Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The quiet is the worst part.

Other things hurt too, of course. The lack of garish trainers next to Roy’s more sensible black ones. Cooking dinner for one instead of two. The empty space on his bathroom countertop that used to house all sorts of lotions and serums and ointments that Roy couldn’t begin to name, but had found a home there since the first time he invited Jamie to his house after their early morning training.

How could they not hurt— those visual reminders of Jamie’s absence? Looking to a space and expecting to see a piece of Jamie there, if not the man himself, only to find it empty?

But the quiet—

The quiet slices through him, sharp as a knife. 

The stillness of a quiet house, the absence of soft footsteps trailing along after him, the moment between breaths when it feels like there should be another quiet inhale, pause, exhale and the soul crushing disappointment when it never comes.

It’s just silent, the type of silence Roy hasn’t known since the first time he got up at three in the morning to go knock on Jamie Tartt’s door and never looked back, and he doesn’t know what to do with it.

It’s been a mere twelve hours since he left Jamie in Amsterdam, and he doesn’t fucking know what to do with it.

It reminds him of how he felt after he broke up with Keeley. Lost, broken, more alone than he’d felt since he waved goodbye to the shrinking shape of his grandfather’s car in Sunderland. Looking for a hint of her anywhere, even though he was the one to break it off. 

Which is a ridiculous thing to think, actually, because it’s not like he and Jamie have broken up. How could they have, when they were never even together in the first place?

Somehow, that— the thought that he’s missing someone who was never even really his— makes everything hurt just a little bit more.

Because at least if they’d been together, he would have something concrete to miss. Instead it’s all just maybe’s and what if’s and what could have been’s, his imagination taunting him with every tiny moment they shared, reminding him of what he could have had if he weren’t too slow, too oblivious, too fucking stupid to realise what was right in front of him all along.

He ends up not being able to stay in his house.

The silence, the emptiness, the coldness of his sheets, the way he keeps walking into a room expecting to see Jamie sitting there—

It’s too much.

At two in the morning, he locks his front door behind him and heads to Nelson Road and the stack of paperwork that he’s been putting off all summer.

He’s exhausted after two days without sleep, but he needs something else to focus on. He can’t bear missing Jamie this badly after only a few hours spent apart, with so much longer still to go.

Jamie’s absence at Nelson Road is still stark, and reminders of him are scattered all over the building. His empty cubby. The photo of Jamie and Phoebe that Roy keeps on his desk, the two of them holding the Premier League trophy after Richmond won it for the first time. The file with Beard and Nate’s suggestions for Jamie’s replacement.

But it’s easier there, somehow. Roy is able to look at it all and remember exactly why Jamie left, rather than just being upset that he’s gone. His grief isn’t as overwhelming, balanced by the reminder that he has a job to do and a team to take care of. 

With a tired sigh, he grabs a file— not the one about new players, he can’t handle the thought of replacing Jamie yet— and gets to work.

—

The lads start trickling in, as loud and rambunctious as they always are on the first day of pre-season training. And even though Roy knows, he knows Jamie isn’t going to be there, he can’t help searching each face for his. Can’t help his heart breaking when Jamie isn’t there. 

—

“Morning, Coach!” Beard greets cheerfully when he walks in, sunglasses on as always. He pauses and removes them when he sees Roy, though, his eyes concerned. “You been here all night?”

“Since two,” he admits. “Couldn’t fucking sleep. And I had work to catch up on anyway, so…”

“I see.” He says it like he hears every one of Roy’s unspoken words, like he knows that Roy couldn’t stand to be in his house alone. He doesn’t acknowledge it, though. He merely starts unpacking his bag, getting ready for the first day of the season. “Did you see the file Nate and I left for you, about new strikers?”

Roy’s throat closes slightly, and he forces himself not to glare at said file. “Uh, yeah. Didn’t take a look at the options yet, though. Rebecca had some things for me to sign off on first, and then I was setting our training plan for the next few days. I will, though.”

“As long as you saw it,” he says amicably, zipping up the jacket of his tracksuit. “There are some good options in there— I don’t think we can go wrong.”

Beard leaves before Roy can say that he thinks they went wrong the moment they let Jamie Tartt leave Nelson Road for good.

This time, he does glare at the file.

—

He gets a text from Jamie as he’s packing up his bag, finally done meeting with Nate and Beard to discuss their plans for the season. If it were anyone else, he might think it was a coincidence that the timing just happened to line up. Because it’s Jamie, though, he knows that it was carefully planned. That he’s been watching the clock, factoring in the hour time difference, and thinking about Roy’s usual schedule on the first day of training so that the text would arrive at precisely the right time.

He snorts, drawing the attention of Beard and Nate.

“Jamie?” Beard asks, face as neutral as usual.

“Yeah. He asked me to call him, so I’m going to head out. See you tomorrow.”

“Later,” Beard salutes. When Roy is in the doorway, he calls after him, “Coach! You left the list of strikers.”

Roy pauses in the doorway, his back to the room. He knows he told Beard he’d take a look, but the idea of bringing that file into his home makes him feel breathless, like he’s forgotten how to make his lungs draw air and now they’re just sitting in his chest, useless. It’s one thing to think about going through the file at work— here at least, he knows he has no choice. He knows it’s for the good of the team. But it’s another thing to think about going through it at home, in the place where he spent so much time with Jamie, falling in love without even knowing it was happening. He can’t fucking—

He can’t.

And anyway, Roy has plans for the evening.

“I’ll look at it tomorrow,” he says without turning.

He doesn’t wait for a response before striding away.

—

He’s barely through the front door before he calls Jamie. He feels a little pathetic about how eager he is to talk to him, at least until Jamie picks up after only half a ring and Roy sees his own eagerness reflected back at him.

Jamie’s face fills Roy’s screen, and the sight of it makes Roy feel like he can breathe easy for the first time since they said goodbye. It’s only been a day and half since they saw each other, but fuck does he miss Jamie and his smile.

“Hey you,” he greets, knowing every ounce of how glad he is to see Jamie is bleeding into his voice.

“Hiya Roy,” Jamie beams. “How was your first day?”

“It was fine, yeah.” He aims for casual, but even he can tell he missed it by about a mile.

Jamie raises an eyebrow. “You’re a shit liar, Roy. How was it really?”

“Fucking weird,” he says, honest this time. He should’ve known better than to lie to Jamie in the first place. “I missed you. Kept looking for you even though I knew you weren’t there.”

Jamie’s face falls— the exact thing Roy was hoping to avoid— and he sighs, “I fucking missed you, too. Kept looking to the sidelines, expecting you to be there glaring at me. Felt a bit like those first few days after I came back to Richmond, when you had retired and I kept looking around for you.”

“I didn’t know you did that. Why the fuck did you do that?”

“Had to keep a lookout for an angry elderly twat coming after me, didn’t I? Nah, babe, I just fucking missed you. You’d been on the pitch all me life, so it were weird that you weren’t there anymore.”

Roy smiles, helplessly fond. “I always forget how much of a fucking fanboy you are.”

“And yet you love me,” Jamie waggles his eyebrows.

He feels, for a breathless moment, cleaved open by Jamie’s words. Because he does love him, he fucking loves Jamie more than anything, but it hardly seems to matter. No amount of his love for Jamie can change the fact that he was too slow to do anything about it; by the time he was ready, Jamie was already leaving.

“So it seems I do,” he manages to say, forcing a smile and a dramatic sigh. Putting on a good face, even with the distance between them, because he can’t bear to be the cause of any more pain for Jamie. Suddenly eager to shift the conversation away from himself, he eyes Jamie, searching for any sign of how he’s doing. He looks happy enough, but Roy still wants to check. “How was your first day?”

“Uh, yeah, was good. A bit weird, being the new kid and having to learn everyone’s names and figure out the dynamic. Haven’t been the new kid in eight years, have I? Weird to not be playing the Richmond Way, too.”

“Oh, I bet. Who is Jamie Tartt if not the central cog?”

Jamie snorts. “Fuck off, it ain’t like that. It’s just… I’ve gotten so used to Richmond and the flow there that not having it threw me a bit. They wanted me to press higher up in our scrimmage, but I kept floating back and forgetting where I should fit. The lads were all nice about it, and the gaffer too, but I don’t know. Guess I’m worried it won’t click, or at least not fast enough and I’ll make a fool of meself.”

Roy wishes he was there in person to hug Jamie and provide the support he so clearly needs. But instead he’s in London, the North Sea between them, and all he can do is find some sort of motivating speech to give Jamie. 

“Yeah, I get that. It’s fucking hard going from one style of play to another; God knows my head nearly melted every time Ted had us switch strategy again. Didn’t get any easier as a coach, either. But it’ll click, faster than you think. Just keep your focus on the moment, keep your technique good, be open to feedback, and it’ll come to you. You’re Jamie fucking Tartt, after all. You can do fucking anything.”

Jamie smiles, slightly shy and so sweet Roy aches to kiss him, and ducks his head so his hair falls in front of his face for a moment. “Thanks, Coach. I will.”

“Not your coach anymore,” he reminds gently, though it feels like he’s tearing his own heart out as he does.

“Nah, you’ll always be me coach. Not that I’ll tell the new ones that.”

“Probably for the better,” Roy agrees. “Oi, you get any free stuff? That was my favourite part of starting with a new season, all the free shit they try and suck up to you with.” He adds, “Half of it was useless under Cartrick, but the man’s useless himself, so I suppose that tracks. I like to think we do better now.”

“Oh, I remember. And you’re doing fine, don’t worry. Isaac would tell you if you weren’t. But yeah, the free swag here is fucking lush, it’s crazy. ‘Course, I’m most excited about the whole fucking closet of training clothes. It’s all Adidas though, which… Well, I like Nike better, personally, but it’s still pretty mint. But uh, there’s actually something I got today that I want to show you. I have it right here.”

And then he holds up a ball of fabric, red and white, that Roy recognizes as the Ajax home kit. When he lets it fall open, Roy swears his heart stops.

Staring back at him in big, blocky white letters is TARTT 96. 

Their numbers. Jamie chose their numbers. 

He wonders vaguely if he’s having a stroke, or a heart attack, or maybe an aneurysm, because he can’t speak, much less think. If Jamie were actually in front of him, Roy would absolutely be jumping his bones right about now, nevermind the fact that he’s far too old to be doing something like that.

“So, uh, do you like it? They already have a number nine and a number ten so I had to pick a new one. Well, they actually offered to boot one of them to a different number, but I didn’t want to make anyone feel like they were being replaced so I picked a new one. Wanted it to be sixty-nine, but then I thought that might be a bit too cheeky so I swapped it. Didn’t matter to me either way though, really I just wanted to feel like I had a part of you with me, you know? Like, if I wear both our numbers, it’s almost like you’re here with me. I don’t know, it’s kind of stupid and everyone’ll probably be surprised I chose such a high number, not to mention you might hate it, but I’m a sentimental old bastard nowadays so I thought—“

“Jamie,” Roy interrupts his rambling, “it’s fucking perfect. It’s just that the thought of you wearing our numbers together has melted my brain a bit, and I’m trying to formulate a response that doesn’t involve flying back to Amsterdam and snogging you senseless.”

Even through the screen, Roy can tell Jamie’s cheeks flush a delightful shade of pink. “Oh. Eh, well then. It had the desired effect. Good. Mint. Yeah.”

