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It doesn't seem like the sort of thing that could happen gradually, but somehow Roy can't actually pinpoint the exact moment when a world in which he had never hauled Jamie Tartt over his knee and thrashed him senseless became a world in which that was his typical Tuesday morning. There was never a single decision, never a pause to consider whether this should or shouldn't happen, just a series of minor shifts in their interactions that all made perfect sense at the time.
Roy doesn't even know when he first slapped Jamie on the arse. It definitely wasn't sexual at the time. It's just a thing football players do—he probably did it to north of a hundred men over the course of his career. The two of them have never been the kind of mates who do it often, but Roy can't swear it never happened while they were both playing for Richmond. Maybe early on, before the bad blood built up, or maybe sometime after that charity gala when they had their first semi-civil conversation. It wouldn't have been particularly memorable, in the hubbub of them all heading out onto the pitch for a big match or in the excitement of a goal celebration. Roy's probably slapped a few arses without even registering who they belonged to.
He does know the first time that it happens after he becomes Jamie's coach, because even aside from the hostilities between them, it's just not really the done thing at Richmond. The Americans are fucking weird about physical contact—Roy's not sure if it's a no-homo situation or if they're scared of being cancelled for sexual harassment, but Ted mostly limits himself to hearty back-claps and Beard hardly ever touches anyone at all. Roy doesn't especially care what they think of him, but he flat-out refuses to be the most physically affectionate coach on staff, so on this team bum-smacks are mainly a player-to-player affair.
It happens at Wembley, after that shit sundae of a match is topped off by Jamie's dingleberry of a dad. Jamie looks like he's just played three matches in a row instead of one, moving at a glacier's pace and stopping every two minutes to stare into the middle distance as he gets changed. The pair of them end up being the last ones left, and Jamie pauses in the middle of the room as he's about to leave, eyes fixed on the door like he thinks his dad might be waiting for him on the other side.
"They kicked him off the premises," Roy says. "He's gone."
Jamie doesn't seem to hear him.
Roy steps up beside him, rests a hand on his shoulder blade. "He's gone, Jamie. It's all right."
Jamie turns his head a bit, a slight acknowledgement of Roy's presence, but he still doesn't make eye contact.
"Come on, the others are already on the bus." And there, a quick smack, just to get him moving. "Let's go."
Jamie reacts to it automatically, conditioned by years of coaches sending him out onto the pitch just like that. He heads to the door, and Roy follows, and they join the others on a brief and very quiet journey back to Nelson Road.
That one does register at the time, though not really because it's Jamie—the hug is a vastly more significant development in their relationship. But Roy notices the smack as well, because it makes him realise how much Ted and Beard's presence is affecting his behaviour. He wouldn't have done that with them there, not because he thinks there was anything wrong with it but because they might have thought there was. It makes him wonder if any of the players might be feeling neglected, given how much affectionate manhandling is normally involved in football's bonding rituals.
He doesn't really follow up on the thought in any depth, but he does start slapping backs a bit more often. If that makes him the most affectionate coach on staff, so fucking be it.
*
It doesn't cross his mind again until Jamie makes the same observation, a month or so after they've started training one-on-one. Roy's got him doing balance drills on a low stone wall in the park that day, trotting back and forth along it forwards and backwards and sideways. Jamie does well, doesn't stumble or wobble once, and when he finally jumps down Roy gives him an approving smack on the bum. It's almost certainly not the first time it's happened during those training sessions—again, it's not the sort of thing Roy would necessarily notice himself doing—but that time, Jamie brings it up.
"Ted and Beard don't do that, do they?" he muses, reaching for his water bottle.
"Probably would if we had a wall like this at the training grounds," Roy says. "Lasso would make the lot of you line up on it holding fucking hands."
"No, I mean—" Jamie slaps his own arse in demonstration. "Just realised the gaffer don't pat me bum, like, ever. Pep did it all the time."
Roy shrugs. "Americans. They think it's fucking sexual harassment or some shit."
Jamie makes a face like what the fuck. "It's nice, though," he says. "Like a little 'good lad' without having to speak, y'know? I like it." He takes a swig of water and bounces on the balls of his feet, awaiting further instructions.
"Then I'll stop fucking doing it," Roy grumps, but they both know he doesn't mean it.
*
He steps up the bum-smacks after that, because it seems to really fire Jamie up when he's starting to flag. Every time, it perks him up and gets him moving, grinning brightly like he's just scored a goal. Roy can just see him thinking of it as good lad, always thirsty for praise.
If Roy were being honest with himself (which he's not), that's about when he starts liking it in a way he probably shouldn't.
*
It's mostly something they do during the one-on-one training, but when Jamie is dragging his feet in the tunnel after a particularly tough loss, Roy drops back to give him a pat just because it looks like he needs one.
Jamie huffs. "Don't deserve a 'good lad' after that shitshow," he mutters.
"Doesn't have to mean that," Roy says. "That one was more like... oi, we're in the shitshow together, I've got you."
