Archive of Our Own

One thing Roy should’ve remembered from his playing days with Chelsea is how fucking busy a Champions League season can be. More matches mean more travelling, more need to rest and less time to train, every moment optimised and accounted for.

Turns out, it’s even worse on the managing side—just as tiring but more boring, sitting around planning and making contingencies, reviewing hours upon fucking hours of match footage. Sometimes he’d load it up on a tablet so he can jog on the treadmill while watching it, just so his arse won’t take the shape of the chair.

But it’s paying off. They’re holding their own at a comfortable second place in the group, three wins in four hard-fought matches, and the mood on the plane to Schiphol is fizzy and charged with optimism.

Then Isaac walks up the aisle to where Roy’s sitting next to Beard, game face on, Sam at his elbow.

“Coach,” he says, gravely. “We need to talk strategy.”

Roy, who sees strategy meetings in his fucking sleep these days, straightens up irritably. “What, on the fucking plane?”

“We don’t mean match strategy,” Sam says. “This is post-match strategy.”

“Yeah. Win or lose, we’ve got to keep spirits high. And we can’t afford to waste time after the match, dun know? Better settle it now.”

Fucking hell, they’re even optimising their partying now. Roy can appreciate this level of dedication. “We better not fucking lose,” he tells Isaac, who nods in solemn agreement. “But fair enough.”

Roy stands up. “Oi, listen up, you lot! We’re arriving in twenty minutes. From the moment we land I want you focused on the match until we’ve kicked their arses alright? No gawking around, no tourist shits, no pillow fights. But until then…” He gestures to Isaac. “Captain has the floor.”

There’s a general round of whooping. Roy feels for the cabin crew.

“First action on the agenda! To avoid a repeat of the last time, I asked Higgins to put in a special request for the team.”

Isaac’s got a voice made for epic monologues, and a sense of drama to go with it. The cabin falls entirely silent.

“Dani. We got a whole vase of tulips at the hotel and another waiting for us in the dressing room. How ‘bout that, bruv?”

“Sí!” Dani punches the air. “Great idea, capitán.”

“Second action on… post-game gameplay! Jan Maas, you want to do the honours?”

“I will do that. My cousin, Martin Garrix…”

He says the name like they should know who that is. Roy looks at Beard. Who? he mouths.

“...is DJ-ing in Stavanger tonight—that’s in Norway, and so, unfortunately, we can’t be there. But his friend, Afrojack…”

Roy looks at Beard again.

“Will be DJ-ing at a highly exclusive private party on a luxury boat sailing on the IJ, Amsterdam’s waterfront. I can get us in if you let me know by eleven.”

Excited whispers, followed by more shouts, three very different faces all looking equally pleased with themselves. In the back, Arlo’s asking Bumbercatch loudly if he packed any condoms.

Colin raises his hand. “What if we want to get off the boat?”

“You can’t get off the boat. You wait until it docks, or you jump off and swim.”

“Fuck’s sake,” Roy mutters. “Nobody fucking swim! It’s fucking November and we’ve got a match on Saturday.”

“I’m not sure I like this.”

Even the way Jan rolls his eyes at OʼBrien is cool and Dutch. “If you don’t want to do the boat party, there are many excellent clubs. Honestly, it’s much better than the London scene—”

“I want to go to the boat party. Put me down for it, yeah?” That sounds like Thierry.

“Look, bruv, nobody has to decide now. It’s not a vote. This isn’t the moment for democracy!” Isaac’s voice grows towards the end, like he’s about to deliver a fucking stunner of a pitchside rallying speech.

“Because of extraordinary circumstances—to wit: it’s a weekday, and we’re in a rush!—splitting up will be allowed for post-match activities… nay, it’s encouraged! You have until after the match to decide, boat or not boat.”

“We’re not going to get fined for mitching off Team Night, right?”

“No, Colin. No fines,” Sam says, “But we’re doing Team Night after the Newcastle match on Saturday.”

“And no skipping that one, or you will get fined for being moist little pricks. Any of you.”