Roy has to roll his eyes a bit at that— of course Jamie knows he’s just enough of a vain, possessive bastard to go crazy seeing him in a jersey that has a six on it. But really, he doesn’t think it’s quite his fault. Jamie has only ever worn three numbers for as long as Roy has known him: nine on his club teams, twenty-four when he played for England the first few times, and ten once he was a regular starter for the England squad. They had been a source of pride for him, Roy knows. All he’d ever wanted was to wear the number of a striker, and donning Sam’s number was symbolic of just how far he’d come over the years. 

That he chose another number, and that it’s their numbers together no less, is one hell of a fucking statement. Whatever he does from now on, whatever he achieves with Ajax, will carry a piece of Roy with it.

Roy fucking loves him, and he wishes more than anything that Jamie was right here in front of him so that he could show him just how much this means to him.

He doesn’t say that, though. Instead, he smiles wryly and teases, “You know Ted’ll be fucking unbearable about this when he sees, right? He’s going to figure it out immediately.”

“Oh, absolutely. Keeley too. Brace yourself, babe, you’re gonna have a lot of people bugging you about your feelings.”

“Might just fake my death, avoid it all. Run away to Amsterdam. I’ve heard good things about the windmills there.”

Jamie laughs, and Roy can tell there’s a slight wistfulness to it even through the phone. “If only. Although, if anyone could successfully fake their death, it’d be you. You’re fucking mad sometimes.”

“Thank you,” he grins, baring all his teeth. “Want to know how I’d do it?”

“Fuck yeah, tell me everything.”

—

When Roy finishes work the next day, Jamie’s contact already open so that he can call him as soon as he gets in the car, he once again leaves the folder of potential signings on his desk. 

Once again, he’s stopped by Beard.

“Forgetting something, Coach?”

Roy’s shoulders tense, and he grits out, “Don’t think so.”

“Mhm,” Beard hums, clearly unimpressed. There’s a beat of silence; Roy doesn’t need to see Beard and Nate to know it’s because they’re sharing a frustrated look. Finally, Beard says, “I know you miss Jamie, but you have to pick someone new eventually, Coach.”

A few years ago, Roy might have thought that Beard was just trying to help. That it was an innocent statement, and he was just trying to be a good assistant coach. After five years, though, he knows better. Nothing, nothing, that Beard says is without purpose. No matter how innocent or cryptic or bizarre his words, it all has a meaning. And Roy’s hearing it loud and clear.

Get over yourself and do your job.

“I fucking know,” he snaps, the ball of hurt in his chest— of longing for Jamie— only able to express itself as anger. “I’ll fucking take care of it. Just give me some fucking time.”

He leaves before Beard can mention that time isn’t on their side— not with the end of the transfer window looming, and not with an empty spot on the field. 

He knows. He just can’t fucking think about it. 

Not right now.

—

It becomes rapidly clear that the style of football that Richmond has played for nearly six years is falling apart without Jamie.

They try having Dani play as their new central cog, but he just can’t read the pitch well enough to succeed; he doesn’t see half a dozen passes ahead, doesn’t know what the other players are going to do before they do it, doesn’t have the same instincts for playmaking as he does goalscoring.

Colin gives it a go a few times, too, but he still struggles with his confidence even now, and Roy can tell the responsibility wears on him. As a last ditch attempt at making it work, Nate suggests giving some of their newer signings a go, but none of them do much better either, not knowing the team well enough to anticipate their movements.

Which is fine— honestly, Roy didn’t really expect any of them to succeed as the central cog. He figured they’d try it out, but his hopes hadn’t been high. After all, Dani has always been better at getting into the box and receiving crosses, Colin is the best winger they’ve got, and the new signings from the past few years are mostly defenders and midfielders; Richmond needs them in those positions. And Roy certainly didn’t expect them to read the pitch as well as Jamie could. Hardly anyone can; it’s what makes Jamie so desirable to clubs all over the world. The way he sees the pitch and the players on it, knowing exactly what pass to make to win the match, is like… Like the way an artist sees colour, or some poetic shit like that. It’s ingrained in him, a natural gift that no coach could ever hope to teach.

Losing him… Roy doesn’t know if they can ever hope to replace the player he was, much less all the ways he held the team up.

And so, for the first time since 2022, Richmond will be playing with a different strategy.

They just can’t find one that works. Everything is too rigid, too sloppy, too predictable, too… Too uncreative to work for a team that’s used to playing loose and free. Their training sessions are disastrous, with scrimmages descending into chaos and confusion. Passes start going haywire, and shots go wide or hit the woodwork more than they hit the net. Their preseason friendlies are a fucking mess, and they lose every single one of them. It’s like the entire team has developed the fucking yips, and nothing Roy does or says seems to help.

It puts him in a terrible mood, anger creeping in and settling onto his shoulders like a well worn coat.

He’s not mad at the team for struggling to adjust, or at Jamie for leaving. The lads are doing their best, and it was time for Jamie to move on. They’re all just doing their jobs.

No, it’s himself that he’s fucking furious with. His entire job is to find a strategy that works for his team, and guide the lads to use it to score some goals and get some points. Should they fail, it’s on him to find a way to help them keep their chins up. After five years as manager, he should be able to do that much. But he’s fucking failing.

He knows, he fucking knows, that he needs to bring in someone to fill the hole that Jamie has left. They need a number ten, someone who can float between the lines and spot opportunities, who can orchestrate plays and direct the team, who can score some goals and make some fucking magic happen out on the pitch. But every time he so much as thinks about looking at the scouting reports that Beard and Nate put together, he starts to feel like he’s dying. Like someone is carving his fucking heart out. Like even looking at this list is a betrayal of Jamie and how much he misses him. Which is fucking stupid, because it’s not like bringing in someone to play in Jamie’s spot means that Roy is forgetting about him, but it’s not like he’s ever claimed to be a rational fucking person.

So he keeps ignoring the list, even as Beard and Nate remind him that he needs to look at it, their voices getting shorter and shorter with each reminder. Even as the team keeps suffering from his inability to move on, their shoulders slumping with every missed shot and lost friendly.

He watches Dani take a shot from eighteen yards out that hurdles right over the crossbar— the fifth one today, when usually he can sink those like they’re nothing— and sighs. “That’s fucking enough, let’s call it for today. Nate, if you would?”

Nate blows the whistle to end training, and Roy gestures for the team to gather around before dismissing them. Once they’re all present, he exhales heavily and starts talking, mustering up confidence he doesn’t really have. 

“Right. Okay. That was a fucking training, wasn’t it?” The team grumbles in response, and Isaac frowns in a truly spectacular fashion that tells Roy just how displeased his skipper is. “Yeah. I know. We’re fucking struggling, in a way that Richmond hasn’t since dinosaurs played football.” He gestures to himself, and is relieved when it manages to pull tired laughs from them. “But we’re going to be okay, you hear me? Maybe it won’t be our best season. Maybe we’ll surprise ourselves and win the whole fucking thing all over again. I don’t care what happens, so long as we give it our best fucking try and remember that either way, we’re going to be okay. I know it; you all have to fucking know it too if we want this to work. Got it?”

“Richmond on three,” Isaac says, all the agreement that Roy needs. “One, two, three!”

“Richmond!”

“Get out of here.” Roy points his chin in the direction of the tunnel, dismissing the team for the day. “See you all tomorrow.”

They stream into the tunnel, with the exception of Isaac who hangs back. Only once everyone has disappeared into the building does he ask Roy, “When are you going to replace Jamie?”

Roy’s entire body goes still, and he makes a conscious effort to ignore the fact that Nate and Beard’s conversation with the training staff has gone silent, everyone listening in. “What?”

“When are you going to bring in a new player to take Jamie’s spot?” Isaac says, an edge to his voice. “Because we can run around out there and do our best all fucking day long, but it’ll be pointless unless we have a new number ten out there to help make some fucking plays.”

“I know,” Roy snaps. “I have a list of suggestions on my desk. I’ve just been fucking busy and haven’t taken a look. But I will.”

“Make time. ‘Cause the longer we go without someone in that position, the more fucked we are.” He’s gone before Roy can find the words for a response. 

He feels Beard’s eyes on him, boring into the back of his head as if to say I told you so. Roy exhales slowly, trying to cool the anger burning inside him. “Something you want to say to me, Coach Beard?”

“Nope.” His voice is frustratingly even. “Your captain just told you everything you need to know.”

Roy has to clench his teeth to stop himself from hitting something, and stalks away without a word.

Beard doesn’t call after him— why would he, when Isaac has said enough for both of them?

—

He stays at the club long after everyone else has left, poring over paperwork and coming up with ideas for new strategies and doing his best to ignore the file at his elbow.

He’s not very successful, though, considering how his eyes keep flicking toward it. It’s unassuming enough— just a manila folder, full of reports but not overly thick, with Nate’s tidy handwriting labelling it Prospective Forwards, 2027-2028 Season— and yet it makes Roy’s stomach churn to even think about.

He just doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand why he can’t just do his job. He did the hard part when he said goodbye to Jamie; this, comparatively, should be easy.

But it’s fucking not, and he can’t begin to explain it to anyone. Hadn’t even been able to tell Dr. Sharon about it, their last few sessions, because he knew she’d want him to explain why he feels this way and he just can’t.

His ringtone pierces the silence, startling him out of his thoughts, and he sighs when he sees it’s a video call from Jamie— he must have missed their usual call time.

He swipes to answer, forcing a smile and hoping he doesn’t look as haggard as he feels. “Hey, Jay. Sorry I didn’t call you earlier, I lost track of time.”

“That’s okay,” he says. His brow wrinkles when he takes in Roy’s surroundings. “Are you still at the club? Roy, it’s not even the regular season yet, how are you already that swamped with work that you have to stay that late?”

“Oh, you know.” He forces a chuckle. “Just trying to wade through Nate’s notes on our strategy for the season. You know how he gets after the summer, he always has a million ideas buzzing in his head.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t seem totally convinced by Roy’s excuse, but doesn’t push for the time being. “Is this a bad time, then? We can talk later if it is, I didn’t realise you were still there otherwise I’d have texted first.”

“No, no, now is fine. Could probably use a break anyway, the words are starting to swim.” He drags his hand over his eyes, resolved to put work out of his mind for a few minutes while he talks to Jamie. “How was your day?”

“It was good, yeah! I have a story you’ll get a kick out of— so there’s this French kid, Lucas, on the team, right? Like, actual kid, only eighteen or summat. Anyway, we were on opposite teams during our scrimmage and he started chirping at me, making fun of me and stuff. And you know what he called me? Old man. Me! I’m not even thirty-one yet and he’s calling me old! I couldn’t fucking believe it.”

Roy laughs slightly. “That’s fucking karma, is what that is. Payback for you calling me old all the time.”

“That’s rubbish,” he sniffs. “I’m only speaking the truth when I call you old.”

“Fuck off,” Roy huffs. “Is he any good?”

“‘Course he is, he’s eighteen and playing for Ajax. Actually though, he’s a good kid. He didn’t mean anything by it— he’s far nicer than I ever were.”

“Not that that’s hard, you little fucking prick.”

Jamie grins sharply. “That’s me. But yeah, that was the highlight from today. Pretty normal day otherwise. How ‘bout you?”

Roy falters, his grin slipping for a moment as he glances at the file again. “Was fine, yeah. Bit of a long one though, since we’re still trying to get settled. Haven’t quite figured out what formation we’re going to be playing in yet.”

“What do you mean? You’re not going to keep going with total football?”

He freezes, cursing himself for the slip— he’d been keeping that a secret from Jamie on purpose, not wanting to make him feel bad by revealing how badly the team is struggling without him. “Oh. Uh, no. We’re not. The coaches and I just thought maybe it was time to move on, you know? It’s been a long time playing like that. We’re getting predictable, and whatnot.”