"Oh," Jamie says. His eyes look soft. "Thanks."
*
The first time it happens outside of a football context, it's because of the fucking dingleberry. Roy's been cooking breakfast while Jamie's showering and changing—they've started carpooling in together most days, it's just convenient—and Jamie is stepping into the kitchen, damp and smiling, when his phone goes off and the smile evaporates.
"What's wrong?" Roy asks.
"Nothing." Jamie shoves the phone into his jeans pocket. Roy raises his eyebrows, and he immediately folds. "It's me fucking dad again. Won't leave me alone."
"You haven't blocked his number?" Roy says incredulously. He just assumed Jamie would have done that after the scene at Wembley.
Jamie rubs his forehead with the heel of his hand. "I should. I guess. I don't know."
Roy finishes scooping their eggs onto plates, sets down the spatula, and crosses his arms at Jamie.
"Fucking... yeah, okay, you're right." Jamie leans onto the kitchen island on his elbows, tapping at his phone. "There. Blocked."
Roy reaches over to slap his arse and turns to take the plates to the table.
"Did that one mean 'good lad' or 'I've got you'?" Jamie asks. His tone sounds like he's trying to make it a joke, but when Roy turns back to look at him, his face says he really wants to know what Roy meant by it. That fucking face, all open and trusting. Roy's walls falter, and he lets himself speak before they slam back down.
"Means I'm fucking proud of you."
Jamie stares, his expression somewhere between disbelief and desperation. "You are?"
Roy sets the plates back on the counter, steps around the corner of the island to get a better angle, and lays down another slap. It's muffled through the thick denim of Jamie's jeans, compared to how it feels through shorts or trackies. Roy does it one more time, harder, just to drive the point home.
Jamie drops his head, the tips of his hair brushing against the counter. "Thanks, Coach," he says, in almost a whisper.
Roy's said all he needed to say. He picks up the plates again. "Let's fucking eat."
*
It's six AM, two hours into a workout even Roy has to admit is on the tough side, and Jamie runs out of steam. Roy's got him hopping on one foot; he's made it through twenty hops on the right foot, but he's only done four on the left when he just stops. He doesn't put his other foot down, just balances on the one, heaving ragged breaths.
"You're not fucking done," Roy barks, and whacks him on the arse. Jamie does one hop, and stops again.
Roy narrows his eyes. He smacks Jamie again, and gets another single hop and an outstretched tongue. Outraged, Roy deals out a barrage of blows, much harder than ever before, until Jamie has reached his target.
"None of those were fucking coded messages of fucking praise," Roy snaps, just to be clear.
"I know." Jamie turns to beam at him, damp with sweat and panting hard. "I liked it anyway."
And that is when Roy stops kidding himself. This shit fucking turns him on. And he doesn't think he's the only one.
*
Jamie gets called up to play for England. Roy yanks him over his lap and spanks him five times, hard as he can, then pulls him back up for a hug.
Jamie's smile is incandescent. "Fucking hell," he says.
"Fucking hell," Roy agrees.
They're in Roy's office, after everyone else is gone for the day. The two of them drove in together in the morning, so Jamie's been sitting there idly spinning in Trent's chair while Roy finishes up his work. They got the news of the call-up earlier in the day, but Roy chose to save this particular congratulations until they were alone.
Roy loosens his grip, expecting Jamie to move away. Instead, he slides down to lie across Roy's lap again. Roy pauses, surprised, and Jamie looks over his shoulder. "How proud of me are you?" he asks, wiggling invitingly. "Only five, really? I'm playing for England, Coach."
There's a strange mixture of satisfaction and anticipation simmering low in Roy's chest. It feels like he's just got something he hadn't quite known he wanted, and he's starting to realise how much more there is to want.
He curls one hand around Jamie's trim little waist and lifts the other high. "I'm this fucking proud," he says, and lets loose.
*
Jamie sets up one of the prettiest plays Roy's ever fucking seen—highlight reel material, the kind of shit that makes the crowd murmur ohhh even though it's an away match—and doesn't even get credit for the assist because he orchestrated the whole thing from two passes back. Everyone flips their shit over Dani, who actually put it in the net, and Jamie is just cheerfully slapping his back along with everyone else like he's not fucking magic out there. It's not right.
Roy goes home, and sits there for a while tapping his knee, and then grabs his keys and heads back out.
Jamie opens his front door, looking confused. They don't normally have extra training on match days. "Coach?"
"That Rojas goal was fucking unbelievable," Roy says.
Jamie's face relaxes into understanding, and he steps back to let Roy in. He glances into the kitchen, clearly considering the island again, but leads Roy to the living room instead. Roy plants himself in the middle of the sofa, leaving plenty of room on either side for Jamie to stretch out, but doesn't grab him this time, just waits for Jamie to come to him. And he does; without hesitation he sprawls across Roy's lap and shifts around to get comfortable, like he's expecting to be there a while. Roy's heart starts to rattle in his ribcage.
