the point that he actually asks for the eggs, because his body is fucking aching for protein. It’s used to burning through things right quick and he hasn’t been giving it enough at all lately. Should probably ask Roy for help with that, but he’s still not sure Roy isn’t mad at him for letting Keeley kiss him before. Better to keep quiet.

Roy is the one who helps him upstairs eventually, though, so Jamie has to suck it up and say something. “I’m sorry. I won’t let it happen again.”

“What are you talking about, Tartt?”

“With Keeley. Didn’t stop her from... touching my face, and kissing me, and all. Know I told you I respected your relationship, and I do. I’ll be better.”

Roy sighs. “Jamie. I promise you, that is the last thing I am thinking about right now. It’s fine.”

“It isn’t, though. I promised.”

“I forgive you, all right? I accept your apology and I forgive you. Now. Into bed.” Roy guides him down onto the mattress and fusses over him for a minute, getting the blankets up to his chin. “Get some rest. Tomorrow’s goal is for you to not fucking space out and scare us even once. Fair?”

“Not doing it on purpose,” Jamie mumbles, but he nods. He would also not like to go back to that fuzzy place where he can’t even think. He needs to get back in control of himself. Needs to get back to normal.

“I know.” Roy brushes Jamie’s hair back off his forehead, so carefully and gently that Jamie wonders if he’s imagining it for a moment. “Go to sleep.”

**

Jamie wakes up feeling considerably clearer in his head, but also in a lot of fucking pain in his hand. It’s a wash, really.

He picks his way downstairs and finds Keeley on the sofa with her laptop and Roy at the table scowling at his phone. “I feel like I ask this a lot lately, but shouldn’t you both be at work?”

“I’m leaving in ten minutes,” Roy says without looking up. “She’s working from home today to keep an eye on you.”

“Before you say I don’t have to do it,” Keeley cuts in, “I am aware, but I chose to anyway.”

Jamie can’t muster an argument to that, so he shuffles to the kitchen instead, making himself tea and a packet of oatmeal from the cabinet. Still bland, but a little more ambitious than toast.

“Don’t forget your pills,” Roy says, squeezing past him to head for the door. “No point being in pain if you don’t have to be.”

“Yeah.” The pills are sitting there on the counter, where someone must have left them when they got home from the hospital. Jamie can’t remember who. There are a lot of gaps in his memory of yesterday.

He sits at the table with his breakfast, hunching over his own phone, not that there’s much coming up on it. Press release from the club that he had his surgery and it was successful. Six to eight weeks before he’ll be back on the pitch—he's going to make it back sooner than that, it’s just his fucking hand, after all. His off hand, even. A few tags on Twitter and Instagram, but nothing worth digging in on. A text from his mum asking him to please check in—fuck, she must have seen the press releases. Should’ve thought of that. Should’ve called her.

He puts the phone down and rubs at his face with his good hand. She’s at work now anyway, he’ll deal with it later.

“Jamie?”

He starts, dropping his hand to the table. “Yeah?”

“Come sit with me.” She pats the cushion next to her. “I’ve got a break between meetings. We can chat.”

He makes his way warily to the sofa. “About what?”

“You.”

That makes him stop, still standing up. “What about me?”

“Don’t need to look so scared.” She smiles at him and pats the cushion again. “Sit. I promise I’ll be nice to you.”

That’s sort of the problem, she keeps being nice and he’s not pushing back enough, not keeping the boundaries. But he can’t say that to her—it's Keeley, she can’t help being wonderful, that’s why the boundaries are his job—so he sits down instead, turning to face her and tucking his feet up under himself.

“It seemed like yesterday you didn’t really remember when you first came out of the anesthesia. Like with your phone, you didn’t know what you’d texted.”

Jamie shrugs. “Still don’t remember any of that, no.”

“All right. Well. You also said some things to me and Roy.” She raises an eyebrow. “Does that ring any bells?”

Jamie shakes his head, feeling the blood drain out of his face. Fuck. What had he done? What had he said? She’s still smiling at him, that doesn’t give him any fucking clues.

She laughs softly. “Well, first you asked if I’d sit on your face.”

Fuck. Jamie flinches like she threw a punch.

“And Roy kind of said oi, keep it together, mate, and you got all earnest and told him you wanted to suck his cock, too. You said you weren’t trying to steal me, you wanted to steal both of us and keep us forever.”

Oh god. Oh god.

Jamie gets back to his feet, trying to steady himself with his bad hand on the back of the sofa and having to jerk it away, which almost puts him flat over on his face. But he does catch his balance. He manages it. He’s on his feet, good, he can move now, he can find the door.

“Jamie! What the fuck—”

He has to get out of here.

He just fucking... bolts, out the door and down the street. Thank god, somehow he kept his phone in his pocket. He doesn’t have any shoes on but he can order an Uber while he runs, choosing his pick-up site as two blocks away so he can put some more distance between himself and Keeley’s before he stops.

He’s shaking all over when he stops, adrenaline and horror pounding through his veins, and people going about their business eye him suspiciously and move further away. Probably think he’s on drugs or something instead of just raw bloody panic.

He fucked up. He fucked up. He said the things that were supposed to stay locked away as deep inside him as they could go, and now he’s lost them, just when they decided he was good enough to be nice to he’s lost them. He’s going to get cut from Richmond—of course they’ll keep Roy as a coach instead of him as a player, he’s known trouble and Roy is a god—and he’s never going to be able to see or speak to Keeley again. He’s going to have to go play in North America, because nobody in any of the English leagues wants him, that’s established fact, and nobody in the European leagues will after he’s tossed again. It’s over.

Everything is over, and he did it to himself. He ruined it.

The Uber pulls over and he gets in, mumbling thanks to the driver. He doesn’t even know what address he put in the app as his destination, he just—oh. Well. Apparently he requested to be taken home.

And that’s what he fucking well deserves, isn’t it, so he falls back against the seat and lets the driver take him there.

**

His house is chilly and gloomy, but the housecleaners have come round so at least it doesn’t smell bad. The bins have been taken out and the refrigerator is empty of anything perishable. He needs to set his tip rate higher the next time they come, they deserve it.

He sits on the sofa, right where he was when Keeley and Roy came to his rescue. There are bloodstains on it; housecleaners must have considered that outside their remit, which is fair. He picks at one of the stains with his fingernails, once again fighting the urge to unwrap his bandages and just fucking punch something. There’s no one he can call this time if he does that. Need to stay sensible, Tartt.

He pokes at the new tattoo, pressing on it until the pain makes his head buzz. Roy looking out for him. Fucking right. Got a few whole days of that before he fucked it up, didn’t he. Ruined everything.

Despite his best intentions, he does go to the fuzzy place in his head for a while, just drifting until he’s pulled back by someone tapping on the door, and then the door opening and footsteps coming in. They’re footsteps in high heels, he knows that kind of clicking. He braces himself for it to be Keeley, trying to be silent and invisible so maybe she won’t notice him here. It’s gotten quite a bit darker since he sat down, maybe he can hide in the shadows.

It’s not Keeley.

“Hello, Mr. Tartt.”

Jamie blinks a few times, but the person in front of him doesn’t change. “Ms. Welton. What, um. What are you doing here?”

She puts her purse down on a chair and shrugs out of her coat, laying that down over it. “Oh, well, I’m sure you can figure it out if you put your mind to it.”

“Keeley called you.”

“She did. She was very upset.” Ms. Welton nods at the sofa. “May I sit?”

“Oh. Of course.” He probably should offer her tea, or water, or something. He can’t possibly manage it.

She sits down and crosses one knee over the other, folding her hands together over them. “Well. Mr. Tartt. May I call you Jamie?”

“Sure. I mean. You own the club. You can call me whatever you want.”

“That’s true.” She looks around the room. “Who did your decorating? They have a great eye.”

“Ms. Welton...”

Her eyes move back to him and he immediately shuts up. “I read the surgeon’s report and it said everything went very well. The club will have you back on the pitch soon.”

“Yeah. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Hate not being able to train or play.”