“Eh, bien, what about curfew?”

Richard looks at Sam. Sam looks at Isaac. Isaac looks at Roy. Roy fucking hates this part.

“We’re flying out at eight tomorrow, and it’s a recovery day, so you better fucking be in bed by two if you know what’s good for you. At the latest.”

“Yeah, right,” Beard says. The players all glance around at each other, all shuffling feet and shifty looks.

Roy sighs. He really fucking hates this part. “But, if you decide you don’t know what’s good for you, nobody fucking tell me. I don’t want to hear it, just be on time to get the coach to the airport, and if you’re hungover you’re running suicides when we get home.”

There’s a sudden chirping, like a flock of enthusiastic twittering birds. A bright lovely smile breaks out on Sam’s bright lovely face.

“Right! You heard the gaffer!” Isaac booms. “You all better be in bed by 2 AM and rest and charge your batteries, if you know what’s good for you! Or you can do like Jan Maas and me, and go party on a boat. Good talk, coach. Coach.” He nods to Roy and Beard.

“Very productive,” Sam adds. They both go back to their seats.

“Can’t believe you don’t know Martin Garrix,” says Jamie from across the aisle. He’s been unusually quiet this whole time, but clearly that couldn’t last. “It’s like you’ve never been to Ibiza this last decade. Oh, shit, you’ve not, have you? When’s the last time you had a proper holiday?”

“June,” Beard volunteers before Roy can say anything. “We went to Transylvania, to visit Eastern Europe’s largest bear sanctuary.”

“You’re fucking with me,” Jamie says. “What, really?”

Roy points at Beard with his thumb. “He went to Transylvania to visit Eastern Europe’s largest bear sanctuary. I just needed a change of scenery for the weekend.” Actually, it was Rebecca who’d politely suggested he should get out of town and away from the office. “Didn’t even see any bears.”

“They eat people sometimes, you know?” Beard says, way too fucking wistfully. Roy files a mental note to never leave him around Phoebe unsupervised. That girl’s bloodthirsty enough as it is.

#

The last time they played Ajax on their home turf, they got fucking obliterated. But at least that had been a friendly—didn’t fucking count. Today, when it counts, Richmond fucking deliver.

Dani starts off the match on fire; he hits the post in the second minute and wins them a corner by minute five, and another ten minutes later he scores off a diagonal pass from Cockburn. He makes two more attempts in the first half and sends a brilliant pass out to Jamie, who scores a gorgeous volley from out of the box. They’re up 2—0 by halftime, and the ball hardly ever came close to Richmond’s net.

“Is it the tulips?” Roy asks as the players trickle into the away dressing room. “I can get you a tulip every match if that’s how you play when you get flowers, Dani. Just say the word.”

Dani looks like he’s considering it. “Maybe not every match. But for special occasions? Yes, coach.”

“What about me?” Jamie, chugging a sports drink efficiently, still manages to bat his eyelashes and talk at the same time. “I scored, too. Do I get flowers?”

“Dani got a goal and an assist,” Roy points out.

“Oh, you’re on.”

Roy blinks, wondering what the fuck he might have just accidentally unleashed on the unaware public of the Cruijff Arena. Luckily, they’re on the clock, so he can’t waste too much time on disturbing thoughts.

“Alright, alright,” he calls, after everyone’s had the chance to drink something and bite off half an energy bar. “You’re all doing fucking great, so keep at it. You’re running them ragged.”

They’ve kept possession most of the first half, sending fast-paced passes up and down the field and tiring out the opposing players, who lack the rock-solid fitness Richmond developed last year. But the downside of moving as a cohesive formation is that they’re vulnerable to counterattack, if they get drawn out of shape, and they need to watch for that.

“Keep that defence compact. Jamie, don’t send it far out unless there’s a real opening, but if you see an opportunity fucking go for it. You’ve got it, alright? Dec, that was a lovely pass earlier. Dani, whatever you’ve got going on, it’s magical. We’re almost there.”