Jamie sits up straight, his eyes worried as they rove over Roy’s face. “Babe, what’s going on? Why are you being weird?”

“It’s nothing, I shouldn’t burden—”

“It’s not a fucking burden if I’m asking, is it?” Jamie interrupts, voice sharper than usual. He sighs, collecting himself, and when he speaks again his voice is soft. “Look, I’m sure you’ve created some story in your head where you need to keep things from me so that I think everything in your life is fine. But it’s just that, Roy: a story. I want to know how you are and what’s going on. Especially if it’s making you upset.”

Roy sighs heavily. He knows Jamie is right, because it’s exactly how he feels. He wants to know everything about how things are going for Jamie, whether it’s good or bad or just plain boring. They’ve always been able to tell each other everything; that shouldn’t be any different now, just because they’re in different countries.

“We’re not continuing with total football because it doesn’t work without you. We don’t have anyone who can read the pitch or conduct plays like you. Dani, Colin, and a few others tried, but it didn’t go very well. So we’re looking for new strategies, but we haven’t found one that suits us yet. And,” he sighs again, embarrassed to even say this, “it’s mostly my fault. I haven’t brought in someone to replace you yet, and the team is suffering for it.”

“What? What the fuck do you mean, you haven’t replaced me? Roy! You’ve known all summer that I were leaving, you’ve had plenty of time to think it over.”

“I fucking know that. I just… Can’t.”

“I don’t get it,” he says, unflinchingly honest as always. “What d’you mean, you can’t?”

“It hurts,” he explains after a long silence. “When I look at the folder, all I can think about is that I’ll be replacing you, and how it feels like I’m fucking… Betraying you, or something. So no, I can’t replace you or even think about it. Even though I know the team needs me to, I can’t do it.”

Jamie stares at him for a moment. “Roy, babe, I love you, but that is one of the stupidest fucking things I’ve ever heard you say.”

“Oi!”

“I mean, it’s sweet that you miss me that much, don’t get me wrong. But you’ve got a fucking job to do. You can’t just put that on hold or sacrifice the team’s success because of how you feel about me. And as for betraying me, I’m only going to be hurt if you go and fall in love with the next young hire who’s more fit than me.”

“No one’s more fit than you,” Roy says automatically. Jamie, of course, preens at the compliment. “And logically, I know that. I know I need to pull myself together and do my fucking job. I just…” He sighs. “I don’t know. I can’t even make it make sense to myself.”

“You don’t have to make it make sense. You just have to do your job, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Tomorrow, then. I promise. Today was just… Too much for me to think about new players tonight.”

“Fair enough,” Jamie says, voice soft. “Now get the fuck out of there, you’ve been working long enough. I’ll keep you company on the drive.”

Roy smiles gratefully. “Yeah, that sounds good. Thank you, Jamie.”

“‘Course, babe. I’m always here for you, no matter what.”

“I know. I’ll try to be better about telling you things from now on.”

“Good. Now come on, lad, get moving! It’s time you go home.”

“Alright, alright.”

Roy packs his stuff up, Jamie chattering about the new restaurant that just opened in his neighbourhood all the while, and it feels almost normal. 

—

When Roy walks into work two days later, he throws the folder down in front of Beard, open to his notes about Jakob McLaughlin.

“Twenty years old, Canadian, fast on his feet and good at slipping between lines. You’ve seen him play?” Beard nods once. “What do you think?”

“He was my top choice,” he answers, matter of fact. “And Nate’s.”

“I’ll reach out, then.”

He turns away, intending to find Isaac and let him know as well, but is stopped by Beard calling after him. “Coach? Thank you.”

He casts a glance at Beard over his shoulder. “Don’t thank me. Thank Jamie. He’s the one who pulled my head out of my fucking ass.”

Five days later, Jakob McLaughlin arrives in Richmond.

—

Their first match of the regular season goes about as well as Roy could have hoped, which is to say it ends in a 1-1 draw against Bournemouth.

It’s a match they probably should have won, but Roy knew it would be unreasonable to expect that at this point in the season; they’re getting better, slowly settling into things, and McLaughlin has certainly helped pull it all together, but there’s still a lot of work to be done. The team is still a little uncoordinated, and Dani missed some easy shots, and they didn’t keep possession of the ball as much as they should have. But it wasn’t the total disaster it might have been a few weeks ago, and that’s all Roy can really ask for. He’s proud of them for pushing through, and he tells them as much during his post-game talk.

Jamie’s first match against Utrecht, however, is a soaring success. They have an evening kick-off as opposed to Richmond’s noon kick-off, so Roy is able to watch the match live, drinking in every glimpse of Jamie that he gets. He looks fucking beautiful out there, running up and down the pitch with as much energy and speed as ever. Roy knows what Jamie said about only having a few more years to play before his ankle gives out, and he trusts Jamie to know what he’s feeling, but it’s hard to believe while watching him. If Roy didn’t know better, he could fool himself into thinking Jamie's still twenty-five, his whole career ahead of him. It’s fucking incredible, especially when Jamie bags his first goal in Ajax colours; it’s an absolute firecracker of a rocket that sends the fans into a frenzy, and his chant fills the Johan Cruyff Arena for the first time.

Watching Jamie celebrate with his new teammates, the number 96 printed across his back, Roy is overcome with emotion. He knew this was the right move for Jamie, but seeing it, watching him blossom on the screen in front of him, is another thing altogether. It’s— it’s a little bit melancholy, actually, because Roy wishes he was there with him instead of watching on his telly. Mostly, though, he’s just proud. He’s so fucking proud.

In the end, Ajax sweeps Utrecht away 3-0, and Jamie adds his first assist for the club to his score sheet.

Even though he knows Jamie will be busy with press and celebrating the team’s first win, Roy sends him a quick message.

His response comes surprisingly quickly and is a hurried mess of a thing, Jamie no doubt trying to text while keeping up a conversation with someone, but it still makes Roy smile.

He chuckles to himself. Dutch football has no clue what’s about to hit them.

—

“Now when I say I hope I looked good,” Jamie says before Roy can even greet him, “I didn’t just mean that I hope I looked fit. I also meant that I hoped my form looked good. Still felt like I were dropping too far back, sometimes. What d’you think?”

Roy raises an eyebrow. “Hello, Jamie, good to see you. My night was fine, thanks, how about yours?”

“Hi, babe. My night was good. Got teased for not drinking, as always, until I told them it was a tried and true Roy Kent training method. Lads couldn’t come up with a comeback to that, considering I ran circles around them all. Now tell me, did you think I was dropping too far back?”

He sighs fondly. Jamie always gets like this after matches, all laser focused and wanting to go through every second of it with Roy, picking his performance apart and finding spots where he can do better. Roy had spent most of the match with his eyes glued to the screen to admire Jamie, but he had made sure to try and jot down a few notes in case Jamie wanted to go over it with him. Not that there’s much; he had looked pretty much perfect.

“You were dropping back, but I was actually going to tell you that I thought you had room to drop back a bit more. Really get in between the lines, make the other side think they’ve got more space than they do. It’ll make more opportunities to sneak the ball into the box. Although, if the manager has told you not to go any further back, you should listen to him. He’s your coach, after all.”

“Yeah. I think it’s about balance; it sounds like he’s fine with me dropping back a bit more, he just doesn’t want me going as far back as I’d play with Richmond.”

“I would agree with that. You got comfortable back there, but in this formation you need to press higher up than you would with us.”

“Mint, okay. I can do that,” Jamie grins. “Now what did you think of my goal? Was it good?”

Roy rolls his eyes. “It was fucking gorgeous and you know it. Why’re you fishing for compliments?”

“Maybe I just want to hear you say nice things about me.” He wiggles his eyebrows before grinning. “Nah, I thought maybe it was a bit too showy. I could have made the extra pass and we still could’ve gotten the goal.”

“Maybe,” Roy shrugs. “You were also open, though— not to take away from your goal, but Utrecht’s defence was sloppy then. You had lots of shirts in the box and several of you could have scored. But I think you made the right decision. If I’d been in your boots, I would’ve gone for goal myself. ”

“Probably would have missed though,” Jamie teases. “How was your match? I watched most of it, it seemed like things were getting better.”

“Yeah, a bit. It was fine. McLaughlin is settling in well, I think. What did you think of him?”

“He’s fucking fast, ain’t he? I was surprised, thought I had it playing at two times speed. But yeah, he’s good. It just looks like you’re missing something to make everything click. Couldn’t figure out what it were, though.”

“Me neither,” Roy sighs. “We’re lacking cohesion. It’s what everyone in the presser wanted to talk about; the fucking lack of cohesion, as if I didn’t fucking notice it. I mean, what do they think I do during the match? Fall asleep?”

“Glower so hard your eyebrows block everything out,” Jamie deadpans. “Ignore them, babe, they’re just a bunch of uncreative fuckers who couldn’t ask a good question to save their lives. Makes me miss Trent.”

“Oh, don’t say that, next thing you know he’s going to walk into my office and ask to write another book. He’d call it Cohesion, I’d fucking bet a hundred quid. Anyway, enough about that, what’re you going to do for the rest of the day?”

“Dunno; explore the city some, I guess. Want to come with me?”

Roy’s heart clenches in his chest. “I’d love to, but I’ve got match tape to review and then I’m having dinner with Sarah and Phoebe. I’m sorry.”

Jamie’s face flickers with the briefest hint of sadness before he smiles. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Work is more important. And give me love to them both, yeah? I miss them.”

“Of course. Are you going to head out now?”

“Yeah, might as well. Might see if Lucas wants to come with; we’re sort of friends now, even though he keeps calling me bloody old.”

“You set up a goal for him last night; he should be nicer.”

“Yeah? How many times did you set up goals for me, just for me to keep calling you Grandad? It’s fine,” Jamie laughs, the jingle of his keys underscoring it. “I don’t really care; I’ve got bigger things to think about, me. Anyway, I should leave you to your work. Call me later tonight if you want to, I’ll be around.”

“I’ll call you after dinner?”

“Perfect,” Jamie grins. “Bye, babe, have a good day.”

“Bye,” Roy says softly, and the screen goes black.

He sighs, sparing the briefest of moments to miss the days when Jamie was right here next to him, watching matchtape and picking it apart together.

Fuck, does he miss that.

He hauls his computer closer to him and hits play.

—

Time moves on, the season moving forward, and it gets harder and harder to call Jamie regularly.

Richmond is still struggling to find their rhythm, drawing far more matches than they win, and so all of Roy’s free time becomes devoted to watching and rewatching their matches, both from this season and past seasons, to try and figure out what’s gone wrong. He and the other coaches spend long nights in the office after training, talking through strategy after strategy to find something that will work; when he gets home, he’s often too beat down and exhausted to do more than text Jamie to wish him a good night.

Their schedules start conflicting, too, making it harder for them to watch each other’s matches live and talk about them right away. Roy does his best to watch the replays, but he always feels vaguely guilty when he does. Richmond is struggling, and here he is, watching a team that isn’t his and picking apart the performance of a player that isn’t his. 

Jamie’s matches start piling up, unwatched.

They do their best to at least text each other through the day, but it’s not the same, and Roy fucking hates it. He can feel Jamie slipping away, the distance between them growing more and more with every missed call and unwatched match, but he can’t stop it. He doesn’t know how to juggle it all, how to be what Jamie needs and Richmond needs and Roy needs—

He feels like a shell of himself, every part of his life slipping out of his control, and there’s nothing he can do.