“That’s good. You’re very valuable to the club.” He shrugs at that; not like there’s anything to say. “As you know, Jamie, the club owns your contract, which means in essence it owns your body. Like a racehorse. And I own the club. Which means that you have to listen when I talk.”

Jamie shifts in his seat, suddenly desperately uncomfortable. “I am listening.”

“You are a valuable asset. That means you need to keep yourself in good form. Either take care of yourself or be taken care of. I don’t know exactly what happened between you and Keeley and Roy, she said it was private.” She lifts an eyebrow at that, and Jamie can hear what she doesn’t say—Keeley keeping something private from Ms. Welton is big and unusual. “But she was very worried that you wouldn’t take care of yourself properly on your own. I need your reassurance, which I will pass along to her, that you will in fact behave and keep up with things and not put your health at risk.”

That’s a lot for Jamie to sort through, all delivered in an icy stern voice that makes his spine try to crawl out of his body. “I’m not going to, like. Hurt meself. Or anything.”

“That’s the bare minimum, but good to hear.” Ms. Welton tucks a bit of hair behind her ear. “You’ll eat properly? Get enough sleep? Exercise within the doctors’ instructions? Take your pills as instructed? Go to your appointments?”

He’d left the pills at Keeley’s. But he has leftovers from other injuries, and when he goes to the club to check in with the team doctors they’ll give him more if he asks. “Yeah, of course.”

She nods. “And obviously you’ll stay away from your father and his associates.”

Jamie flinches at that, pulling back against the sofa cushions. “That’s not your business.”

“It is, due to the risk of injury, which is a risk to the club’s insurance policies.”

“Right. Because I’m a racehorse.” His stomach hurts. He presses his good hand against it and nods quickly, hoping she’s about done. “I understand, Ms. Welton. I’ll behave. You can tell Keeley that.”

She nods and gets to her feet. “Is there anything else you’d like me to tell her?”

“Um.” Jamie presses harder at his stomach. “Tell her I... I need to think. I need some time to think.”

She nods again, picking up her coat and purse. “Excellent. I’ll pass that along. You should eat something, you look absolutely peaky. I can order you something if you... no? All right. I’ll show myself out.”

He listens to her click back to the front door, then the sound of it closing. He shuffles after her after a moment and activates the lock, which he must have forgotten to do earlier. Fucking hard to remember everything he has to do to be a proper person. But he’s promised he’ll take care of himself, and he has to do it now. Otherwise he’s not entirely sure Ms. Welton didn’t just threaten to have him put in a barn somewhere.

He picks up his phone and finds his delivery app. Right. Get something decent sent around, then have some water. No pills, sitting alone in his house feeling like shit is a bad combination with pills. One step at a time.

Be a fucking person, Tartt. Surely you can manage that.

**

He orders groceries the next morning, dusts off his neglected home gym to use the elliptical and the bike—less impact to jar his hand, as he learned the hard way sprinting down the sidewalk yesterday—and goes to his appointment with the team doctors. They’re pleased with what they see and tell him to keep up the good work, so at least one group of people isn’t disappointed with him.

The crowbar marks are still on the floor and there’s still blood on the table and the sofa, but he can work around those. He puts a towel down as a makeshift rug on the floor, a blanket down on the sofa, and a stack of random papers and magazines on the table. There. Doesn’t have to look at them, and maybe in good time he’ll forget they’re there.

His bedroom is too big and too full of shadows, so he puts himself in his own guest room. If it reminds him of being in the guest room at Keeley’s, that’s his business and he’ll deny it if asked. And he calls his mum back, too. Takes his scolding like a good boy and lets her fuss over him and convinces her she doesn’t need to take time off and come down to London. Nice to know there’s one relationship he hasn’t ruined.

He muddles along until he looks at his phone one morning and it informs him his one-week follow-up with the surgeon is in a few hours. Just enough time to work out, shower, and get himself in an Uber. He’s doing well at this taking care of himself thing. Nobody is going to yell at him or lock him in a barn.

The nurse unwraps his hand for the scans and all, and he really gets to see how nasty it looks. The doctor assures him it’ll heal up better; he fucking hopes so, because nobody is ever going to want to be touched with that thing as it looks now. He’ll have to wear gloves for the rest of his life.

“Tendons appear to be joining nicely,” the surgeon says, looking at the scan. “And the bones are just as we want them. You’re doing well.”

Jamie forces a smile and a nod at everything the man says until he and the nurse step out and leave Jamie alone for a minute, at which point he doubles over and lets some tears run out of his eyes. Not proper crying, there’s no time for that, but... leaking, maybe. Like he did in front of Keeley after the surgery. Christ, only a week ago.

When he steps out of the exam room to go home, he promptly trips over his own feet to find Roy sitting in the waiting room, a magazine open in his lap. Roy closes it very deliberately while Jamie catches himself, then stands.

“Tartt,” he says, his voice the familiar growl that sends a sharp spark up Jamie’s spine, leaving him wanting to either do his best, bolt down the street, or brace himself for whatever Roy is going to do to him, knowing he can’t stop it and maybe doesn’t want to.

“Roy.” His voice comes out wobbly. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.” The idiot is unspoken but very loud.

“How did you know I would be here?”

“I’m the one who put the fucking follow-up appointment in your fucking phone last week.” Roy points at the door back to the exam rooms. “We’re going to use one of your rooms for a minute.”

The woman at the desk looks deeply alarmed. “I’m not sure—”

“Thank you so very fucking much.” Roy grabs Jamie’s arm and drags him back through the door and into one of the rooms. He puts Jamie down in a chair and leans back against the exam bed. “So.”

Jamie tries to summon up the anger to push back, tell him to fuck off, maybe even fight him. He knows he has it in him. He’s done it so many times. It’s what he’s good at, being a fucking prick, Roy’s the one who’s told him so a hundred times. But right now he’s got fucking nothing. He’s scraped-out and empty and he’s been using all of his energy to take care of himself and be good and make it to this fucking appointment.

“I’m sorry for what I said.” That’s all he can manage.

“What about being sorry for fucking taking off like the house was on fire?” Roy leans toward him, looming and furious. “Do you have any idea how much you scared Keeley, doing that?”

“I had to do it, after she told me what I did. What I said. I couldn’t stay after that. It wouldn’t be right.” He wraps his arms around himself, both to steady himself and to try to protect his bad hand. “I promised I would be respectful and I wasn’t so I had to leave.”

Roy tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling. “Jesus fucking Christ, Tartt. You idiot.”

“I know, all right? I know I’m an idiot, and... and livestock according to Ms. Welton, and a trash worthless pussy according to my father. I understand that. I’m doing my best here and I’m sorry it isn’t good enough but nobody will tell me what the fuck I should be doing!”

That gets Roy looking at him dead-on, at least. “When did Rebecca call you livestock?”

“Fucking... she came over to my house, when I left yours and Keeley’s. Said the club owns me like a racehorse and she owns the club so I have to listen to her. It was very strange.”

“Yeah, that’s fucking weird.” Roy puts his hand out and Jamie does his best not to flinch back. “I’m helping you up, Tartt.”

“Why?”

“So I can take you back to mine and Keeley’s and we can sort all of this out.”

“I can’t—”

“You said you want someone to tell you what the fuck you should be doing. I’m telling you. You should be coming with me so we can all sort this out instead of making assumptions and being fucking confused as hell.”

“Well.” Jamie stares at him for a minute. “I am confused. You’ve got that right.”

“So come on, then, you impossible wanker. Let me help you up.”

And Jamie’s got no ideas for anything else to do, so he does.

**

The one problem with Roy’s plan is that Keeley isn’t home yet. It’s just the two of them sitting at the table, not quite looking at each other. Jamie can’t help thinking about the other time they sat here like this, seething, putting Keeley in the middle of their mess. It doesn’t feel good, thinking about that. He wants things to be different now. He’s got a fucking tattoo that makes him think of Roy, things have to be different.

“I guess I can trust you won’t tell anyone?” he asks, because the silence is unbearable.

“Tell anyone what?”

“That I’m bisexual.” It sounds stiff and awkward out loud. “I mean. You’ve met my dad. If it hits the tabs that I suck cock, he’ll come down here and finish the job, and you think I’m a prick but I don’t think you want that on your conscience.”