He looks around the room, to all these gorgeous twats with their hopeful faces and stunningly athletic bodies, and a fair amount of mud above all that, and he feels crushed by responsibility. They’re all so good, aren’t they, even fucking Jan Maas, and they’ve worked so hard for this.

“We’re almost there,” he repeats. “Don’t let yourself get distracted, but keep pressing. They can’t keep up with those passes. You’ve got this—you’ve been incredible so far, yeah? Fucking stunning.” He clears his throat. “Uh, this time last year… last time we went to Amsterdam, could you have imagined we’d get here today? In the Champions League?”

“Absolutely not.” Jan Maas, right on cue.

“I mean, I dreamed about it,” Sam says, which is the same feeling but more nicely worded. Roy nods.

“Right. They fucking battered us, remember that? They destroyed us. Five—fucking—nil. We walked out of here like we were on life support… and then you fucking went and won seventeen matches in a row, and got the most points Richmond’s ever had in a season. Ever. Remember that? That was pretty fucking cool.”

“Bruv, that was fucking epic.”

“Fucking great!”

“Still can’t believe we fucking did that, mate.”

There’s so much fucking hope in this room, you could cut it with a knife. Open, earnest happiness—and so much of it, a bloody perfect moment. Roy feels like an imposter standing in the middle of it, here like he’s taking all the credit for something he just stumbled on, this amazing team and these amazing people—sometimes he feels like he’s just playing pretend, crushed under the weight of a responsibility he doesn’t know how to step up to.

But all that is between himself and Dr Sharon and the bathroom mirror, and right now the lads need someone to tell them to go out there and kill it, and Roy needs to stop having a feeling and do his fucking job.

“If you win this…” He licks his lips. “You win this, and we have it in the bag, alright? We’re in the next round. Fucking top sixteen best European clubs. Richmond. I know you fucking have it in you, and you deserve it so much.” These days, he tries for pep talks that are heavier on motivation and less so on hot-headed aggression, but he’s not Lasso and never tried to be, so he’s got to add, “So go out there and let’s fucking obliterate them, yeah?”

Isaac shouts, “On three!” and they go one—two—three—OBLITERATE! the fucking muppets, and then there’s a lot of fist-bumping and hugging and slapping as they head back out to the pitch.

Jamie comes sauntering next to him, hopping around with energy like the fucking manic bunny.

“So, do I get flowers if I get an assist? Like when you win a prize and they give you a bouquet?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“Uh, like in the Olympics?” Jamie explains, and Roy doesn’t want to admit that he didn’t watch the last Olympics because he was busy sulking after his athletic career had just ended, and categorically refused to turn on the telly to anything that showed fit people performing incredible feats.

“Go out and get us another goal first,” Roy says, swatting Jamie’s arse to get him to move faster and Jamie turns around and gives that bright sunny smile.

“Yeah, I can do that.”

#

Jamie doesn’t get an assist.

Because the thing is—Jamie never does what he’s expected to do. Jamie exceeds all expectations and blows them to fucking smithereens while he’s at it, and he does it all with flair and such impetus that it’s impossible to tear your eyes off him. He’s also fucking annoying about it, but that can be fun to watch, too.

Jamie goes out and scores instead. No fancy passes, not even showing off—he sees his chance and fucking goes for it, a gorgeous run until he’s alone in front of the goalie and like that, they’re three over. And then he scores again, a free kick at eighty-three minutes that makes the away fans explode. So does something inside Roy’s chest, honestly, but he’s trying really hard to maintain some composure. He’s shit at it. He’s probably grinning like a fucking maniac live on that SkySports broadcast.

The last time they were here, they lost 5—0. Today they win 4—0 in a match that means a hell of a lot more, which is just fucking incredible, straight out of his wildest fucking dreams. Win or lose the next one, they’re advancing to the knockout round.

“And even if we get knocked out right off, that’ll be the furthest Richmond ever got in the Champions League!” O’Brien has been telling everyone who’d listen, nevermind that this is the first time ever—in all of Richmond’s long, unremarkable history—that they ever got in the Champions League at all.