—

When Jamie’s birthday rolls around, the skies over London are grey and dreary, Richmond is in the bottom half of the table, and Roy hasn’t talked to him in nearly a week. 

They’ve texted, but only sorry excuses for conversations that consist mostly of saying good morning, goodnight, and how are you.

It makes Roy’s skin itch; he hates it, hates feeling so disconnected from Jamie. Hates sitting alone in his house on Jamie’s birthday, when usually he’d cook him a fancy meal that broke every facet of Jamie’s diet plan and let him pick out a cheesy rom com to watch together. Even worse, though, is not knowing what Jamie is doing; he’d asked Jamie what he was doing for his birthday a few days ago, but his text had gone unanswered between Ajax’s normal match schedule and the start of the Champions League group stage. 

Roy, also busy with Richmond’s first Champions League match of the season, hadn’t pressed him for an answer. He figured there was no need, really— Jamie’s birthday is on a Wednesday this year, meaning neither of them will be busy. He figured he’d just call Jamie and ask about his day then.

And so it’s with high spirits that he settles into the couch with a plate of Jamie’s favourite salmon dish and calls Jamie, his heart thumping at the idea of finally, finally, getting to hear Jamie’s voice again.

The phone rings.

And rings.

And rings, until—

“Roy!” Jamie answers, voice breathless and his eyes sparkling. The lighting is dim and there’s a clamour in the background, as if he’s at a restaurant or a bar or something. Roy’s heart drops; he hadn’t even thought about the fact that Jamie might be busy. He had just thought, foolishly, that Jamie would be at home like Roy, longing for the days when they spent his birthday together.

“Hey babe,” he forces out, attempting to act somewhat normal. If Jamie is busy, then… Well, there’s no point in wasting this conversation by behaving like the sad sack of shit that he is. “Looks like you’re busy— sorry to interrupt, I should have texted. I just wanted to say happy birthday.”

“Thanks, babe!” Jamie beams. “And it’s alright, I’m just at dinner with Lucas and Poppy. They can wait a few minutes while I talk to you.”

There’s muffled protests in the background, as if Lucas and Poppy— and it makes Roy’s gut twist to realise he doesn’t actually know who the fuck Poppy is— are objecting to being told that they can wait.

“Nah,” Roy says, forcing a smile. “Enjoy your night with them. We can talk later, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, his smiler softening. “Hey. I miss you. Thank you for calling. It was good to see your face, even if it was only for a minute. I’ll—” His head snaps up. “Oh shit, food’s here. Gotta go, love you.”

And then he’s gone, his beautiful face replaced by their disjointed text conversations, and Roy’s heart breaks, like glass shattering into a million tiny shards.

“Love you,” he says to the empty room.

When he finally forces himself to eat, it tastes like ash on his tongue.

—

“I don’t know how to help them,” Roy confesses to Dr. Sharon, four months into what’s shaping up to be one of the worst seasons Richmond has seen in a long time.

It’s not relegation bad, not yet, but they’re a third of the way through their campaign with three wins, seven draws, four losses, and no encouraging signs of improvement. No matter how hard the lads try, they just keep slipping further and further down the table. Roy doesn’t fucking know what to do.

He doesn’t want to think it was only Jamie who made him a good coach, but there’s a sinking feeling in his gut that maybe it’s true.

After all, Roy isn’t stupid. He knows what the Internet is saying about them. About him.

Richmond is washed, Roy is washed, the team is too old to be any good anymore, they had a good run but it’s over now. Richmond is back in the bottom half of the table where they belong. The Roy Kent Effect has lost its magic.

“The team is doing everything I tell them,” he explains when it becomes clear she’s waiting for him to say more. “They’re working as hard as they ever have and they’re clicking in training, but then we get on the pitch for a match and it’s just… Not working. I don’t fucking know how to help them. And I can’t—” He sighs, looking away from her. “I can’t help but feel like, maybe, I’m the problem. Like I can’t do my fucking job if… If Jamie isn’t here.”

Dr. Sharon doesn’t say anything for a long time, tapping her pen against her notebook and studying him thoughtfully. He shifts under her attention, but doesn’t say anything; they never get anywhere when he tries to rush her into speaking, or vice versa. 

“Pardon my unprofessionalism, but that’s rubbish,” she says finally, and he looks up sharply.

“What?”

“I said that’s rubbish,” she repeats. “Tell me, Roy, are you responsible for every decision your players make during a match? Are you telling them what to do every second they’re out there?”

“No, but—” He doesn’t get another word out before she asks another question.

“Are you controlling them from the sidelines like it’s a game of FIFA?”

“No—”

“Are they adults, capable of making their own decisions and mistakes?”

“Of course they are, but I—”

“So then why does it all fall on you?” That shuts him up, and she raises an eyebrow smugly. “There’s nothing wrong with feeling responsible for the team; I’d argue it’s good, actually, because it makes you more invested in their success. However, it’s also important that you remember that this is a team. Losses, mistakes, and failures are shared amongst you all just as much as victories are. You don’t take full responsibility for a win, so why do you take full responsibility for a loss?”

“I watch the matches over and over, and I still can’t fucking find what they’re doing wrong. It has to be me.”

“Perhaps. But have you asked the team what they think the issue is, to know for sure? You’ve always relied on them in the past.”

He wants to correct her— he’s always relied on Jamie in the past, but Jamie’s not here anymore to tell him what’s happening on the pitch when Roy can’t hear the team— but stops. Because he hasn’t just relied on Jamie. He relies on Isaac to tell him when he’s pushing too hard or when he’s being daft or when there’s a conflict on the team that Roy might have missed. He relies on Dani to tell him when morale is low and to present ideas about how to cheer them up. Zoreaux tells him when he’s being confusing, and Colin lets him know when he’s being an arse. 

His lads have never been shy about telling him what they need— except for this season. Other than Isaac making it clear that Roy needed to bring in a new striker to take Jamie’s position, no one has told him anything. He has no idea what they feel the issue is, and he’s been too caught in his own fucking head to even think to ask them.

“Fuck,” he says, long and drawn out. “No. But I’ve never had to ask before, they always just told me.”

“But not this season?” He shakes his head, brow furrowed. “Why do you think that is, Roy?”

“Because I’ve been—” He sighs. “I’ve been angry. Lost in my own fucking thoughts about Jamie and how shit of a coach I’ve been this season. They’re scared to come to me and set me off.”

“Richmond has always succeeded when the team trusted they could be honest with each other. Breaking that trust, making them think they can’t come to you, is certain to have caused some extra damage.”

“So it is my fucking fault.”

“No,” she says patiently— she’s always so fucking patient with him. “I didn’t say that, or intend to imply that. I simply meant that if they don’t feel they can be honest, then perhaps the situation is festering. Becoming something bigger than it really is. Talk to them and perhaps you’ll find that cohesion you’ve been missing.” She studies him, pen tapping a few times before she asks, “I’m curious, Roy, what does Jamie think the issue is?”

He can’t stop himself from wincing, and knows Dr. Sharon clocked it by her raised eyebrow. “I haven’t… Told him. Haven’t talked to him much at all recently. I’ve had too much work to do. I fucking hate it, but I don’t know how to find the time to talk to him.”

“I see. Tell me, when Jamie was in London, did you spend every moment that you were together talking?”

“Fuck no,” he snorts. “Jamie talks a lot, but he also appreciates a quiet house. We spent a lot of time just sitting together, reading or watching telly or doing our own thing. It didn’t matter, so long as we were near each other.”

“And you haven’t done that since he left… Is there something about being on the phone with him that makes you feel like you have to talk all the time?”

“I—” he falters, suddenly not sure. “I don’t know. I guess I just thought that’s what you fucking do, innit? You call someone, you talk to them. Is that… Not right?”

“There’s no right or wrong in this situation. It’s simply what works for you and Jamie. Now, I don’t presume to know everything about your relationship, but I think that you both benefited from having each other near. You drew security from knowing that Jamie was there should you need him and vice versa, but didn’t feel obligated to necessarily speak or acknowledge each other. Does that resonate with you, at all?”

He thinks about all those times that he read while Jamie watched telly, or Jamie sat at the counter on the phone with Georgie while Roy cooked dinner, or Jamie scrolled through Instagram while Roy scribbled down notes for their next match, and the sense of peace he always felt simply from having Jamie near. “Yeah. Yeah, it does.”

She nods. “Since Jamie moved, you’re missing some of that security. You call each other to stay in touch, but you feel pressured to talk when you do. Not your fault, that’s what society has trained us to believe phone calls are for. But when you have a lot of work to do, or don’t feel that you have enough time or energy to talk, then you don’t call. And you don’t call again the next day, or the day after, or the day after that. And you keep not calling, caught up in the endless cycle of your own life. In long-distance relationships especially, this can be very damaging, both to the relationship and individuals’ psyches. So what if you removed the idea that you have to talk? What if you called Jamie and said you’ve a lot of work to do, but you’d like to stay on the line with him while he does his own work?”

“Sit on the phone in silence, you mean?”

“Yes. Same as you did when he was still here, just on the phone. Maybe opportunities to talk will emerge, maybe they won’t, but at least you’ll be together.”

“I… I suppose, yeah. He’d probably enjoy that. I would too, I think. Just getting to see his face, knowing he’s there… It sounds— nice.”

Dr. Sharon smiles at him, one of those deep warm ones that makes him feel like he missed something— like he made a major breakthrough or something, and completely missed it.

Fucking therapy.

—

He calls Jamie that night, his computer open to footage from their scrimmage at training, and releases a shuddering breath when Jamie answers. He hadn’t realised how badly he’d missed seeing Jamie’s face until now, watching it light up with a grin.

“Jay,” Roy breathes, drinking in the sight of him. He’s at home, bathed in the warm golden glow from his lamp and swamped by the Richmond hoodie he’s wearing. A pink headband pushes his bangs back from his face, a dead giveaway that he’d been reading before Roy called.

“Hi, stranger,” he answers, still grinning. “Work has been keeping you busy, eh? Feels like we’ve barely talked recently, I fucking miss you.”

“Yeah, it’s been…” He drags a hand over his face. “It’s been a mess, honestly. I’ve still got more work to do tonight.”

“Oh.” Jamie’s face falls, imperceptible other than the slight dimming of his eyes. “So a short call then?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d… Stay on the line with me while I work? You keep reading, I’ll watch my footage from training, and we can just enjoy each other’s company? We don’t have to, but Dr. Sharon recommended it to me during therapy. She said it’d help with feeling… Closer to each other and shit.”

Jamie lights right back up, his eyes shining with excitement. “I’d love to, babe. Reading ain’t the same without you breathing in me fucking ear.”

“Fuck off,” he says, but he’s grinning as he goes to hit play on the recording. Before he does, though, he says, “Hey Jamie?”

“Yeah?” 

“I’ve fucking missed you too. I’m sorry I haven’t been more— available, I guess. It’s just been hard lately.”

“It’s alright,” Jamie says, giving him far too much leeway as always. “And you know you can tell me about it anytime, yeah?”

“I know. Thank you.”

Jamie goes back to his book without another word, and Roy hits play.

For the first time in a long time, work doesn’t feel like such an obligation.

He’s still exhausted by the end of it, though, and pushes his computer away with a sigh; once again, he couldn’t fucking find any issues other than that Carroll’s pass to Dixon went a bit wide, and Zoreaux missed an easy block. He doesn’t fucking know what the issue is; he’ll have to ask the lads, it seems.

At his sigh, Jamie looks up. When he sees Roy’s face, his expression falls. “You alright, Roy? What’s going on?”