Roy stares at him for a long moment and if Jamie didn’t know better, he’d think he saw actual hurt in Roy’s eyes. “Of course I won’t fucking tell anyone.”

Jamie nods a little. “Thank you.”

“You didn’t give me a chance to say, before, because you fucking ran away while I was still at work.” Roy drums his fingers on the table. “I like men, too. Never use the word bi because that’s, like, half and half, yeah? And I lean more toward women, with just once in a while men.”

Jamie’s too stunned to point out that Roy’s definition doesn’t make all that much sense. “You do?”

Roy shrugs. “So I wasn’t put out or anything by your offer.”

There, that’s something he can zero in on, at least. “Well, not that part of it. The part that it was coming from me.”

“Where did you get this idea that I’m just waiting for a chance to murder you over Keeley? She’s her own person, you know. You can’t steal her. She goes where she wants, with who she wants.”

Jamie stares at him. “You said you would knock my teeth in for telling her I still loved her at the funeral. You headbutted me.”

“But I got over that. I forgave you.”

How is Roy acting like Jamie is the unreasonable one, here? “Well, I promised to be respectful, not to have... inappropriate fantasies about having both of you.”

“Keeping both of us. Is what you said.” Roy’s eyes are pinning him in place, that flat dark stare. “Steal us both and then keep us.”

“I was fucked up on drugs.” Jamie can’t look away from him even as he’s protesting. “We can all just forget I said it.”

“If you meant that, you would’ve suggested it when Keeley told you what you said, instead of running away.”

“What do you fucking want from me!”

Roy breathes in and out very slowly. “Well. Let me just point out a few things. One: Keeley and I were both very happy to let you stay here as long as you wanted. We didn’t ask you to leave; you ran. Two: Neither of us were offended by your offer. She just wanted to ask if you meant it or if it was the drugs talking.” He spreads his hands open. “She said Rebecca told her that you said you needed time to think. Maybe factor those things in while you’re fucking thinking.”

Jamie knows he’s not just staring but gawking, but he can’t seem to stop himself. “Don’t... don’t say things like that.”

That gets him an eye-roll. “Think what you want.”

The front door opens and Keeley steps in before Jamie can respond to that. She stops when she sees him, her eyes widening. “Hi... did you come to get your things? We haven’t touched them or anything.”

“No,” Roy says. “I kidnapped him from the surgeon’s office. Come sit down, Keeley, you two need to talk. I’ll stand outside the front door so neither of you can pull a runner.”

“There’s a back door,” Keeley points out, but she does sit, hugging her working-day bag to her chest. Roy kisses the top of her head, gives Jamie a look that involves too much eyebrow for him to translate, and walks out.

“Is he really going to just stand in front of the house?” Jamie asks after a moment. “Because that’s going to scare the neighbors.”

“They’re used to him by now.” Keeley hunches her shoulders, looking smaller and sadder than she ought to. “I’m sorry he dragged you over here, he shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s all right. I need to apologize to you anyway. I was a shit. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what I did wrong. I was just trying to talk to you.”

“I know, Keeley. I know that. Just. Sometimes I...” He shrugs helplessly. “It’s the fight or flight thing, yeah? Like on the animal shows.”

“You’re not a cornered animal, Jamie.”

“Well. No.” Jamie shifts in his seat, grabbing at the wrist on his bad side with his good hand. Anchoring himself. Keeping himself in his chair. “It’s... when I was younger, sometimes, something would happen where I wanted to be able to run, but the door was locked or someone was between me and the door and I couldn’t, like. Go. I was stuck. And now if I start to get feeling stuck or... cornered or whatever, and I can get to a door, I just kind of... run first and figure it out later.” She looks like she isn’t sure what to do with that. “And if I can’t get to a door, it sometimes turns into a fight instead. The whole... being a prick thing.”

“Who did that to you when you were younger?”

That’s Keeley, always cutting to the chase. He shrugs again. “My dad. His mates. Um, some of the older lads on the youth teams, sometimes, I was... not good at making friends. One of my coaches, but he didn’t last long.”

She’s still staring at him like he’s speaking another language. “What happened to him?”

“He pulled some shit with another kid on the team. It turns out that if you have a dad who gives a toss about you, he might round up some of his mates and show up at the coach’s house and tell him he better resign and move the fuck on out of town.” He looks down at his bad hand and starts picking at the bandages. “So that was good. Unfortunately I was still stuck with my dad.”

“Jesus, Jamie.” She breathes out slowly. “Stop that, you need to keep your bandages on until the doctor takes them off.”

“He said the tendons are reconnecting and the bones look good. Still on schedule to be able to play again.” He can’t look at her. “I’ll go get my things. Won’t bother you anymore.”

“No.” Her voice catches and he realizes she’s crying, he made her cry again, with his stupid bullshit talking. “Not... not yet, all right?”

“I’ve got to stop making you cry. I hate it.”

“I’m not a fan, either, but I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at myself.”

He blinks at her. “What? Why?”

“We dated for... quite a while, Jamie. I never knew about any of this. I feel like all that time, did I ever even talk to you? Or did I just not listen? How did I not know about any of this?”

“Because it’s fucking depressing and I didn’t want to bother you with it.” He puts his good hand on the table, wanting to touch her but not able to reach. “It’s my shit to deal with, not yours.”

“We all have shit to deal with. In a relationship you help each other with it.” She sets her bag on the floor and leans forward, covering his hand with both of hers. “We really weren’t very good at it, were we?”

“My fault. I wasn’t very good at... anything involving other people.”

“I could have handled things differently.” She rubs her thumb slowly over his knuckles, staring down at their hands together on the table. “Is it all right if I have Roy come back in? Or do you need a few more minutes?”

“Can I just ask one thing first?”

“Course.”

He leans in closer, making it a secret, even though there’s still a whole entryway and the door between them and Roy. “He keeps acting surprised that I think he wants to kill me. Does he actually... not want that anymore?”

Her chin wobbles again, but she doesn’t cry. “Jamie, he likes you very much.”

“Oh.” He falls back in his seat, not because he doesn’t want to be close to her but because... “Well, fuck, then I’ve been...”

“It’s all right. He brought it on himself by not using his words.” She rubs at her face slowly, smearing the runny mascara under her eyes. “He doesn’t want to kill you. He doesn’t even want to headbutt you. He’s been out of his head with worry about you.”

“Shit.” He puts his head down on the table. “I’m such a fucking cock, Keeley.”

“Stop that.” Her hand settles on the back of his head, ruffling his hair gently. “I’m going to go get him. All right?”

“Yeah. Okay.” He can’t sit up, though. He just stays there, flat on the table, while her footsteps move away and back again, with Roy’s heavier steps behind them.

Then Roy’s voice asking, “What the fuck is wrong with him now?”

“Overwhelmed,” Keeley says softly. “But it’s all right. We talked it out. Jamie, you want to go over to the sofa? More comfortable.”

He shrugs. Moving seems like an awful lot of work. But then hands are slipping under his arms, lifting him up from his sprawl, half-carrying him over to the sofa.

He lifts his head up to gawk at Roy. “Are you serious?”

“Obviously,” Roy mutters, depositing him on his back. “See if you can pull yourself together. We’re not fighting, all right? Nobody is fighting.”

Jamie nods, probably looking like a right twat, but it seems to reassure Roy, who gives him a nod in return before going back to the kitchen. Keeley starts talking in a low voice, interrupted by the sounds of the sink and the stove and the cabinets—they must be putting the kettle on. Jamie rolls onto his side so he’s staring into the weave of the fabric on the back of the couch instead of at the ceiling. Feels smaller. Safer.

Roy rolls him over again when they come into the lounge, though, and then sits him up like a doll. “Have to sit up to drink so you don’t fucking choke,” Roy mutters. “Donkey.”

The three of them sit in a row on the sofa like they’re waiting for a bus, sipping their tea and nobody fucking talking. Jamie hits the end of his tether quickly. “Are you not going to say anything?”

“We already said all of it.” Roy shrugs. “Your turn.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“You could answer the original question.”