There’s hugging pitchside. Roy feels like he’s going to burst. He loves these men. Isaac has been fucking fabulous in defence and Cockburn, who they’ve been trying out in the front, really delivered. Dani hugs him so tight that his ribs hurt and his hair tickles Roy’s nose. He slaps Kukoč’s shoulder and watches him jump on Sam’s back, and then he’s face-to-face with Jamie.

“A bloody fucking Champions League hat trick. I never got one of those.” Roy sounds about as stunned as he feels, and not jealous, not even a little bit. He’s proud and deliriously happy. He messes up Jamie’s silly hair over his bright silly grin for no reason at all.

“I know, I was fucking brill,” Jamie says, cradling the dirty ball like a kid with a stuffed animal, and Roy has to go and fuck his hair up some more.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll see you later, alright? You’ve got to do press and shower. I get to do press and press.”

But even doing press can’t tarnish his good mood. All the reporters begin their questions congratulating him on the victory, and Roy still feels some unease about that, like he’s pilfering someone else’s work, but he’s so damn proud and he gets to talk about that—to compliment the lads, who fucking deserve it, to tell everybody about the work they’ve put in.

“I had expectations—they've been in fu—uh, bloody good form lately, but I’ll be honest—this is more than we expected,” he says, before agreeing that yes, they have a tough few weeks coming up in the Prem and they’re going to focus on that.

“…Yes, Dani’s had a great match. A brilliant first half especially—he was ready to go right from the first minute, helped us to get the momentum going. Yes, Green Shirt, go.”

“About that,” Green Shirt says, after the usual foreplays. “Would you say that Dani Rojas shows the same aggression in Champions League matches as he does when he’s with the Mexico national team?”

Roy thinks of Thierry’s nose. “Well, I wouldn’t say the same level of aggression.”

#

Later, once he’s finally free, Roy goes to find the lads in the dressing room, all of them focused on their next challenge—the post-match plan.

“All of you, show of hands!” Isaac roads. “Who is going to the boat party? Count ‘em, Will. Those who aren’t, we were recommended the VIP room at Club Air—”

“But we cannot split up now!” Dani protests. “Not after this wonderful evening.”

“I’m not going on that fucking boat, me,” Colin says.

“Dani, we hang together all the time—”

Roy knocks, then enters anyway. “Oi, all of you, shut it for five minutes. Jan Maas, what time does the fucking boat leave?”

“Half past midnight.”

Roy checks his watch—it’s half past eleven now. “Cutting it close, mate. Will, can you go grab our delivery? Ta.” Then, to the team, “You were bloody fucking great, you know this? Fucking brilliant. Now, I know you’ve got better things to do than listen to a speech I don’t really want to give—”

“No, I wanna listen to the speech, coach,” Jamie says, sotto voce. Thankfully, someone whacks him on the back of the neck.

“—so I got us some beer to have a proper toast. And pizza—have some, don’t fucking go party on an empty stomach. Let’s all be friends, have a toast, and then fuck off wherever you like. Will, you got it?”

Will comes in carrying a pile of pizza boxes, to much collective cheer. Roy goes back out to help Beard lug in the beer—only a few dozen cans, one each for the team and the support staff, plus a few alcohol-free. It’s symbolic, like.

“You eat first,” he says, handing out one to Jamie, who rolls his eyes and nods before plopping down on the bench next to Sam. Roy ignores his own advice and chugs down the whole can straightaway, to chase away the taste of press conference from his parched throat.

“A party boat,” Beard says, so deadpan that Roy can’t figure out if he thinks it’s a great night out or the worst idea that ever existed. “Well, I hope they have fun. Do I have to feel bad leaving you alone?”

“There aren't any wild bears in Amsterdam,” Roy points out. “Think I’ll live. What about you?”

“Oh, I'll find something to do.”

“You can’t miss the coach to the airport either.”

Beard shrugs, all mysterious, and part of Roy is dying to ask. A bigger part doesn’t want to fucking know.