“It’s—” He starts to dismiss Jamie’s concern, but then he remembers Dr. Sharon asked him what Jamie thought about the situation, knowing that he usually went to Jamie when things like this were nagging at him. “It’s the team. We’re really fucking struggling and I still can’t figure it out. I don’t know how to help them.”

“Ah,” Jamie winces. “Yeah, I’ve been keeping track of the table. I’m sorry, babe.”

He shrugs. “I don’t care about our standing, I care about not being able to help them. That’s my fucking job and I don’t… I don’t know. There’s just something missing. A spark or some shit, I don’t know.”

“Have you talked to Isaac? He probably knows.”

Roy laughs slightly. “That’s what Sharon asked, too. No, I haven’t. The lads aren’t talking to me.”

“What d’you mean, they’re not talking to you?”

“They’re… Scared of me again. I haven’t been the best coach since you left,” he admits, “and I’ve been angry. They don’t want to set me off, I guess. Just another reason I’ve been absolute shit at my job this season.”

“Shut up, you haven’t been shit. You’ve just been… Lost or something, I don’t fucking know. But Roy…” Jamie’s brows furrow even further. “Do you— I mean, do you need me to come back? Run interference between you and the team, or whatever. ‘Cause I will, swear down. Just say the word and winter transfer window, I’m there.”

His heart drops, unable to believe that Jamie would even suggest something like that. Nothing, nothing, Richmond could go through this season would be worth dragging Jamie back to a club that doesn’t deserve him. “What? No, Jamie, absolutely not. Even with how well we’ve done the past few years, the club doesn’t have the funds to pay for your contract and pay you the salary you deserve. We were already underpaying you before you left and you know it. But even if we could, coming back to Richmond would murder your career. You’d be the laughing stock of the entire football world.”

“I don’t care about the pay or being laughed at, Roy, I care about you and the team.”

“Well you fucking shouldn’t,” he bites out, crueller than he means to be but just so… So furious that Jamie would fuck over his own career just because he and the team can’t get their shit together. 

“Fine,” Jamie snaps back, suddenly just as angry. “I’ll go to West Ham or Chelsea, then. Just let me be near you, Roy, because you’re fucking falling apart.”

“Just because we’re not going to win the league again—” Roy fumes, but he doesn’t get to finish before Jamie interrupts, words exploding out of him.

“Fucking Christ, Roy, not everything is about football! I don’t mean the team is falling apart, I mean you are! We’ve barely talked in weeks, and then you call me out of nowhere today looking like you got crushed by a fucking lorry and saying you’re shit at your job when you fucking aren’t. You’re not taking care of yourself, Roy, and it hurts me. I don’t like seeing you like this, and especially not when I know you’d be happier if I were close to you.”

The wind goes out of Roy’s sails, replaced by a crushing feeling of guilt. Jamie would sacrifice everything, his entire career and this incredible opportunity, just for Roy. Just to make sure he’s taking care of himself. 

He’s the biggest fucking dickhead from London to Amsterdam.

“You cannot sacrifice your career for me,” he says, firmly but gently. “I mean it, Jamie. Don’t you dare leave Ajax just because I’m having a rough go over here. I’ll get over it. But this opportunity, this club… You love it. I can tell, just from watching you play with them. You’ve got to stay there.”

“And you’ve got to take care of yourself.”

He can’t bring himself to meet Jamie’s eyes. He doesn’t know how what was supposed to be a peaceful evening, the two of them sharing a space— even if it was virtual— and just being together, turned into this argument. Turned into Roy looking away from Jamie in shame, Jamie watching Roy with nothing but pity.

Jamie sighs heavily. “Look, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. If you don’t want me to come back, I won’t. But you have to know, Roy, that I’d come back in an instant if you asked. I may love what I have here, but I love you even more.”

Roy does know that— has known it since the first moment Jamie admitted that if they moved forward with their relationship, then he wouldn’t go to Amsterdam. The knowledge fucking terrifies him; he hates knowing that one thoughtless word from him could ruin Jamie’s entire career.

“I don’t… I don’t think I could live with myself if that happened,” he admits, voice hoarse and eyes still cast downwards. “Not when I can tell how happy you are there.”

“How do you know how happy I am here? Especially when we’ve barely talked these past few weeks. Months.”

Jamie’s voice isn’t accusing in the slightest, but there is a frankness to his words that has Roy looking up sharply. If Jamie isn’t happy—

“What do you mean?” 

“I—” It’s Jamie’s turn to look away, shame flickering behind his eyes. He looks back to Roy quickly, though, shoulders square. “I shouldn’t have said anything. But in the interest of honesty— fuck,” he sighs. “It’s not gonna help, but can I tell you something?”

“Always,” Roy answers without hesitation. It doesn’t matter if it makes things worse; if it’s something Jamie has to say, then he wants to hear it, just as Jamie wants to hear it from Roy. He’s been a fucking prick to pretend that isn’t the case between them.

“I thought getting away would help. That it’d make things easier, make loving you a little less all encompassing, you know? That I’d just be here and play football and enjoy Amsterdam, and I’d still be in love with you but I’d have other things to focus on, too. But instead I’m…” He exhales heavily as he trails off, and Roy can feel his own heart in his throat. “It’s like I’ve fallen even more in love with you? Like I’m being fucking eaten alive by how much I love you, Roy. You’re always fucking there, in everything. I get on the pitch and all I want is to look over and see you watching me. I find some new part of the city, and I wish you were there to see it with me. You’re all I can fucking think about, babe. And I want to enjoy it. I really fucking do. But it’s hard, innit, when the person I want to enjoy it with ain’t here, or even talking to me, or… I don’t know. I just fucking miss you, I guess.”

Roy’s cheeks are damp by the time Jamie stops talking.

A few years ago, he thinks he would have rubbed the tears away, cleared his throat to hide his emotions before speaking. But it’s now, and it’s Jamie, and there’s an aching wound in his heart that grows with every second they spend apart. He’s been such a fucking prick, assuming this wasn’t hurting Jamie as much as it was hurting him. Assuming he could ignore Jamie and he’d be okay with that, as if he wasn’t just as clingy as Roy. 

“Fuck,” he squeezes out, his voice as raw and cracked and broken as his heart feels. “I’m sorry, Jamie. I’m so fucking sorry, I— I didn’t know.”

Jamie lifts a shoulder, a sad smile on his face. “Guess we’ve both been keeping secrets, eh?”

Despite himself, Roy lets out a watery laugh. “The fuck happened to us, Jay?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

“No. Me neither. I’ve fucking missed you, Jamie. And it’s only worse now, knowing you’re… That you haven’t been doing as good as I thought you were. That I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Maybe we can both be better then, yeah?” Jamie offers a small smile. “Check in more, and be honest with each other. Like we always have been.”

“Deal,” Roy says, and resolves to hold his end of the bargain up. To be better about talking to not just Jamie, but his team too. To be there for them, no matter what. “Jamie? I love you.”

For as often as Jamie has told Roy he loves him, Roy has only said it to Jamie three times, and never again since he moved to Amsterdam.

He thinks, watching Jamie’s eyes well up, that he made a mistake in keeping it to himself. He thought he was helping, giving Jamie the space and freedom to go where he wanted, but now he’s realising that Jamie needs the reassurance as much as Roy does. That Jamie needs to know Roy loves him just as much as Roy needs to know Jamie loves him.

“That’s really nice to hear,” Jamie admits. “I mean, I know you do, but—”

“I should tell you more. I will tell you more,” Roy promises. “I love you.”

Jamie’s smile lights up his face, and even with tears tracing a line down his cheeks, he’s the most beautiful sight Roy has ever seen.

—

“Oi!” Roy calls when he sees Isaac walk past his office, dressed in his street clothes and his bag slung over his shoulder. “McAdoo! Got a moment?”

He takes a few steps back, looking at Roy with— with confusion and a touch of disbelief, as if he can’t believe Roy is actually asking him to talk. He curses himself, both for making it so that Isaac looks at him that way and for not noticing. 

He should have fucking noticed.

“...Yeah,” Isaac finally answers, hesitant. “What’s up, Coach?”

“Shut the door for me, would you?” Seeing Isaac’s suspicion, he adds, “It’s nothing bad. Just… Something I’d rather the team not hear. At least not yet.”

He still looks wary, but Isaac nods and shuts the door behind him. He drops his bag on the floor, crosses his arms, and stares at Roy expectantly. Roy knows better than to offer him Beard’s chair; none of the players ever take Beard’s chair, even if Beard himself is the one to offer it to them.

“I… Look, this is really fucking awkward, and I really fucking hate having to even talk to you about this, but—” He sighs heavily, reminding himself of his promise. To actually talk to his team, and take what they have to say to heart so that he knows how to help. It has to start here, now, with Isaac. “I’ve been a shit gaffer this year. I realise that. I’ve been angry, and caught in my own shit, and I haven’t been the coach you and the lads need. I haven’t been able to help you or figure out why we’re struggling so much this season, no matter how hard I fucking try. So I guess I’m just—” He can hear Dr. Sharon in his head, can hear Jamie in his head, guiding him through what to say. He grits his teeth and echoes, “—wondering what you think the problem is, and what I can do to better support you. Or something.”

Isaac studies him for a long, silent moment. The weight of his gaze makes Roy shift awkwardly in his seat, feeling for a bizarre moment like he’s the player and Isaac is the manager, but he doesn’t dare say anything. Not until Isaac does.

“Dr. Sharon tell you to say that?”

Roy snorts despite himself. “Was it that fucking obvious?”

Isaac wiggles his hand as if to say so-so. “Maybe not to someone who hasn’t seen her every week for five years.”

“Curse of only having one team therapist, I suppose,” he says, finally relaxing enough to lean back slightly. “I meant it, though. I’ve been shit this season. Bad enough that none of you lads are talking to me. What’s going on, Isaac? Is it just my shit managing, or is there something else going on, or… I can’t make it better if I don’t fucking understand.”

Isaac sighs and uncrosses his arms. Then, to Roy’s surprise, he takes a seat on the edge of Roy’s desk. “Right. I’m not going to sugarcoat it— I’ve spent all season doing that already, and it hasn’t helped anyone. I’m retiring. At the end of the season.”

He might as well have punched Roy in the stomach, given the way all the air goes rushing out of his lungs. It’s Richard, it’s Sam, it’s Jamie all over— another one of his best friends, leaving him before he’s ready to let them go.

He blinks furiously, searching for something to say, and lands on, “But you’re— you’re still so young. You’re only thirty-one, Isaac, what—”

Isaac shrugs. “I know. But I was never going to be one of those players who kept going until their body broke. I have a four year old daughter, don’t I? I want to be able to play with her and take her on trips and shit without having to worry ‘bout whether my body can handle it. And I’m tired, Roy. I’m really fucking tired. It’s time for me to be done.”

He can’t even wrap his head around it— the thought of the pitch without Isaac, without his booming voice ringing across it, without his signature cry of McAdoodle-Doo filling the air. It feels fucking wrong.

But he has to admire that Isaac knows it’s time for him to retire, and that he’s acting on it. Roy had known but hadn’t been able to accept it, and everyone knows where it landed him: with two surgeries and a knee that he can barely even walk on, somedays. 

“I’m proud of you,” he says finally. “It’s not easy to admit to yourself that you’re done— fuck knows I never could.”

Isaac nods, dipping his chin as if to try and hide the emotion stirring within them. “Thanks, bruv. I’ll still be around, though— Rebecca’s already talking about bringing me on as a coach for the Academy, if I want. I’d have to get licensed first, so it wouldn’t be for a year or two, but… I’m leaning towards doing it.”