Jamie wants to throw his mug, but Keeley’s place is too nice for that. “I have absolutely no idea what the original question was.”

“Well, I never actually asked it,” Keeley cuts in before Roy can start working himself up. “We didn’t get to it before you left that day.”

“Fine.” Jamie looks at her and lifts his eyebrows. “Ask me.”

She meets his eyes steadily. “Did you mean it? About stealing us both and keeping us?”

Fuck. He could lie—he desperately wants to lie—but she’s looking at him like that and he knows Roy is looking at him, too, can feel those eyes boring into the side of his head. They’ll know if he lies, and even if they just shrug and let him leave again, all three of them will feel like shit.

Jamie is tired of making other people feel like shit. He’s tired of feeling like shit himself, actually. So here’s the free-fucking-kick, not lying, answering the fucking question.

“Yeah, I meant it. Can’t lie when you’re in that state, can you? I wanted to never leave this house. I wanted to… to do whatever both of you want, so you’ll keep me around. I’ll do anything you say. Be anything you tell me to. As long as you let me stay.”

He knows he slipped up in there, stopped using the past tense, but fuck it, it’s out there now. Keeley’s looking at him with wide eyes, and Roy…

Roy’s hand is catching him around the chin and turning his head so he’s looking into Roy’s eyes instead. “I’m not sure how many times we have to tell you that you can stay,” Roy says quietly. “I can get it printed on a fucking shirt if you like. But you don’t have to do anything in exchange. We’re not fucking selling the privilege of hanging around with us to the highest bidder. We don’t want a servant or a pet. We, as weird as it sounds, want you here. We want you.”

It takes Jamie a minute to sift through that, because it’s a mixture of incredible things and fucking insults.

“So…” He pulls away from Roy’s hand, so he can turn his head back and forth to look at both of them. “If I want you both… and you both want me…”

Keeley nods. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a good question.”

“Did I lose us an entire week?”

Roy actually laughs. “You did. Idiot.”

“I panicked.” He’s not going to go through the whole closed-doors thing with Roy, not right now. Maybe he can get Keeley to explain it in private, so Jamie never has to acknowledge any of that again.

“Maybe Rebecca’s right and you are a flighty fucking racehorse.”

Keeley’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Never mind.” Roy shakes his head. “Long story.”

“Tell me later.” She looks at Jamie, her eyes wide and earnest. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Jamie says honestly. “I have no idea what to do now.”

Roy answers before Keeley can. “You can take all the time you want.”

“Just said that I already wasted a week.”

“You need time, you take time. It’s better that way.” Roy shrugs. “Not like there’s a rush anyway, is there? Not a fucking trade deadline coming up or anything.”

Jamie sneaks a look at Keeley and finds her looking back at him. They have a minute of mutual understanding—that her suggestion would have been to just go upstairs and see how it went, and also that Roy is probably right about taking their time.

“Should at least have fingers that work again, I suppose.” He tries a wink at Keeley, and to his relief she grins back. “Saw my hand unwrapped at the surgeon’s office and it’s fucking disgusting, though. Just... a mess.”

“It’ll get better.” Roy doesn’t sound like he’s taking arguments, so Jamie just shrugs and picks at the bandage until Keeley reaches over and puts her hand over it.

“It’ll get better if you don’t unwrap it.” She taps his nose with her other hand, then gets to her feet. “I’m glad we sorted all that. I need to change out of these clothes. Be right back.”

Jamie squirms in his seat once she’s gone, trying to work himself up enough to look directly at Roy. “Can I ask you something?”

“Course.” Roy is collecting the empty tea mugs. “Go ahead.”

“Keeley said you... like me now.”

Roy rolls his eyes. “Obviously. I don’t open the door to messing around with people I don’t fucking like.”

“Yeah, I get it, but when did that happen?”

Roy stops, like he’s actually thinking about it. “I don’t think it was an all at once thing. Just a bunch of bits and pieces building up together.” He goes off into the kitchen with the mugs, leaving Jamie to wonder what the bits and pieces could have been.

Keeley comes back downstairs looking much cozier and less worried. “Roy, are you cooking or are we ordering? And Jamie, are you staying?”

Jamie hesitates, but nods. “Yeah, sure.”

“Then let’s order in.” Roy reappears, wiping his hands off on a towel that he slings over his shoulder. “We only have enough in the kitchen to cook for two.”

“I mean, I can go,” Jamie says. “If it’s easier for you that way.”

“Ordering is fine,” Keeley says. “Thai?” She doesn’t actually wait for them to nod before starting to tap at her mobile, so that’s decided, anyway.

Roy comes over to the couch while she’s busy with that, standing in front of Jamie and looking at him in that serious, considering way that means something’s about to happen. He’s going to make a decision and then follow it up without even a small pause to tell Jamie what the plan is. At least Jamie can recognize that now and brace himself.

Or so he thought. There’s no way to brace himself for Roy placing his hands on the back of the sofa on either side of Jamie’s shoulders and leaning in to kiss him, slow and deep and extremely thorough. If his goal is to kiss Jamie brainless, it works. There’s no way he can keep useful thoughts in place after that.

“Hmm.” Roy hums softly as he pulls back. “More passive than I expected.”

“You sort of surprised me,” Jamie sputters.

“Well, you’ll have to make it up to me when you’re done taking your time, won’t you?” He smirks at Jamie—fucking smirks—and goes back to the kitchen.

Jamie stares after him, then over at where Keeley is frowning at her mobile by the window. Taking his time might actually kill him. He needs to put a limit on that.

“What are you two doing tomorrow night?” he asks. “D’you have plans?”

Keeley looks up with a smile, and Roy’s voice floats out of the kitchen without any hesitation at all. “We’re free unless you’re about to book us.”

“Yeah, pencil me in.” This is like free-falling. His fingers go to the bandage automatically, but he stops himself before Keeley comes over and swats him again. “Here all right? Mine is still a little bit...”

“Here is fine,” Keeley says, before he has to figure out how to end that sentence. “Roy probably isn’t ready for your bedroom décor.”

“Is there a mirror on the ceiling?” Roy asks, reappearing again, a look of utter glee on his face. “There is, isn’t there?”

Jamie flips them both off and flops over on his side on the couch, hiding his face against one of Keeley’s fuzzy pillows. Fuck, fuck. This feels nice again. He’s got to keep from fucking it up for another twenty-four hours.

Not to mention getting himself threesome-ready. Fuck. He needs a wax and an eyebrow threading. And a haircut. He’s let himself go to shit since all this went on.

**

The salon informs him that his aesthetician is off, and he doesn’t trust just anyone with hot wax and his sensitive bits, so Roy and Keeley are just going to have to cope with him being fuzzy. He books a massage, a body wrap, and a facial instead, as well as the haircut. Fuzzy with very soft skin.

Before his appointments, he goes by the shops and gets fancy wine that he knows Keeley likes, expensive liquor that Roy will probably like, and ridiculous tiny pastries that he’s embarrassed to like as much as he does. Fuck it, though. He’s humiliated himself in front of Roy and Keeley enough at this point that having childish taste in pastry can’t hurt anything.

He buys new underwear, too. That’s just good manners.

It’s nice to get a massage that’s just for relaxation, not recovery or getting his body ready to play. He doesn’t stay relaxed for very long afterward, because his brain won’t stop whirring and he’s too fucking aware of the clock, but his skin feels amazing and his haircut is good. Hopefully that will be enough.

(Enough for what? he thinks at himself irritably, but no answers come together. Enough to impress them, maybe. Which, fuck, if there are any two people in the world less impressed by Jamie Tartt than Roy and Keeley, they’re his parents.)

He jitters around the house until it’s time to go over to theirs. He shaves and gets dressed, adds a spritz of cologne, and checks himself carefully in the mirror. He looks good. Eyebrows are messy but not as bad as they could be. If he keeps his left hand out of sight he can pretend everything is normal and this is his usual sort of hot date.

Except it’s with people who already know him beyond what he looks like, and consider it a hobby to call him out on his bullshit. So nothing like his usual sort of hot date, really.