Slowly, the team splits, some of the players going to the fucking boat and others leaving together in small groups, crowded around their mobiles to skim through the list of clubs that Jan texted to the group chat.

Roy sends Will away as soon as he’s done packing up the equipment, and then finds himself in the empty room, gathering discarded tinnies to throw in the rubbish. His mind is still spinning like crazy, and doing mindless shit feels soothing.

“Did you know that there’s no aluminium recycling in the Netherlands? They just ship it abroad to get smelted.”

Roy raises his gaze to find Jamie leaning against the door, even though he’s pretty sure he saw him leave with Sam earlier.

“And did you know… that the cleaning staff are waiting for you to leave so they can do their actual jobs? Hey, any of that pizza left?”

“No. You scamps fucking demolished it.”

“It was good,” Jamie says. “So, river parties not your scene?”

“Hell, no.”

“Sound. Not mine either. I like parties, but I don’t want to get stuck on a boat with Jan Maas. That’s just survival instinct—the more he drinks, the more honest he gets. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Jamie’s got his hands in his jeans pockets as they walk out, half a step ahead so he can keep shooting Roy looks over his shoulder. “So, were you saying nice things about me out there? I mean, I really was fucking amazing. I’ll let you hold my match ball later, if you want.”

Roy swats him, lightly, because really he was asking for it. “I said nice things about everyone.”

“Good, yeah.” Jamie nods. “They’re good lads. Anyway, what you said earlier—the last time we were in Amsterdam, who’d have believed we’d end up here, and that?”

He pitches his voice like it’s a question, like Roy’s so senile he can’t remember the speech he gave two hours ago. “Yeah?” he asks, wary.

“Just thinking of the last time we were here. You and I, having a nice time. Had fun, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “So I think we should go out again—trust me, we’re going to have fun tonight too. Oh.” He pulls his phone from a pocket, brandishes it in the air. “Our Uber’s here!”

It’s impossible not to go along with Jamie when he’s like this, so energetic and happy. He hasn’t even asked Roy if he maybe had other plans—but that’s because Jamie knows him, let’s be honest; he didn’t have any fucking plans—and Roy can’t even find it in himself to be annoyed, just feels lucky that Jamie decided to spend time with him instead of going out to have fun with the rest of the team.

He asks Jamie as much in the car—not the maudlin shit, just that he thought Jamie’d go on with the others, but all he gets is a shrug. They’re shoulder to shoulder, and Roy feels the movement in his whole body.

“Nah, we go clubbing together all the time back home. Amsterdam’s our thing, innit? It’s tradition.”

“You don’t go clubbing all the time. You barely have time to sleep.”

“Yeah fair. But like, with the team, it’s just another night out, yeah? With you, it’s like—the anniversary of when you learned to ride a bike.”

“It’s not an anniversary, you bellend. Anniversary means it’s been a year.”

“Your bikeversary,” Jamie says, which gets Roy to stomp on his foot—lightly, that foot’s worth millions—and then Jamie elbows him in the ribs and next thing he knows they’re roughhousing in the backseat, and Roy wonders what the fuck the poor driver is thinking. They are in street clothes, but Jamie’s face was just on telly in every pub in the city, so who even the fuck knows.

It feels warm, being the centre of Jamie’s attention. Like stretching by a fireplace, or lying in the sunshine—and then he has to stop his thoughts right there, because Jamie asks him why he’s looking so constipated, and Roy doesn’t even have the words.

#

“Here we are. Amsterdam’s unique ice bar!” Jamie announces, making a grandiose gesture. “That’s a bar made of ice. Well, not made of ice, but inside there’s ice. The shot glasses are made of ice, though. You’ll see.”

“Why the fuck would anyone—”

“‘Cos the shots warm you up,” Jamie says, rescuing him from his own sputtering. “No, there’s a story that goes with it. C’mon, I’ll tell you inside. I got us tickets.”

They’re given an extra coat and gloves at the entrance and yeah, it’s all ice inside alright. Even the glasses.