Roy grins. “Good. Whip those kids into shape, McAdoo.” He sobers quickly. “The team knows?”

He nods. “They were the first ones I told. It… Rattled them. Guess I know why Jamie waited so long to tell anyone,” he laughs slightly. “No one can focus now that they know I’m leaving. Colin and Dani are devastated, and I might as well have kicked Zoreaux’s puppy, the dramatic shit. Meanwhile, the younger lads are all placing bets about who will be next the captain.”

“Don’t know why,” Roy grouches, “since it’s not fucking likely to be any of them. Is that seriously all that’s been bugging them? I thought it was… Well, me. That I did something.” Isaac shifts awkwardly, and Roy lets out a quiet, drawn out, “Fuck. Isaac, I’m serious— I need you to tell me what you think I’m doing wrong. Usually I don’t have to ask, but no one is fucking talking to me—”

“Because we don’t feel like we can,” Isaac interrupts. He sighs and explains in a softer voice, “Look, bruv. We all know how much Jamie meant to you, and we knew that you’d be a little different without him. But it’s like without him, you gave up on us. You changed how we play without asking us if we wanted to keep trying to make it work without Jamie. You didn’t bring in a player to replace him until we’d already lost our pre-season friendlies. You don’t give a shit if we win or lose. It’s just fucking… Disheartening, Roy.”

“I— Fuck,” he groans, shame flooding through him. He knew, he fucking knew that was what was going on. He’s such a fucking idiot. “I know I haven’t made it seem like it, but I haven’t given up on you. I still believe in you lads as much as I did last season, two seasons ago, seven fucking seasons ago. I know I fucked up by not replacing Jamie— you, Beard, and Jamie have made that very clear to me. I can’t apologise for that enough. As for not giving a shit if we win or lose, that’s just not fucking true. I do care. I just meant I don’t care where in the standings we end up, so long as we put a good effort in.”

“I get that you think saying you don’t care how the season turns out relieves us of pressure. But it doesn’t, because we care. We want to win. For ourselves, for the fans, for you. But if you don’t care how we do, why should we? That’s why no one bothers talking to you anymore, Roy— we don’t want to see how little you believe in us.”

“That’s not—”

“You kept changing how we play,” Isaac interrupts before he can object. “You barely even gave us a chance to figure out a style of play before you brought in a new one and decided that one didn’t work, either. How are we supposed to think you believe in us when you don’t even let us try something? It’s like Nate’s false nine, innit? Ted almost had us give up on it, but we wanted to stick it out and it fucking worked. But you haven’t let us do that ‘cause you’ve been so caught up in trying the next fucking thing.”

Roy has nothing to say to that— it’s as if the pit of dread in his stomach has swallowed whatever response he might have come up with.

Isaac seems to understand, though, because he claps Roy’s shoulder and says gently, “I know it’s been tough for you since Jamie left. But we’re still here, Coach. We still want to make you proud. Just… Give us the chance, yeah?”

And then he leaves, closing the door behind him and leaving Roy alone with his shame.

—

The next few days of Roy’s life are marked by far more emotional conversations with his players than he ever wanted to have with any of them. He supposes he could have just had a team meeting and talked to them all at once, getting it all over with in one go, but it felt important to talk to them individually. To make them see that he knows he’s been a terrible manager, but he’s going to try and be better. To make sure they know that he wants the rest of their campaign to go smoothly, just as much as they do.

Some of them take it better than others. Dani, of course, is kind enough to Roy that it only serves to make him feel worse, while Zoreaux makes it abundantly clear that he won’t be forgiving Roy for “fucking over the entire team”— surprisingly those are his words and not Roy’s— anytime soon. And then there are those like Carroll and McLaughlin, who are still new enough to Roy and to the team that they just look vaguely uncomfortable during the entire thing.

But it’s done, and he finally, finally, feels like he’s taken a step in the right direction. Like he’s once again becoming the coach he used to be. All that’s left is—

“Coach,” Beard greets when he walks into their office, voice as short and curt as it’s been all season.

Roy sighs, but he knows he deserves it. “Beard,” he greets. As he passes the entrance to the adjoining room, he raps his knuckles against the doorframe and says, “Oi, Shelley. Coaches meeting.”

Nate looks up with wide eyes, even as he’s already scrambling to his feet. “Oh. Yes, sure. Whatever you’d like, Roy.”

Once he’s seated at his desk with Nate and Beard looking at him expectantly, he says, “The lads said I’ve been changing our strategies and style of play too much. You both agree?”

Nate and Beard share a disbelieving glance, though Roy can’t tell if it’s at the fact that he’s actually coming to them about this or the idea that he might not have realised what he was doing. Beard is the first to speak.

“Yes. We should have picked a strategy by now and stuck to it.”

Roy nods, staring into the distance. After a moment, he says, “I’ve clearly not been doing a good enough job at paying attention this season or managing this team, and I’m sorry for that. You both have been trying to tell me things I needed to to hear, and I haven’t been listening. But I’m listening now. So what do we need to do? What will work for these lads, given enough time?”

They glance at each other again, and Beard gestures for Nate to take this one. “A false nine,” Nate says. “Not just ‘cause I suggested it a while back, but uh… McLaughlin likes to drop back and get in between the lines. I think if we spend enough time working on the tactics, it’ll work well for us.”

“Right then. We’ll start practising it today and see what the lads think.”

Beard nods, but before Roy can get up to give the lads their fifteen minute warning, he says, “Roy? I know you’ve had a bad season. I know I’ve been short with you. But a bad season doesn’t make you a bad coach; I forgot that myself, and I apologise.”

Roy didn’t realise how badly he needed to hear that, but after listening to all twenty-six of his players describe the various ways he’s failed them this season, Beard’s words are  a soothing balm. He taps his desk with his knuckles and gives Beard a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Beard.”

Then he goes to give the team their heads up.

—

“I finished talking to everyone today,” Roy tells Jamie, his phone leaning against the knife block while he prepares his dinner. Jamie is cooking too— some sort of pasta dish while Roy is preparing grilled chicken and veg, but it doesn’t really matter. It still feels like they’re there together, like Roy might look up from chopping bell peppers to see Jamie sitting at the counter watching him.

“Yeah?” Jamie sounds pleased, and the small smile he flashes at Roy while salting his pasta water confirms it. “How’d it go?”

“It was fine. I never want to have a vulnerable conversation with any of them ever again, but I’m glad I did it. We’re going to stick to a false nine for the rest of the season, I think. It’s what Beard and Nate want, and the lads seemed favourable towards it when we were working on it during training.”

“Didn’t you try a false nine earlier in the season?” There’s no criticism in Jamie’s voice, or any hint of doubt— just genuine curiosity.

“Yeah. But it was early in the season, when McLaughlin had just arrived. He seems to think that he can make it work now that he knows the team better. And I’m…” He grimaces. “Trusting him and the rest of the team to know what’s best for them.”

Jamie grins. “That was difficult for you to say, wasn’t it?”

“A bit,” he admits. “I’ve been clinging to control over them all season. It’s fucking weird stepping back.”

“You’re not really stepping back though, are you? Just… Opening yourself up to listening again, and making sure the team knows it.”

Roy makes a face. “Stop saying the same shit Dr. Sharon says to me. It’s fucking weird.”

Jamie laughs. “It’s not my fault— can’t help it if I’m a sexy little genius, can I? But seriously, Roy, I think this’ll be good. I’m proud of you, you know that?”

“Thanks,” he says, his cheeks going slightly warm. He chooses to blame it on the heat from the stove, and quickly changes the subject. “Oi, I was thinking that since it’s your cheat day… Ice cream? We can add Phoebe to the call.”

Jamie gives Roy a look, as if to say he knows exactly what Roy is doing, but he still nods. “Yeah, that sounds great. I miss her.”

“She misses you, too.”

Jamie smiles again, soft and small and achingly beautiful, and Roy feels the lightest he has in months. It’s like, in the span of just a few days, he’s pulled his life back together. Like all the broken pieces— Jamie, the team, his own self-esteem— are starting to glue themselves together again. 

The only thing that could possibly make it better would be if Jamie was here, close enough for Roy to press a kiss the edge of his smile.

—

Slowly, ever so slowly, Richmond starts to turn things around for themselves.

Their Boxing Day match against Tottenham ends with a solid 2-0 victory. It’s probably their most convincing performance of the entire season so far, and is the start of a steady stream of victories that has fans, the team, and Roy all breathing sighs of relief.

The team starts clicking in training and during matches, passing the ball between them with the fluidity that Richmond has built up a reputation for.

The lads start talking to Roy again, both about how things are on the pitch and in their personal lives. He learns that Colin is finally going to propose to Michael, and that Isaac is going to go ahead with getting his coaching licence, and that McLaughlin’s younger sister got accepted to University College London and will be moving in with him in August. Richmond starts to feel like home again, the way it had for the past few years.

His constant yearning for Jamie never fades, and he can’t get used to it, but he thinks he learns to live around it. He learns to call Jamie every night, no matter the type of day he had, and tell him all about it. He learns to text Jamie every inane thought he has, and cherishes the moments when Jamie does the same. He learns to watch Jamie’s matches and think of it as doing something for himself so that he doesn’t feel guilty for doing so. He learns to look forward to every moment they can spend together, even if it means sitting in silence on FaceTime while they each do their own thing.

It’s not the same as having Jamie there, never the same, but it’s still good.

It’s still something.

—

They’re playing Brighton at home, having just reached halftime, when it happens.

Roy goes to check the final score on Jamie’s match against PSV, and instead finds his phone lit up with messages and alerts about Jamie. He ducks into the boot room, scanning them anxiously.

He can’t make sense of it at first— there are so many messages, so many alerts that he can’t understand without having seen the match, so many words that don’t make sense. It’s just a blur of JAMIE TARTT and INJURY IN STOPPAGE TIME and AJAX’S GOLDEN BOY STRETCHERED OFF and—

A message from Keeley, a blissful reprieve from the onslaught of information.

He calls her immediately, lifting his phone to his ear with shaking hands.

Jamie. Injured. Stretcher.

She answers before his thoughts can spiral out, and when she says his name it comes out as little more than a relieved exhale. “Roy, thank god. Do you know anything about what happened?”

“I—” His voice is a croak, and he has to clear his throat before he can try again. It still comes out shaky with panic. “No. I just saw he was hurt and there was a stretcher, but I don’t— Keeley, I don’t understand. What happened, is he okay?”

“He had the ball when he got tackled by one of the PSV players,” she explains haltingly. When she pauses to sniffle, he realises it’s because she’s trying not to cry. Dread sits heavy in his stomach, his throat tight as he waits for her to continue. “It looks like he was trying to kick the ball out from under Jamie’s foot. But you know how fast Jamie is, and so the other player— he missed the ball. He kicked Jamie’s ankle, instead. His… His right ankle, Roy.”

“Holy fuck,” Roy whispers, dread replaced by nausea. He feels like collapsing, like vomiting, like tracking that PSV fucker down and punching him so hard he sees fucking stars. “Keeley, is he okay?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “It was awful, Roy, he just… Collapsed. Didn’t even try to get up. He just motioned for the stretcher. They wouldn’t show his ankle, so I’ve no clue how bad—”

“Have you been able to reach him?”

“No. No one is answering— not Jamie, not his agent, not even the club owner. Rebecca’s also tried and nothing. We don’t even know where he is. If he was taken to the hospital or he’s still at the club or what.”