This is probably a mistake. He shouldn’t do this. He should text them, say he changed his mind, then throw his phone in the toilet.

His phone buzzes on the counter even as he thinks that. It’s a text from Roy.

Can you bring bread

Jamie stares at that for a minute.

What kind of bread?

Immediate response. Bread that you eat you twat.

Jamie doesn’t know if he wants to grind his teeth or laugh out loud. I’ll get a fucking baguette, does that work?

Perfect.

Jamie tucks his phone in his pocket and goes to get his keys. Now he has to go. He’s bringing bread.

**

Keeley is happy with the wine, and Roy seems honestly surprised and touched by the liquor. Jamie puts the pastries on the kitchen counter and hopes they’ll all be smashed enough by dessert not to make fun of him.

Roy cooked, chicken with pasta and a salad. Jamie's worried for a minute, looking at the dishes on the table, but Roy dishes him out a larger portion of chicken without comment, and right, of course, he must still know the meal plan guidelines by heart. Keeley probably does too, come to think of it. Can’t get away with anything at this table.

“We bought a thing of protein powder,” Keeley says, startling him into dropping his fork. “In case you need a smoothie or a shake in the morning. Or later tonight, for that matter. Roy’s very worried about you being hungry.”

“He’s lost weight,” Roy mutters. “I can tell just looking at him.”

“Just off my routine.” Jamie takes a slightly desperate gulp of wine, his head spinning at the idea of Roy in the middle of Tesco, worrying about Jamie being hungry. “And I’m not working out like I normally do, so it might just be muscle mass.”

“Oh, believe me, I know why. Just have to manage it.” Roy pushes the basket of sliced baguette at him. “Have another.”

Jamie does as he’s told, dipping it in the pasta sauce. Keeley gives him a little smile and he remembers the times they had dinner when she was modeling where he would eat all of her carbs and she would watch him on the verge of drooling. Fuck, they had been a mess, hadn’t they.

Keeley tops up everyone’s wine. “How was training, Roy?”

“Oh, it was shit. Ted wanted to try a new thing and they all suddenly forgot how to move their feet. I think some of them don’t know left from right.”

“Colin doesn’t,” Jamie mumbles over his salad.

“That explains a lot.” Roy gets up and goes to the kitchen, coming back with Jamie’s box of pastries. “Saw the name of the bakery on the box when you came in. Good choice.”

This isn’t the kind of praise from Roy that matters, but it still makes Jamie feel warm inside. He finishes the last of his meal while Roy goes back for tiny plates to dish out the pastries. Keeley makes a happy squeak when she sees them.

“Oh, Jamie, you still get the entremets!”

Sure, maybe that’s what they’re called. He just asked the bakery for them pretty little pastry things that look like jewels or something. “They’re good,” he says with a shrug, not looking either of them in the eye, but they don’t say anything teasing. Roy just passes the plates around and they eat their dessert.

Jamie feels awkward the moment he finishes washing down the last bite with his last swallow of wine. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to make the first move, or wait for one of them to. Are they going to have coffee next, like if they went out to dinner? More talking about nothing in particular? Fucking... watch telly?

“That was lovely.” Keeley beams at them and gets to her feet. “Jamie, help me clear the table? Won’t make you do dishes but Roy cooked, so we should probably help.”

“Yeah, course.” He gathers up plates, scrapes the last bits on each onto his own plate to keep them together, takes them to the kitchen for rinsing. Maybe he should just start washing them anyway—keep things tidy and buy himself a little extra time.

Keeley puts the empty serving dish and salad bowl on the kitchen island and catches him by the wrist on his good side, gently drawing him away from the sink. “Doing all right? You look nervous.”

“Just... it’s not my usual kind of hookup, is it? Two people. People I know. People who don’t find me all that impressive.”

“People who like you,” she points out. “Do we get some points for that?”

“I don’t know why you like me, but yeah.”

“Now you’re fishing for compliments.” She squeezes his wrist and tugs him along, out of the kitchen and to the foot of the stairs. “Roy already went up, but if you’ve changed your mind, it’s fine, we’ll put a movie on.”

“He already went up?” Jamie blinks at her. “Really?”

“He’s excited.” She waggles her eyebrows. “And nervous, I think, just like you. I’m not nervous, for the record, I just wish you’d both get a move on.”

At least he can laugh at that. “Cause you know you’re going to get yours first.”

“Obviously.” She leans in and kisses him gently on the cheek. “It’s going to be fine, Jamie.”

Keeley has her flaws, but she’s not a liar. “All right, all right. Lead the way.”

**

Upstairs, Roy is sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt off already but his trousers still on. He looks them both up and down as they come in, his gaze hot and appraising enough that Jamie shivers and promptly hits a half-chub.

“All right, then,” Roy says, leaning back on his hands. “Kits off, c’mon.”

Keeley rolls her eyes. “Such a romantic.” But she pops her top off over her head, slips her bra, and wiggles out of her leggings while Jamie’s still working on his outer layers.

“Another strike against your ridiculous fucking outfits,” Roy says gleefully. “Can’t get naked fast enough.” He holds his hand out to Keeley and she goes to him, straddling his lap and kissing him properly. It’s fucking distracting and honestly slows Jamie down even more. He has to stop and look at his Roy tattoo when he gets his shirt off, too, because… fucking hell, if the him on that day had only known.

By the time he’s stripped off, Keeley has Roy’s cock out of his trousers and is stroking him while she kisses him, both of them making rough, wet little noises that go straight to Jamie’s gut. He stands there and watches them, not entirely sure he hasn’t been forgotten about, until Roy breaks off the kiss and looks at him over the top of Keeley’s head, his gaze no longer hot but fucking… molten.

Jamie puts his bandaged hand behind his back and Roy’s eyes narrow. “None of that. Get over here.”

It’s hard to think with Roy looking at him like that, and the line of Keeley’s back all exposed while she’s kissing Roy’s neck. “How do you want me?”

“Told you, you’re not here as our sex toy. We’re all doing this together.” Roy catches his hand when he gets close enough and pulls him up onto the bed too. “What do you want?”

He wants to be touched. He wants weight on top of him, pinning him down, keeping him in his body so he can’t forget where he begins and ends. He wants to be inside Keeley, and he wants Roy inside him, he wants to be claimed and kept at the same time that he claims and keeps them. It’s all too much to say, almost too much to think. It makes his head spin.

Better to start small. “Kiss me again.”

Keeley eases off Roy’s lap so he can move in close, catching Jamie’s face in his hands and kissing him deep and rough. This time Jamie’s ready, so he kisses back, matching Roy’s intensity and earning a pleased groan. They fall down on the mattress on their sides, keeping up the kiss as long as they can until they break apart gasping.

“Yeah,” Roy murmurs. “That’s more what I expected.”

“You boys are lovely,” Keeley says, and Jamie looks up to find that she’s crawled over to kneel at their heads, looking down at them with a smirk. “But I believe I was promised I’d get mine first?”

“Absolutely,” Roy growls, reaching for her, and she laughs as he moves her around like a doll, getting her down on her back with her legs splayed out. “You want to do the honors, Tartt?”

Yeah, Jamie can do that. He moves between her pretty, pale thighs, going to put them over his shoulders and then stopping when he sees that ugly fucking bandage against her skin.

“It’s all right,” Keeley says, soft and coaxing. “I don’t care about that. Just want you, Jamie.”

He takes a deep breath and nods, leaning in to breathe in the smell of her before he opens her up with his good hand. Careful, careful, he knows how sensitive she is, knows how she’ll squirm and gasp when he touches her with his fingers and then with his tongue. A nice long, slow lick from bottom to top of that delicate pink skin, tease at her clit with the tip of his tongue, wait for her to wiggle in satisfaction before he steps up the intensity. He loves making her feel like this, loves her noises, loves how she tastes.

A hand settles on the back of his head, too big to be Keeley’s and the angle is wrong anyway. Roy steadying him and stroking his hair, murmuring his approval of how Jamie’s making Keeley moan. Jamie feels the familiar flash of pride that always follows Roy’s approval and arches his back a bit. Roy takes the cue and runs his hand down Jamie’s back to his arse, giving a gentle squeeze before he turns his attention to Keeley’s mouth and tits, which are fairly irresistible, it’s true.