“Temperature is minus ten degrees,” Jamie says, all excited. He orders for the both of them at the bar, two shots each. “This one first,” he points to the glass closest to Roy’s elbow. “To the Champions League!”

“To the Champions League. To a fucking hat trick in the Champions League.”

He still can’t believe it. Jamie’s smile is so very bright.

Roy downs his shot and immediately pulls a face. “The hell is this?”

“Nutella vodka,” Jamie says, completely serious. “Well, it’s called nuts and nougat vodka on the menu, but it sorta tastes like Nutella, doesn’t it? Now that one. To…” He pauses, thinking about it. “To beating United.”

“We aren’t playing United until the weekend after next.”

“Never too early to hope,” Jamie says wisely, in the tone of someone who’s been slagging off United since he was a lad. “Cheers.”

“To slicing United to bloody red shreds.” Roy clinks the ice glass against Jamie’s and gulps it down. He licks his lips. “That one’s not bad.”

“It’s sambuca. It’s an anise liqueur, you know, like jägermeister—”

“I know what sambuca is,” says Roy, who maybe knew the name but definitely wouldn’t have recognised the taste.

“But did you know that they put it in coffee in Italy? Like an Irish coffee, but Italian. Caffè corretto. And they put in strawberries sometimes, like, chopped strawberries salad with sugar and whipped cream. And did you know that sambuca gets milky if you mix it with water? Like absinthe.”

“I didn’t know that,” Roy admits.

“See? You’re learning.” Jamie winks. “Now, the inspiration behind this place. In 1596 a Dutch expedition crew were stranded in the Arctic. They went all the way round above Russia, like…” He makes a movement with his hand to demonstrate, all the way up then to the right. “Looking for the Northeast Passage, to get to China from the North, yeah? And their ship got trapped in a frozen strait, so they spent all winter out there on a float. Their beer froze and they had to eat foxes. Bunch of ‘em died.”

“Oh, that’s fucking grim.”

“Yep. Some made it back to Amsterdam, though. Just froze their bits off. Speaking of,” Jamie says. “There’s a heated bar outside—want to sit somewhere warm and talk about what we’re going to do next? Were thinking, we could get bikes and find that windmill again. Probably shouldn’t nick them, though.”

Roy imagines the tabloid headlines that would haunt them for months if Richmond’s star player got caught committing petty theft in a foreign city in a burst of post-match celebration.

“No, better not,” he agrees. “We could rent bikes like proper citizens.”

They leave their Arctic gear behind with the bar staff and make their way outside, where the air is only mildly autumn-cool, and fucking humid because they’re on a swamp.

“You know, the Amsterdam Light Festival starts in a couple of weeks. Runs until January. Shame we’re going to miss it.”

“Okay, how the fuck do you know all these things?” Roy asks. “You can’t remember all of it from ten years ago.”

“Course I don’t remember it from ten years ago. I looked it up last week,” Jamie says, like he thinks Roy’s gone fucking stupid. “Things we could do in Amsterdam, you know. If we were here on a Friday we could’ve gone to a museum, did you know they stay open at night?”

“Maybe next time,” Roy says, not really thinking about it. Jamie turns to give him a long look.

“Next time, eh? D’you mean next time we’re abroad for a match, or next year in the Champions League? ‘Cos we’re getting in again next year, of course.”

“‘Course we are,” Roy says. “But I meant next time in Amsterdam. If you ever, you know. Take a holiday or something. I can hire you as a tour guide.”

“Oh,” Jamie says. “Yeah. I’d love that. We could go to the Rijksmuseum. And the Heineken brewery—you’d like that. And, oh, we could do a canal boat tour! I loved those.”

“Unless you—I mean, you’ve already seen it, I don’t want—if you’d rather go somewhere new?” Roy’s about to say something even more stupid, like suggesting to Jamie that they should go on holiday somewhere else, for some fucking reason, but mercifully Jamie stops him.

“No, too late. You said you’ll take me to Amsterdam, you’d better take me to Amsterdam.”

“We’re in Amsterdam right now,” Roy points out. “You said you’d take me biking. Get moving, Tartt.”