“I have to get there,” he blurts out. He didn’t even know he was going to say it, but it’s the only option. It doesn’t matter that he’s in the middle of the match, or that it’ll take hours to get there by the time he can book a flight, or that he doesn’t know where to go once he’s in Amsterdam. All that matters is reaching Jamie, making sure he’s okay, being there for him as he faces this injury— whatever it is.

“You’re in the middle of a match, Roy. I get it, but you can’t—”

“I have to, Keeley. It’s… It’s fucking Jamie.”

He doesn’t know how to begin to explain to her what that means. That it’s not just that Jamie is the person he loves more than anything, or that Jamie is his best friend. It’s the fact that he’s been there, with an injury that he knew was ending his career. He doesn’t know if that’s what Jamie is going through, he hasn’t even seen what happened, but he can’t take the chance. He can’t let Jamie go through this alone. 

But he also knows, he knows, that he can’t pick Jamie over the team. Not when things are just starting to get better for the team, not when Jamie wouldn’t want him to leave them, not when so much of the past nine months of their lives have revolved around putting their careers ahead of what lies between them.

He has to stay, at least until the match is over.

He takes a deep breath. “I know I can’t just rush out. But I have to get there as soon as I can once the match is over.” He checks the time, cursing when he realises he doesn’t have enough time to book a flight before he has to get back on the pitch. “I only have a few minutes before the second half and I’ve got to talk to the team. Can you help me? Please?”

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll book you on the first flight after the match. And I’ll let you know as soon as I find anything out. Just… Try to focus on the team, yeah? They need you, too.”

“I will,” he promises. “Thank you, Keeley.”

“Take care of him, Roy.” And then she hangs up, and he’s left in silence.

He lets himself breathe for a moment, clutching his phone and trying to reassure himself that Jamie is likely fine, before he makes his way into the locker room. When they see his face, the lads go quiet.

It’s Isaac who finally speaks up. “Mate, you alright? We just saw the news about Jamie.”

“I’m… No,” he says honestly. “Not really. I’m really fucking worried about him. No one’s heard anything from anyone at Ajax. Keeley’s booking a flight to Amsterdam for me right now.”

Isaac shifts, but says quietly, “Are you leaving the match early, then?”

He scans his team’s faces— resignation, disappointment, sorrow— and knows he was right to wait to leave until after the match. No matter what’s going on with Jamie, he has people there to support him. Roy, though, has to support his lads here for the next forty-five minutes and change.

“No. She’s booking me on the first flight after our match ends.”

The room lightens considerably, everyone all but slumping with relief.

“Cheers, boyo,” Colin says. “I mean, we’re all worried, but—”

“We have a job to do here,” Roy finishes, resolute. “Look, I won’t lie. I can’t say this is likely to be one of my better halves. I know many of you are very close to Jamie, and it might be hard to go out there and play the game knowing he’s hurt. But I’m going to do my best to stay focused and support you lot, and that’s what I want you to do, too. Do your best to stay in the game, give it your best shot, and support each other. We’ve fucking got this, you hear me?”

Cheers go up around the room, and Beard slaps Roy’s shoulder. 

“We’re going to fucking win this thing!” Isaac roars. “For Richmond!”

Roy knows, even without Isaac saying it, that Richmond includes Jamie, too.

They make their way back to the pitch, and they give it their best shot.

When they win, it’s for themselves as much as it’s for Jamie.

—

Even with passing off the presser to Beard and Dani, it still takes Roy fucking ages to get out of Nelson Road. It’s as though suddenly everyone and their fucking mother has something to say to him, and he gets stopped every few steps by someone wanting to say congratulations, or express their concern about Jamie, or talk about how much better the team has been doing. It’s fucking aggravating— Jamie is hurt with no official news about his condition, and while it’s not like rushing out of Nelson Road will make Roy’s flight leave any sooner, at least it’ll feel like he’s closer to reaching Jamie. But only if people get out of his fucking way.

The next person he sees heading toward him, he barks out a sharp, “Fuck no!”

Finally, finally, he makes it out the doors and into the Uber that Keeley called for him, accurately assuming he wouldn’t be fit to drive.

“You’re Roy Kent!” The driver says, which honestly— he was called to Nelson Road on matchday, who the fuck did he think he was going to be picking up?

“Fuck off,” he says. “Listen, you get me to Heathrow in under twenty minutes, I’ll tip you two thousand quid.”

The bloke’s eyes widen and he throws his car into drive. It’s not even close to being enough for Roy to relax, doesn’t think he will until he’s in the same room as Jamie, but it is enough that he’s able to fumble for his phone, searching for any updates about Jamie.

It’s only then that he even thinks to call Georgie and check on her. The one thing Jamie asked of him, and he nearly failed.

He rings her up immediately, and is relieved when she answers on the first ring. “Hi, Roy. You saw?”

She sounds fairly composed, all things considered, and he tries to make himself sound the same. Whether for his sake or hers, he couldn’t say. “Yeah. I haven’t watched the video yet— Richmond just finished our match. But Keeley told me what happened. I’m on my way to the airport now. Have you heard any other news?”

“Oh, Roy,” she sighs. “You didn’t have to do that. But I can’t say I’m not relieved. I haven’t heard much, no. I got a call from a private hospital letting me know they’re going to do some examinations on him and then they’ll call me once they know more— I can send you all the details so you know where to go.”

“Thank you,” he says tightly. “Do you want to fly there as well? I’ll buy you a ticket, I don’t mind. I’m sure he’ll want to see you.”

“You’re very sweet, Roy. But no,” she says. “I think we’ll wait until we know more— you know how embarrassed Jamie gets when I fuss.”

He doesn’t think Jamie could ever be embarrassed of Georgie, much less any fuss she made over him, but he doesn’t dare argue. Whatever she and Simon do is between them and Jamie; all Roy can do is make the offer.

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I’ll let you know if I find anything out. And give my boy a hug for me, yeah?” She asks, a hint of fear and helplessness creeping through.

“Of course,” he promises. 

He thinks she already knows that he doesn’t plan on letting go once he has Jamie in his sights.

—

Roy doesn’t watch the video until he’s at his gate, waiting for his flight to board.

Even then, though, he hesitates— unsure if he can bring himself to watch Jamie go down, to watch Jamie go out on a stretcher. 

But he has to, he thinks. He needs to see it for himself. Needs to know what he’s walking into.

So he hits play, and—

And it’s as awful as he imagined.

They’re one minute into five minutes of stoppage time, Ajax and PSV tied at 1-1, and Jamie manages to nick the ball from one of PSV’s wingers. He takes off with the ball, charging down the field towards goal, and is so focused on the centre-back keeping pace with him that he doesn’t see the fullback coming up on his heels. The bloke curves around to kick the ball out from under Jamie’s feet, but he mistimes it and the full force of his kick goes into the side of Jamie’s bad ankle. 

It’s just as Keeley said: Jamie collapses to the ground on impact, and doesn’t even make an effort to get up before he’s grabbing one of his teammates who sprinted to his side— Lucas, Roy thinks, but he can’t really tell— and telling them he’s going to need a stretcher. The cameras stay focused on his face, which is twisted in pain, so Roy can’t see the damage done to Jamie’s ankle. His expression, however, tells Roy all he needs to know, as does the instant red card given to the PSV lad.

Jamie has always fought through his pain. He doesn’t let an injury take him off the pitch if he can help it, and he certainly doesn’t want to be stretchered off; he’s a lot like Roy in that way. So for him to not even try, to request the stretcher… Roy can only imagine the worst.

A fracture, a dislocation, torn tendons… It could be anything.  

It’s terrible, but he thinks maybe it’s better that he couldn’t see the damage done to Jamie’s ankle. He doesn’t think he could bear seeing Jamie with a terrible injury and not being able to do anything, still separated from him by a plane flight.

An hour and a half, he reminds himself. That’s all that remains between him and Jamie. An hour and a half long flight, and then however long it takes to reach the hospital.

His leg starts bouncing, and it doesn’t stop until he reaches the hospital.

—

Roy expected to have to put up a fight when he got to the hospital. He’d even prepared all of his most creative curses, ready to let them loose the moment someone told him he wouldn’t be allowed to see Jamie.

He wasn’t expecting to be told, “Of course, I see you’re listed here as an emergency contact— please follow me, Mr. Kent.”

Roy blinks at the nurse smiling at him. “Emergency contact? Why the fuck didn’t anyone call me, then?”

“You’re his secondary contact,” she explains kindly. “We reached out to Jamie’s mother first, and since she answered, our policy said we no longer needed to reach out to his other contacts. Also… Well, he told us you were busy today, and unable to reach your phone. Something about a football match?”

Roy snorts at that. He forgets, sometimes, that he’s just some bloke pretty much everywhere except England. “Yeah. I'm the manager of a football team in London, we had a match today. He was alert when he came in, then?”

“Yes.” She gestures for him to follow her as she starts walking down the hall toward the lifts. “He was perfectly aware of his surroundings— we only reached out to his mother on his behalf because the physios who brought him in weren’t able to gather his personal belongings before leaving the arena.”

He’s relieved to know that he hasn’t heard from Jamie not because he was unconscious or undergoing surgery, but rather because he didn’t have his phone. He laughs a little at the thought— he’s sure Jamie is going half out of his mind at being unable to talk to Georgie himself. Hopefully, it also means his injuries aren’t as bad as Roy was imagining.

The lift doors open before he can say anything, and the nurse heads toward a room at the end of the hall. “Last I heard, he was dozing after receiving a small dose of morphine, but he may be awake now. Go ahead and knock, Mr. Kent. I’m sure he’d rather see you than me if he’s awake.”

She gestures toward the door, and is kind enough not to say anything when it takes Roy a long moment and a few shaky breaths before he can collect himself enough to do so. As anxious as he was to get here, he finds himself frozen in the face of the blank door.

Finally, though, he manages to raise a trembling fist to the door and knock quietly.

When he hears Jamie’s voice through the door, no matter that it’s little more than a simple come in, he just about falls to his knees.

All this time, all those months, and Jamie is just on the other side of this door. He almost doesn’t want to open it, some part of his brain insisting that they can’t possibly be this close after so much time spent apart, but then he pictures Jamie’s smile and it’s the easiest thing in the world.

He grips the handle and pushes the door open.

Jamie’s face flickers through emotions so quickly that Roy can barely think to name them— confusion, realisation, shock, disbelief, excitement— before landing on pure joy. His smile might as well be incandescent with the way it lights up the room, and Roy feels his knees go weak at the sight. He has to hold onto the doorway to keep himself standing, his gaze fixed on Jamie across the room.

He’s missed that smile, more than he could ever fucking hope to put into words.

“Roy?” Jamie whispers.

“Hey, babe,” Roy manages, tears burning in his eyes. “I’ve missed you so fucking much, holy fucking shit.”

“I— me too, babe. But, Roy, what the fuck are you doing here?” He sounds more shocked than anything, and his smile is still fixed on his face.

“We were at half time when the news that you got injured came out,” he explains, tongue suddenly thick in the face of a Jamie who seems… Fine, for all intents and purposes. He barely even seems drugged, even though the nurse said he was given morphine. “Keeley helped me book the next flight out of London.”

“You left your match?”

“No,” he’s quick to say. “No, we finished it. Won 3-1, actually. The lads dedicated the win to you. They all send their love. Dani especially, he was a wreck when he saw the news. He scored a brace just for you, he told me to tell you,” he adds, rambling a bit now. He’s not entirely sure what to do now that he’s here, which is new. He’s never really been at a loss when it came to Jamie.

As if reading his mind, Jamie says fondly, “Good lads, them. I’ll have to send a text once I get me phone back. Now are you going to stand over there all day, or are you going to come over here and give me a hug? It’s been fucking ages, babe.”