Keeley bucks up off the bed and curses when she comes, and Jamie pulls back to catch his breath and wipe his mouth. His cock is throbbing and his stomach’s tight with pleasant heat, he wants to fuck her so badly it makes him dizzy, but he’s going to wait til he’s asked, because that’s just good manners, too.

“Oi.” Roy produces a condom from somewhere—under the pillow? Do these two keep them there normally or was that part of preparing for Jamie?—and tosses it at him. “Don’t keep her waiting.”

Keeley nods emphatically and all right, yes, that’s being asked. Jamie scrambles to get himself bagged and ready to go, then leans up for a quick kiss. Roy’s right there, lips red and spit-wet, and Jamie dares to grab a kiss from him, too, which turns into a minute of mouth-wrestling until Keeley grabs him by the dick and gets his attention back where it belongs.

He’s fucking Keeley, but Roy’s hands are everywhere, teasing and touching, and he never stops talking. Roy Kent has a filthy fucking mouth above and beyond the swearing, it turns out. Some of the things he says would make Jamie blush if he wasn’t a bit busy with Keeley’s cunt, which is very exacting and demands precise attention.

Keeley gets her fingers on herself and comes hot and tight around him, which sends him over as well. He stays there for a moment, feeling his pulse come back down to normal while she runs her fingers through his hair and tells him how fucking good he is, and it’s sort of a perfect moment, especially when Roy’s hands get in on the action again, too, all over his back and arse.

Jamie eases out of Keeley and gets the condom off, ducking off into the loo for a moment to take care of that before he comes back ready to focus on Roy. The man in question is sprawled back against the pillows with Keeley kissing him and giving him what Jamie knows is a very good handjob, so Jamie lingers at the foot of the bed, waiting for instructions and enjoying the view.

Roy breaks off the kiss and gestures at him, bringing Jamie crawling up the bed to kneel between their legs once they untangle them a bit to make room. “You good?”

Jamie nods and leans in to kiss him, then her. “Can I touch you?”

“Please.” Roy hesitates a beat, a blush rising in his face, which is kind of fucking hilarious given the things he was saying before. “Actually, I’d like it—if you want to, I mean, I want—”

Keeley snorts and produces a bottle of lube from under the pillow, tossing it at Jamie. “Can you finger him out while I take care of him? He likes it.”

“Fuck, yes.” Jamie scrambles to get his fingers slicked while Roy spreads his knees apart. Thank god it was his off hand that got broken. He can do this for Roy, and watch Roy’s face while he does it, and hear the sounds Roy might make. He’s allowed to be here and part of this and they want him to keep them. They said so. They said they want him to stay.

Roy shouts when he comes, which Jamie wasn’t expecting, but Keeley shuts him up with kisses and Jamie eases his hand away, detouring back to the loo again for a couple of hand towels.

“Stop running off,” Roy says when he gets back, dragging Jamie down between them and draping his chest across him to effectively pin him down. “Christ.”

“Trying not to make a mess of your fucking bed,” Jamie says, then gasps as Keeley reaches down and gives his cock a squeeze.

“Don’t have to go again, I’m just saying hello.” She plants a kiss at the base of it and then pulls the blanket up over all three of them. “Fuck, that was good.”

“Mm.” Roy is all but purring. “Got a million other things I want to do with you both.”

Jamie’s got his own rapidly expanding list, but he’s too tired to try to plot it all out right now. He closes his eyes and concentrates instead on Roy’s weight across his chest and the warmth of Keeley’s breath against his neck. It doesn’t take him long to doze off, tucked away between them.

**

Keeley takes him to the appointment to get the bandages off and a simple tape and splint job to replace them. “See, you can have nice things when you don’t pick at it,” she says, running her thumb carefully over his knuckles, which are lumpy and never going to be the same but at least aren’t an alarming color anymore.

“I just get nervous hands.” They’re not too bad right now. He takes Keeley’s hand with his good one and threads their fingers together. “The scars aren’t too ugly?” They’re hidden under the tape right now but she saw them while the nurse was working.

“They’re just fine.” She rests her head on his shoulder. “What do you want to do after this? I cleared my day, I’m all yours.”

“Lunch?”

“Yes, I have to feed you, Roy was very clear.” She laughs softly. “Shopping after that? I think we both deserve shoes.”

“Never say no to that.” He plays with her hand, watching their fingers against each other, just—liking that he can do this with her again. Or for the first time. He didn’t enjoy things like this before, he was too busy in his head wondering how it all looked from the outside.

She opens her mouth to say something else, but his phone buzzes before she can get a word out. He pulls it out and his whole body jerks, just a raw jump of surprise, because it’s a text from “Dad.”

When are you going to be back on the pitch, I need your team to win some matches so I can win some money.

The thing is, that’s his father’s version of making peace. But he can’t take it normally when he’s sitting in the fucking surgeon’s office getting his hand repaired from something James and his mates did.

“You haven’t blocked him yet?” Keeley asks. “Jamie.”

“I can’t.” He shakes his head and shoves his phone back into his pocket. “He’s my dad.”

“But Jamie—”

“I know you lot want me to cut him off altogether, but I can’t. The next time he gets in debt with them he’s going to need me to bail him out and he has to be able to reach me for that.”

She frowns. “You said you weren’t going to bail him out anymore.”

“I know what I said. But I can’t actually let my fucking father get beat to death over a gambling debt, you know? I’m not… I’m not that kind of…” He drags in another breath and makes himself sit up straight as the nurse comes back in. “Are we almost done?”

“Yes, Mr. Tartt. Here’s your notes on how to keep the splints and tape properly, and remember to make an appointment for a physio evaluation in the next week.”

“I’ll do that at the club.” They’ll be fucking thrilled to have something to work on other than a knee or ankle, honestly. “Thank you. We can leave?”

She nods and watches Keeley tuck the notes away in her purse. “Yes, you’re all done.”

They’re quiet in the lift, and he honestly wishes he’d taken the stairs because right now the urge to bolt is near unbearable. Running some stairs might help cut it a bit.

“At least now I understand why you never introduced me to him,” Keeley says when they reach the lobby.

Jamie frowns. “What?”

“Well, he’s so awful. You didn’t want me to see that, or for him to be awful at me too, right?”

He has to snort. Jesus. “Keeley, he wouldn’t have been awful to you. Or to me, in front of you. He would have been funny, and fucking… charming. Everyone’s best mate. You would have loved him. And then whenever I complained about him you’d tell me I was being silly, that my father’s a great bloke, that I shouldn’t be so touchy about things.”

She stops walking and looks at him. “It happened a lot?”

“I never introduced him to any girls, but a few of my mates. And my coaches, when I were younger.” He shakes his head. “He’s very good at turning it on and off. Honestly that surprised me at the City match as much as anything. Had to be really fucking high on the win to not care about looking good in front of everyone.”

She takes his arm and they start walking again, making their way out to the street and toward the little cluster of restaurants nearby. “I just don’t want him to be able to get to you all the time. It hurts you.”

“It’s not so bad. I’m used to it.”

“It is so bad, and you shouldn’t have to be.” She sighs. “But let’s not fight about it. Food, shoes, home for a nap?”

“That sounds good.” He lets her tug him along for a few more steps. “Keeley?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for caring about it. It’s… it’s nice. That you and Roy do. Nobody ever did before.”

“We care very much.” She squeezes his arm. “And if you do want to keep talking to him, we’ll be here for you. If you ever plan to see him, we’ll be there in person, and Roy will probably have a cricket bat.”

Jamie huffs an almost-laugh. “He would, wouldn’t he.”

“He absolutely would. He really hates your dad.” She stops between two restaurants and gestures with her free hand. “Pick one. We’re going to enjoy the rest of our day.”

**

He can train again with his hand like this, as long as he takes care, and it’s a massive fucking relief to be out there. Even though he’s a grown adult who understands how things work, part of him is always afraid that if he’s gone for more than a few days the others will all forget about him and not want him back.