“Oh yeah, the bikeversary.” Jamie gives a discreet look over to see if that landed, lips twitching.

“The bikeversary,” Roy allows, because he’s used to Phoebe making up idiotic words and he’s built up a certain tolerance for it. Also, he isn’t going to give Jamie the satisfaction.

“We could do that, just bike round. Or we could… you know, there are all those tiny pavement cafés and you can sit outside and look at the canal? Bet some are still open. Or we can go back to the windmill, check if it’s still there.”

“Be a fucking shame if they moved it,” Roy agrees. “What do you want to do?”

For whatever stupid reason, that takes Jamie aback. He blinks like a stunned goldfish, all hair and pout. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. You’re the one who—played a fucking great match out there. We’re celebrating tonight, aren’t we? You should get to choose whatever tourist shit we’re doing.”

There’s a tiny, flattered smile tugging at Jamie’s lips. “Aw, coach. Okay, bikes first.”

It turns out that renting from a public bike-share in Amsterdam costs less than paying a petty thief to nick one for you, though it takes significantly longer because they have to download an app and everything. These are e-bikes, too, which Roy is faintly mistrustful of and even Jamie has never tried, so they just decide to ignore the high-tech part and just pedal as normal.

Jamie is mostly quiet. Roy sneaks glances at him every once in a while, but he looks content enough, leading Roy over bridges and down quaint canalside streets, occasionally pointing and saying things like, “That’s the Rijksmuseum, the Dutch national museum. Went there with my mum and she liked it so much we came back on the last day,” and, “Did you know that the Van Gogh Museum hosts more than two hundred paintings?” and, “The Vondelpark opened in 1865 and it’s got an open-air theatre.”

It’s well past midnight, and the streets are almost empty. Roy listens to the soft noises of the city and the sound of Jamie’s voice, but mostly he’s thinking. Earlier, he almost said you’re the one who won us the fucking match—it almost slipped out. It’s barely an exaggeration, something he’d have said without a thought a few months ago, but he’s been trying to be mindful of what he says about Jamie as a player, trying so very hard to make sure that every word that leaves his mouth is the absolute, objective, unappealable truth.

Roy knows he’s overthinking it, creating problems for himself once again. So what if Jamie Tartt is fucking poetry in motion and he brings out that part of Roy that wants to speak in superlatives—he has the same effect on everyone else, down to the fucking pundits. He doesn’t think anyone on the team would get offended, or even notice, and Jamie’s way too fucking humble these days so it’s not like it’d go to his fucking head. He’d be the first one to say aw, the lads were fucking great, too and I know I’m dead good but I can’t win a match all by meself and all that shit, but Roy knows Jamie would enjoy hearing it, a bit too much.

Roy would enjoy saying it a bit too much, too. Worse yet, he’s afraid that if he started voicing all the thoughts about Jamie Tartt that go through his head, then he’d never fucking stop.

“You know—”

“You’re quiet,” Jamie says at the same time, cutting him off. Roy frowns. He’s not the one who’s always constantly talking.

“You are quiet. You ran out of facts or something?”

“Oh no, I’ve got facts for days. It’s just… it’s nice like this, innit?”

Roy looks over, proud that he’s learned to turn his neck while cycling without falling off. “Yeah.”

#

“Well, the windmill’s still here,” Jamie announces, a short while later. “Good thing, ‘cos it’s been here since 1636. De Riekermolen.”

Roy hadn’t known any of this. He wouldn’t even have fucking occurred to him to look up half the information Jamie’s rattling off at rapid-fire speed.

“Are you like this only about Amsterdam or, like, everywhere you go?”

“I like Amsterdam, but no, always like this. Used to watch documentaries with my Mum like, history and stuff, and we used to do this thing where we’d, uh.” There’s a self-conscious smile tugging at Jamie’s lips. “We used to share a fact a day, over tea, something I’d learned I thought were cool. Could tell you a lot of random shit about things I liked growing up.”

“Yeah?” asks Roy, teasing. “Like what?”