Roy is across the room before he even realises he’s moving, and all but crushes Jamie to his chest. And as he holds him once again, enveloped in Jamie’s warmth and strength and the smell of grass and sweat that’s still clinging to him, the tears finally fall.

Jamie pulls back at the first drop of wetness on his shoulder, and even through his tears, Roy can see the helpless fondness written across Jamie’s face. He hears it in Jamie’s voice, too, when he asks with a gentle laugh, “Why are you crying?” 

“Fuck off,” Roy says through his tears. “I’ve just missed you, that’s all. And I was really fucking worried about you.”

Jamie’s thumb is soft on Roy’s cheek as he wipes away his tears. “Oh, Roy,” he sighs. “I’ve missed you too. Can’t believe you’re here, honestly— it seems too good to be true. But you don’t have to cry, yeah? I’m fine. I’m right here and I’m fine.”

“But your ankle—”

“Is sprained. Pretty badly, and it aggravated the old injury which is why it hurts so fucking bad, but it’s just sprained. Promise. They did x-rays and everything to be sure. They’re going to do more in the morning, but if everything looks alright they’ll let me go home. I’ll be on the bench for a few weeks, probably, but that’s okay. Could always have been worse, yeah?”

Roy feels like an idiot for a brief moment, rushing here only to find out Jamie’s ankle is just sprained, but it’s difficult to hold onto that when Jamie’s still holding onto him. When Jamie is here, in front of Roy for the first time in months.

He sighs in relief and collapses into Jamie, who merely shifts a little so that Roy is more comfortably snuggled into his side.

“Getting here was all I could fucking think about,” he admits. “Barely remember the last half of the match.”

Jamie laughs slightly. “That’s okay, I recorded it. I’ll let you know how it went.”

“Don’t think I’ll be watching yours, if that’s okay. I couldn’t bear to watch you get hurt again. Sorry,” he tacks on.

“You’re fine, babe. It was a boring match anyway.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Roy teases, tilting his chin up so that he can see Jamie’s face. There’s a smirk tugging at his lips that gives away the fact that he’s being a little shit.

“Nah, you’re right. Lucas got a stunner of a goal. It seemed like one of those impossible shots, y’know? Like the type you kick and think there’s no way it’s going in, but then it does. Beautiful. Bet it’ll get Goal of the Month.”

Roy studies Jamie for a long moment, drinking in every inch of his face, cataloguing all the things that have changed. He’s letting his hair grow out again, and the ends just brush against his cheekbones when he tilts his head forward. The slit in his eyebrow is due for another shave, the shadow of new hairs filling it in. There’s a small scar on his chin where he must have cut himself shaving, and there are a few new grey hairs peeking through his hair dye that hadn’t been there the last time Roy saw him.

But he’s still the same, otherwise: still handsome, still smiling, still Jamie. 

Roy hadn’t realised how terrified he was that wouldn’t be the case. That he’d see Jamie again and not recognise who he’d become in their months apart. 

A ridiculous thought, perhaps, given that they video chat nearly everyday, but still. 

It’s a relief to know that Jamie is still Jamie, no matter what.

“You’re gorgeous,” Roy murmurs, almost without thinking. He can’t regret it, though, when Jamie’s face splits into another one of those wide, breathtaking smiles.

“You flirt,” he teases. “You haven’t even told me about your match yet. At least, the part you can remember.”

Roy laughs, leans back in his chair— though not without lacing their fingers together— and starts talking.

—

Jamie is released the next afternoon after another set of physical exams, x-rays, and CT scans prove his ankle is fine, other than the sprain and some inflammation around the spot where he first hurt it against City.

He’s given a pair of crutches and strict instructions to keep his weight off of it for the next few days, ice it when he can, and elevate it when sitting. From there, his recovery will be up to the physios at Ajax.

It’s only once they’re back at Jamie’s flat— after a stop to pick up Jamie’s belongings from the arena— that Roy realises he doesn’t really know what to do now. Jamie is, for all intents and purposes, fine. His ankle is sprained, but he has his crutches and is more than capable of taking care of himself, or going to Ajax for care. He doesn’t need Roy, who rushed to Amsterdam with barely even half a thought and no return flight, no place to stay, and no clue how long Jamie is actually willing to put up with him. 

He stands in the living room, hands stuffed in his pockets just to give them something to do, and asks hesitantly, “So… What now?”

“What do you mean?” Jamie asks, fiddling with the kettle.

“Should I fucking… Go? I mean, it might take a few hours since I don’t have a return flight, but I can get out of your hair if you’d—”

Jamie turns to face him slowly, expressionless. Even his eyes, which Roy can usually rely on to betray Jamie’s true feelings, are shuttered. He shifts uncomfortably, not sure what to make of the way Jamie is looking at him. “Do you want to go?”

“...No,” Roy says after a long pause. “Not really. But I rushed here without much thought— don’t even have any luggage, for fuck’s sake— so I hardly expect you to let me stay—”

“Do you remember what you said when I was debating whether or not to sell my house? That I didn’t need to keep it, because if I was ever in London I could just stay with you. The same goes for me, Roy. You’re welcome here. Always.” He adds on, “I want you to stay. At least for a few days, if you can. I’ve… Really missed you, Roy.”

He nods eagerly, even before Jamie finishes speaking. “I can. I— Rebecca texted me this morning. She gave me the week, as long as I’m back for our match on Sunday. And Beard and Nate said they’ll look after the team.”

“And you don’t want to leave before then?” Jamie asks. There’s a subtle edge of hope in his voice, and Roy latches onto it like a raft in a storm.

He lets himself drift over to Jamie on slow, even steps. Jamie doesn’t make any attempt to move, even when Roy steps into his space, crowding him against the counter.

“No. Of course not. I’d stay with you forever if I could, Jay,” he says seriously. “You have to know that.”

Jamie swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and his eyes bore into Roy’s. “Roy, if you’re not going to kiss me right now then I need you to take a step back, ‘cause—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence before Roy is slotting their mouths together and stepping even closer to Jamie, careful not to jostle his ankle and cause him any pain.

He never once forgot the taste of Jamie’s chapstick or what the bow of Jamie’s lip felt like against his own, but tasting it again— feeling it again— is better than anything he could have imagined. It’s as if everything has slotted into place, as if everything they’ve gone through, the pain and the distance and the aching for each other, was worth it to lead to this moment. This one perfect moment that nothing could hope to interrupt except—

The kettle shrills behind Jamie, startling them badly enough that Jamie drops his crutch and Roy nearly trips over himself leaping away. 

They stare at each other for a long moment, the kettle still whistling and Jamie’s lips a few shades darker than they were a few moments ago, before they both burst out laughing.

It feels good, like his soul is being scrubbed clean, and Roy realises just how long it’s been since he laughed like this— not since they were last in a room together, he thinks. As nice as it had been to FaceTime Jamie, it just hadn’t been the same. It hadn’t been like this: easy, comfortable, as natural as breathing.

“Fuck,” he laughs, going to remove the kettle from the stove while Jamie picks up his crutch. 

“As if my heart rate weren’t high enough,” Jamie mutters to himself, which sets them off laughing again.

When their laughter finally dies down, Jamie props himself against the counter and looks at Roy with a soft smile. “I was an idiot, thinking I could live without you.”

Roy tilts his head. If Jamie is saying what he thinks he’s saying… His heart pounds in his chest and his lungs skip a breath. He wonders if this is what Jamie felt that night in the hotel. If Roy started talking— confessing— and Jamie’s body simultaneously shut down and went into overdrive. “I’m right here, Jamie.”

He shakes his head. “No, I mean… I mean you looked at me and told me that you loved me, and I said I couldn’t be with you. I said no. I let you go. I was a fucking idiot.”

Roy takes a half step forward, close enough that he can grab Jamie’s hand. “You did what you thought was best. That’s not stupid.”

Jamie looks down at their clasped hands. He brushes his thumb over the back of Roy’s hand, soft as a feather, before looking up again. “Maybe not. But I— It’s been torture, knowing that no matter how many times I told you I loved you or called you babe or held your hand or whatever that it didn’t matter. We still weren’t each other’s, I guess. We weren’t… Anything. And being here, realising that it didn’t matter how far apart we were, I was still just going to keep on falling in love with you… I realised I should’ve just said yes to you, that night in the hotel.”

“I get that,” Roy says, squeezing Jamie’s hand. “I really fucking do, ‘cause I felt the same way. But I don’t think it’s actually true. Maybe it’s just fucking hindsight, I don’t know, but I think those moments fucking mattered, Jamie, because they were ours. And maybe we didn’t have the title for— well, whatever the fuck we are to each other— but I’m yours.” 

Jamie sucks in a shuddering breath. “I wasn’t sure. You never really… Said anything until recently. Not that you have to, I just—”

“I thought that if I didn’t say anything, it’d be easier to let you go,” he admits. “I thought it’d be easier for you to leave me.”

“Roy,” Jamie exhales, swaying towards him. “It was never going to be easy to leave you.”

Roy lets his eyes slip shut, then leans forward until his forehead is pressed against Jamie’s— an echo of their last night in London, the last kiss they shared. “Jamie, I—” He exhales. Starts over. “Leaving you here fucking tore me apart. I’ve barely felt like myself since then.”

“I know. I know, Roy. I’m sorry.”

“It was worth it if it meant ending up here. But I can’t… I don’t think I can let you go like that again. I need you, Jamie, more than I’ve needed anyone else. And it fucking terrifies me to say that, but it’s true. Even if you aren’t in the same city as I am, I fucking need you.” 

The pain, the loss, the sorrow he’s been keeping crushed in his heart bleeds into his voice, and Jamie’s hands fly to his waist when he hears it. They both ignore the sounds of his crutches clattering to the floor.

“I need you too, Roy. I really fucking do. I won’t… I won’t ask you to go through that again. If you still want me, Roy, I’m yours. No more waiting.”

“Thank fucking Christ,” he mutters, and kisses Jamie again.

This kiss is all fire, all pent up passion and yearning and need, and it’s the easiest thing in the world for Roy to lose himself in it. In sliding his hands underneath Jamie’s shirt to feel the soft skin of his waist, in the bite of Jamie’s teeth against his bottom lip, in the perfect moulding together of their bodies and the ever building heat between them.

And his thoughts are hazy, distracted as he is by Jamie seemingly attempting to map out Roy’s mouth with his tongue, but he thinks of that night in Manchester. Of resigning himself to finding the right person at the wrong time. Of being terrified that he’d missed his chance with Jamie forever. 

He’s never been so fucking happy to be wrong. 

“Oi,” he says, pulling back just enough to mutter the words against Jamie’s lips. “Right person, right time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jamie laughs.

He's still laughing when he tugs Roy down for another kiss, and it’s perfect.

How couldn’t it be?

They have forever, after all.

—

They share Jamie’s bed that night by unspoken agreement, Jamie wrapped around Roy like a fucking octopus and Roy holding him even closer to him because he’s slept in a bed without Jamie for far too long, because he can’t bear to have Jamie right there and not cling to him. 

When he wakes up in the morning— Jamie’s hair in his mouth, Jamie’s naked body trapping his left arm, and Jamie’s drool drying on his chest— all he can do is smile.

He’ll have to head back to London at some point and leave Jamie— and a piece of his heart— behind all over again. But it doesn’t hurt the way it had before.

Because he knows now that they’ll always find a way back to each other. 

That no matter the distance between them, Jamie will always be there, waiting to welcome Roy home.