No chance of that here; he gets cheers and slaps on the back, gentle shoves and even a hug or two before the gaffers yell at them to stop playing and start training. Dani passes to him even when that has nothing to do with the drill they’re running, until Roy moves them to opposite sides of the group to stop it.

Roy.

Jamie had been a little worried about this part, about training under Roy when he’d spent quite a few hours physically under Roy lately. Roy, on the other hand, doesn’t seem worried at all, and he certainly isn’t having any problems here on the pitch. Since Jamie is working his way back into things, he doesn’t get any shouts about doing better or putting more effort in, just reminders about his fundamentals. Even those are cursed about in the classic Roy Kent style, so situation normal.

Afterward, Jamie lingers in the shower, enjoying the familiar smell and pounding pressure of the Nelson Road water. Doesn’t have to worry about keeping his hand dry, since he can just re-tape it after, so that’s a nice change too. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back, letting the water pound against his chest, then startles when he hears a familiar voice from the door.

“Oi. No cameras here, Tartt. Don’t need to pose for them.” Roy’s smiling when Jamie looks over at him. “You checking in with the physios after this?”

Jamie shakes his head. “Talked to them before. They’re going to have some stress balls and little rubber bands for me tomorrow.”

“Good.” Roy watches him for another minute, then clears his throat and turns away. “Well. Get yourself dressed and out of here, no point sticking around all night.”

“Wait.” Jamie turns the water off and wraps his towel around himself. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

That’s bullshit. “Roy…”

Roy glances back at him, his expression softening a little. “Not here.”

Oh. Right. “Yeah, okay. I’ll find you outside.”

He doesn’t have to look very hard; Roy’s just leaning against his stupid giant car in the carpark, frowning at his mobile. Jamie jogs over to him, shaking out his bad hand, which he hasn’t bothered to tape up yet. Feels kind of nice letting air hit it.

“You need to tape that,” Roy says. Great minds think alike and all, apparently.

“I know. I will.” He holds it up for Roy to see, the long scars from fixing the tendons and the smaller ones that mark where the pins are. “Doesn’t look as scary anymore.”

Roy catches it gently and turns it back and forth, studying the joints of Jamie’s fingers. “How much can you bend them?”

“Barely.” Jamie demonstrates. “That’s why I get the balls and rubber bands.”

Roy grunts and lowers his hand, still holding Jamie’s. “You coming back to our place or yours?”

Jamie stares at him. “I… I thought I was staying with you.”

“You are. I mean, if you want to be.” He runs his thumb across Jamie’s palm. “I know we have to keep a firm line between home and work. Wasn’t sure if you needed to… I don’t know. Go home first and then make that switch over.”

“Oh!” Jamie ducks his head. “That’s what you were doing? A firm line?”

“What did you think I was doing?”

“Mostly ignoring me?”

Roy looks confused and irritable and instead of being a bit scary it makes Jamie want to kiss him. “Well, you’re just getting back, you don’t need full coaching yet.”

“I know, I know. I just wasn’t sure if I was allowed to talk to you either.”

“Of course you can talk to me. Players can talk to their coaches.”

“So I can only talk to you as a player?” He’s trying to follow this properly, he is, but it’s obviously something Roy has all plotted out in his head and Jamie is only catching glimpses of. “Not as… whatever we’re doing?”

Roy squints at him. “At the club we need to just be coach and player, yes. I thought that was obvious.”

Jamie shrugs. “I’m not great at obvious, am I? Never have been.”

Roy’s expression softens a bit. “Fair enough. We’ll talk about it at home, figure out if you have questions.”

“I do have questions. Like…” He gestures around them. “The carpark. Is that at the club or not? Because you’re holding my hand right now.”

“That’s…” Roy trails off, blinking. “Fuck.”

He doesn’t let go of Jamie’s hand, though. Not then, and not on the ride home, which Jamie convinces him that they can make together.

**

They’re playing City in Manchester, and it’s got Jamie in more of a state than he wants to admit. It’s been months now; his hand is properly healed, and with the help of Keeley’s vitamin E cream the scars aren’t even that bad. The worst is the way his knuckles look, and the horrible sound they make when he cracks them. It makes Roy throw things—not at Jamie, just in general.

He thinks he does a good job of not showing how weird he feels, but apparently not, because Dani and Isaac both pull him aside to ask if he’s okay in the week leading up to the match. Ted and Beard don’t say anything, but they stare at him all the time.

Roy stares at him all the time, too, but that’s different. He’s gotten very good at understanding what Roy’s stares mean.

He goes to talk to the physios after practice two days before match day, because his hand fucking aches and he wants them to do something about it. Sasha, one of the interns, frowns and shakes her head after examining it. “There’s no inflammation, Jamie. I can’t see anything wrong.”

“But it hurts.” He cradles it against his chest like he did when it was bandaged. “Nerve damage maybe?”

She shakes her head again. “That wouldn’t just spontaneously come up now. Try heat and then ice, see if that helps. You can take over-the-counter for it but I’m not giving you anything harder, okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.” He hadn’t expected anything else, really. He thanks her and leaves to get dressed, thinking ahead to dinner and maybe getting Keeley to deep-condition his hair, or maybe he could paint her nails for her, something, anything so he doesn’t have to stop and sit and think.

Roy is waiting for him in the changing room, which is strange. “Shouldn’t you be on your way home already?” Jamie asks, still clutching his hand to his chest. “We drove separate today.”

“We need to talk.” Roy frowns. “What’s wrong with your hand?”

“Sasha says nothing, but it hurts.” Jamie shakes it out and swaps his shorts out for joggers. “What do we need to talk about? Besides how I fucked up today, I already know about that.”

“I want to give you the option of sitting out this match.”

Jamie forgets how to breathe for a minute. Lungs go completely offline. “You what?”

“We can put it in as illness. You won’t have to deal with the bullshit, your dad won’t get the satisfaction of knowing he’s bothering you, it would take a lot of pressure off.”

“He would absolutely know he’s bothering me. He would know he won if he made it so I couldn’t fucking play.” How could Roy do this to him? “Tell me this wasn’t your idea. Tell me you know me better than to think I’d want that.”

Roy puts his hands up like he’s trying to be soothing, but it just makes Jamie want to run or fight. “It wasn’t my idea. It was Ted’s idea. I know you want to play. We agreed you should know you have the option.”

“I don’t fucking want the option!” Jamie kicks his bag, which didn’t fucking do anything to deserve it but it’s not like he’s going to kick Roy. “I want to do my job. I’m not a fucking baby. I don’t have to sit out because they all might be there watching. They can’t get to me on the pitch. They can’t fucking touch me when I’m playing. They can’t.” Now he’s breathing too hard, he can’t get control of it. “They can’t.”

“Jamie. Jamie.” Roy is stepping toward him slowly, hands still out away from his body. “You’re right, they can’t touch you. You’ll be safe.”

Jamie’s vision blurs and he realizes he’s fucking crying again, leaking from the eyes like he is a fucking baby. “All three of them will be there, too, you know that? Police never did find Denbo and Bug and by now they’re not looking anymore. Just a dead fucking... file in a drawer. They can go to football matches and drink at the pub and do whatever they want. And I might get pulled from the fucking match because of them. It’s not fucking fair.” Fuck, his lungs hurt, wheezing like this between words. “And my dad, he gets to… he gets to…”

Roy’s arms are around him, strong and safe, and he crumples in them. “You’re right,” Roy says again, quietly. “It’s not fucking fair. I wish I could fix it. I would fix it for you in a minute if I could.”

Jamie half-laughs and half-sobs. “Keeley said one time she thought you’d go after him with a cricket bat.”

“I absolutely would. Any heavy object I could find. He’s not safe if I see him coming down the street, I’ll tell you that.”

“I hate this. I hate it. They’re ruining this. And my hand fucking hurts.”

Roy breathes in and out slowly, like he can steady Jamie’s breathing with his own. “I think that might be a fucking... psychological thing, yeah? Your brain’s hurting so it makes it some physical pain to get your attention.”

“Well it’s fucking well got that.” He wipes his eyes against Roy’s shoulder. “Fuck.”