"Can't feel as much through the jeans," Jamie says. "Wouldn't've wore 'em if I knew you were coming."
"You can go change if you want," Roy offers.
Jamie peers up at him, cautious, and then Roy catches on.
"You want to really feel it, do you?" Roy hooks his fingers into Jamie's waistband.
"Yeah," Jamie says with relief, lifting his hips. "Please."
Roy pulls down the trousers, then pauses again, unsure.
"Roy, please," Jamie whines, hips still raised up, and Roy pulls his pants down as well.
Fucking Christ. Roy goes still, gazing dumbstruck at the generous curve of Jamie's buttocks meeting the small of his back. He's seen Jamie naked in the dressing room, but he's never looked. It's fucking flawless. Either an intelligent higher power exists after all, or evolution is a horny bitch.
He starts with light slaps, delighting in the little jiggles he elicits, then spanks harder and harder as Jamie's skin starts to go pink. It's gorgeous. Roy watches the color deepen from a faint blush to almost red as Jamie's breaths melt into gasps and then moans. At this point it's no surprise at all to feel his erection thrusting against Roy's leg, and even less of a surprise that Roy's own dick is hard as well. It's a good thing his self-awareness is so fucking shit, or that would probably have happened a lot earlier on.
Jamie shudders. "Roy—"
Roy stops immediately.
"No, it's just—don't wanna get your trousers messy, and if you keep..."
"Get my fucking trousers messy," Roy says, and spanks him fast and merciless until he's sobbing and jerking and helplessly soaking Roy's thigh.
Roy stops spanking and starts rubbing instead. Jamie lies there a moment, limp and panting, before turning his head and asking, "Can I suck you off?"
Roy's dick throbs at the thought, but it's not what he wants right now. He manhandles Jamie until he's lying flat on his stomach on the sofa, then shoves his own trousers down and settles on top of him, nestling his cock in Jamie's cleft.
"Lube's upstairs," Jamie says, sounding apprehensive.
"Don't need it," Roy reassures him. He thrusts a bit, just rubbing between Jamie's cheeks, his hips dragging against pretty pinked-up skin. "How's that feel?"
"Fucking hurts," Jamie moans. "Don't stop."
Roy rests his weight on his forearms along Jamie's spine. "You like that? When it hurts?"
He grinds down hard, ripping a sob out of Jamie's throat. "Yeah, fuck yeah." He presses up against Roy, shamelessly eager even as he drips tears onto the upholstery. "More, Coach, please, I can take it."
He clenches around Roy's dick and that's it, Roy is done. He groans, long and low, coming on Jamie's lower back, getting it all over both their shirts as they collapse in a sweaty sticky heap.
After their breathing starts to even out, Jamie says, "Fucking hell, you really liked that goal."
Roy snorts, rolling off him. Jamie turns onto his side, facing Roy. It's a deep sofa, but it's still a tight fit for the two of them, and the position puts their faces close together.
"So which was that?" Jamie asks. "Good lad, or you've got me, or you're proud of me? Or does it just mean I'm so fucking fit you can't help—"
Roy is about to kiss him to shut him up, but he doesn't even have to. All he does is rest a hand on Jamie's jaw and look into his eyes, and Jamie trails off. It's a hell of a rush, being able to cut him off like that just with a look.
Roy kisses him anyway. Not a real snog, not trying to get anything going again, just a quick kiss to find out what it's like. When he pulls away, Jamie looks at him with that fucking face, and Roy knows it'll be happening again.
He reaches around to deliver one more slap, a nice hard one. Fuck, he can't believe he's done this so many times without ever watching Jamie's face. It's fucking rapturous. Breathtaking.
"All of those," Roy says. "It means all of them, every time."
Jamie breaks out into that smile, the goal-scoring smile, and says shyly, "Do it again?"
*
Jamie jogs over to Roy and just stays right there, bouncing around twisting his hips the way he always does before a match, right up in Roy's personal space.
"The fuck you doing?" Roy demands.
Jamie doesn't say anything, just grins and twists a little more so he's turned half away from Roy.
"Oh," says Roy. "No. Fuck no."
"I want you to," Jamie says. "You want to."
He's right about that, Roy does fucking want to. The idea of his hands on Jamie in front of thousands of people, with those memories fresh in his mind, is making him a bit lightheaded. "It really would be fucking sexual harassment now," he protests weakly.
"It makes me better," Jamie says. "Don't it? When we're training, when I'm losing energy, you give me that little 'good lad' and it charges me right up."
He's right about that, too. Roy has noticed it, and he likes it. He likes having the power to make Jamie better. And if it could really help now... well.
He grabs Jamie by the back of the neck and hauls him in close. "Good lad," he growls, right into Jamie's ear. "I've fucking got you, Jamie. I'm fucking proud of you."
"Oh, fuck," Jamie moans. He sounds like he does when he's fucking coming.
Roy gives the back of his neck a little shake. "Let's fucking go," he says, and sends Jamie onto the pitch with one good whack, and not even the Americans spare them a second glance.