“Think you needed to vent all that.” Roy sounding this gentle will never not be strange, but Jamie loves it with all his heart. “You’re scared, and you’re angry, and it’s a load of bullshit you’ve got to deal with, but better to have it all out in the open than festering in your guts.”

“Maybe.” Jamie doesn’t fucking know psychologic things. He doesn’t care, either. He just looks at Roy, which he never does from this close, because if they’re this close they’re probably kissing, these days. “Can we go home?”

“Absolutely. I’ll drive you, you’re in no state.”

Jamie’s hand throbs and throbs on the drive, he can’t get away from it, and it drives words out of his mouth without benefit of thinking them through first. “I guess I do owe them one, though, don’t I? Should be kind of grateful?”

“What are you talking about?” Roy scowls and hits the mute button on the radio. “You don’t owe them fuck-all.”

“If they hadn’t fucked my hand I wouldn’t have called Keeley to help and we all wouldn’t have gotten together.” Jamie closes his eyes and curls his hands into fists in his lap. “So I owe them for us.”

“Fuck no.” Roy Kent hitting a full roar inside the closed space of a car is a dangerous thing. “You are not getting us all tangled up with them in your head. I will not fucking allow it. We don’t owe them anything. We would have figured it out eventually.”

Jamie breathes and breathes and breathes. “You think so?”

“Yes.” Of course he doesn’t mean it, they both know it isn’t true, but it’s the kind of gentle lie that Jamie desperately wants to hold on to, so he will. He and Roy can hold on to it together, maybe bring Keeley in on it so they can all pretend to believe it together. Eventually they’ll write it right over the real history and forget about it, with any luck at all.

**

Keeley comes to the City match, driving up to Manchester behind the bus, and books her own hotel room outside the team’s block. Jamie’s pretty sure that Ted and Beard are very aware that he and Roy will not be sleeping in their assigned rooms and that they also will be turning their backs to the fact. He can’t even feel bad about it; he’s going to need his people after the match and he would climb a fucking wall to get to them, much less take the lift down a few floors.

The lads are all extra handsy in the changing room, patting his back and bumping his shoulders. He soaks up every touch, grateful for them and the fact that none of them ever try to use words when there’s a physical option. Dani grabs him and rests their foreheads together, so they’re breathing the same air, but still doesn’t say a word or make Jamie say one in return.

Out on the pitch, under the lights, the crowd just a faceless roar from here. Thank god for that. This has always been the place where Jamie is safest. Whatever happens after the match is after the match, not here. On the pitch he’s untouchable.

Not literally, as City reminds him as soon as the match starts. He’s fouled in what feels like the first fucking minute. But the hits that are part of the game are different from the ones that are a consequence of the game. He doesn’t give a shit about those, or sometimes even welcomes them, because they’re proof that he’s out here, he’s doing this.

It’s a slog of a match. City scores first, then Richmond gets one back. Any strategy the gaffers put out quickly gets beaten back into just holding ground, eking out a few meters, and holding ground again. Jamie’s got bruises on bruises, and at least one set of bloody marks on his leg where someone dragged their boot over his calf.

All that scratching and clawing and the match ends with that same one-one tie. They can hold their heads up leaving the pitch, unlike the five-one debacle at Wembley. His teammates slap his back and bump his shoulder again, different messages than before the match but the same language. Sorry that they didn’t win, but glad that he and they all kept their pride.

“We’ll get ‘em next time, bruv,” Isaac says, and Jamie grunts in response, tapping fists with him as they make their way to the changing room. Out of their kits, quick shower, getting dressed. Security’s been told to turn everyone away from the room as a standing policy now, he doesn’t have to worry about that. He’s exhausted and a little bit floaty but not scared. Not really very scared at all.

Fucking City.

He can’t wait to curl up between Keeley and Roy and sleep. Just a short bus ride away, and whatever Roy orders from room service for a post-match meal. The other lads are talking in low voices about if it’s worth going out or not, but nobody asks him if he’s in the mood and he’s grateful for that.

Roy catches up to him just as the team’s about to walk out to the bus. “Oi,” he says, grabbing Jamie’s arm and squeezing gently. “All right?”

“Better.” They can’t hug here in front of everyone, but he lets himself lean a little bit for a moment. “My hand doesn’t hurt anymore, guess you were right about it being psychologic.”

Roy grunts and lets go of him, patting his shoulder instead. “Good. I texted Keeley and she’s going to have dinner waiting for us. She’s already at the hotel.”

“She’s quick.” Jamie rubs at his face and follows the lads out to the carpark, staying in step with Roy. When they stop at the end of the queue to board, he tilts his head back and looks up at the hazy sky and the lights of Manchester, breathing out slowly toward it like he could blow it all away.

Roy frowns at him and Jamie shrugs before he can say anything. “I don’t like that I’m starting to hate where I come from.”

“You don’t hate where you come from.” Roy’s voice is the one Jamie’s learned to trust more than he trusts his own whirling thoughts sometimes, the quiet but firm one. “You’re wary of it because it keeps fucking hurting you. But you don’t hate it. You know what’s good about it, too, you’ve haven’t forgotten those parts.”

Jamie looks back at the stadium. “I wonder if they were even here.”

Either a hand on the shoulder is innocent enough for Roy, or he’s giving up on discretion altogether for tonight. “Jamie. Don’t do that to yourself. Just get on the bus and let’s get back to the hotel.”

“Right.” He gets himself on the bus and goes to the back to sit with Dani as usual, leaving Roy with the other gaffers. It’s fine. Just needs to get to the room and hide his face against Keeley, with Roy between them and the world, and he’ll be fine.

“Good match, amigo,” Dani says softly, and Jamie leans into him, accepting a rough one-armed hug and Dani’s cheek rubbing against his hair.

“We’ll get them next time,” he echoes Isaac, and rests his chin on Dani’s shoulder to watch whatever video he’s got going on his phone. Something with a big Australian bloke lifting a sheep over a fence. Weird things go on in Australia.

At the hotel he has to go up to his proper room first, count to a hundred, and then get back in the lift and make his way to Keeley’s. She opens the door for him and pulls him directly into a hug, and she’s strong for such a tiny thing, clinging to him so tight he can hardly breathe.

“You did so good,” she says. “Proud of you.”

He nudges her backward step by step until they can fall into the bed. “Tired.”

“Big crash after the last… fuck, two weeks you’ve been crawling out of your skin about this.” She cards her fingers gently through his hair. “I’ve got you.”

“Don’t leave.” It comes out more desperate than he meant it to, but Keeley just nods and wraps her legs around his.

“I’m right here. Just close your eyes and rest, babe.”

He shakes his head. “Need to stay up and eat and let Roy fuss over me.”

“In a minute.” God, her hands are so gentle, petting his head. “You can take a minute.”

He takes probably ten minutes, until Roy knocks at the door and he has to let Keeley up to open it. He gets a hug from Roy, too, and kisses, and then they all sit and eat together on the bed, picnic-style, with the post-match report on the telly.

“Are we messing around or going to sleep?” he asks when Roy gathers up the plates and stacks them on the room-service tray.

Keeley snorts. “You can barely keep your eyes open, Jamie.”

“Don’t need my eyes for pretty much anything we do.” He knows his way around both of their bodies by heart by now. Couldn’t draw a map, but he might be able to make some decent models out of clay. He’s a hands person, not an eyes person.

“Sleep,” Roy says firmly. “If we wake up with enough time before the bus we’ll mess around then.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Morning sex is fucking great, and he is very tired. He lets Keeley pull him up to the pillows and get the blankets over the two of them while Roy puts the tray in the hall. Then they all have to shift around some more when Roy joins them and tries to tug the blankets his way instead of letting Keeley have as much as she wants, and Jamie passes out before that argument is actually settled but it’ll be fine, it always is.

**

He dreams about walking around Manchester with Roy and Keeley, showing them the places that mattered to him. His dad and his mates don’t show up at all, just old friends and teachers and coaches and his mum.

It ends up with the three of them sitting in the shitty little park near the estate where he first learned to kick a ball. They’re sitting on either side of him, close enough to touch, and he’s holding the stars in his hands.