“Like, did you know that the first women’s marathon in the Olympics was in 1984? And there are Norse runic inscriptions in the Hagia Sophia mosque all the way in Istanbul, ‘cos some Vikings fought for the Byzantine Empire. The World Cup record for most goals scored in a match by the same player is five, which, did you know...” Again, that shy half-smile. “It’s the same number of goals Roy Kent scored for Sunderland before turning eighteen.”

“Did he, really,” says Roy Kent, who isn’t sure he would’ve remembered this if asked. In his defence, he hasn’t been eighteen in quite a while.

“I mean, two of those were in the League Cup, so I dunno if it counts.”

That startles a laugh out of him. “Fuck, I remember that.” It had been his first time scoring for the senior team, only a few weeks after the scathing article that charred his youthful enthusiasm into a burning need to prove himself to the world. He’d put away two goals in his fifth-ever appearance, the first sparks of the Roy Kent legend. Fuck, no wonder he’d been such a fucking prick as a kid.

“Yeah, no, they totally counted.” The memory feels a lifetime away. “Did you, is that one of those things you looked up last week, or did you actually remember it from—”

“Roy, mate, I’m not going to answer that. I have some dignity.”

They look at the windmill again. The mood’s different than the last time they were here—more settled, happier. There had been wonder last year, raw feelings and catharsis, and Roy doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that night, but he’s glad they’ve grown past it.

They bike along the Amsteldijk on the way back, Roy happy enough to follow along. Maybe Jamie will take them to one of those pavement cafés he talked about.

“Missed this,” Jamie hums. “It’s nice, innit?”

“What, Amsterdam?”

“No, just… us spending time together. ‘Cos it’s been so busy lately, and I never—I mean, I see you at work all the fucking time, and at non-football things, but it’s different like this. Right?”

“I’m sorry,” Roy blurts out. Jamie cranes his head around to give him a look.

“The fuck you’re sorry for? Not your fault you have a job.”

But it’s not that. It’s that he’s been holding himself back, if not quite at arm’s length, always watching himself around Jamie, always so careful, and meanwhile Jamie’s first thought for a post-match celebration is dragging Roy around a foreign city promising they’ll have fun together.

“I’m having a great night,” he says, in lieu of anything better. “Thanks, I’m—it’s good. Thank you.”

Jamie slows down so they’re biking side by side, just so Roy can catch him winking. “‘Course you are, we won. Thanks to me.”

“Yes, yes, you were fucking gorgeous out there, but I meant now. The post-match.”

Jamie’s bike falters, a bit, the front wheel swerving in the mud. He gets it back under control and raises his eyebrows in Roy’s direction. “Fucking gorgeous, am I?”

“What, you fishing for compliments?”

“From you? Yeah.”

He sounds disarmingly earnest. Roy clears his throat. “Well, you should watch my post-match presser,” he says, and feels warm satisfaction at Jamie’s laughs.

Friendly silence stretches out as they cycle some more in the near-darkness, no sounds but the park and the lazy waters. They’re almost back on the street when Jamie slows down to a halt.

“Roy, wait.”

He gets off the bike, toggling open the kickstand with his foot. Roy does the same, looking around. There’s barely any light, and the moon shines off the humidity rising from the river.

“Did we miss some landmark or something?”

“No, it’s just—can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” Roy says, mostly to be annoying. He’s expecting a shove or something, but Jamie just stands there, sliding his hands under his coat.

“I’m trying to be serious, you wanker. Don’t want you to be weird or, like, run away or summat.”

“Why the fuck would I—”

“And don’t be a dick about this.” Jamie’s voice is firm. “Please.”

“Jesus,” Roy says. “I’m not that bad, am I?”

“Nah, you’re great. Here it goes.” Jamie’s hands stop stretching out his coat, and slide out to pick at his collar. “What would you do if I kissed you, right now?”

Whatever Roy could’ve expected, it wasn’t this. Feels like the world is out of focus, like the night has crossed over into some hazy daydream. His voice cracks. “What?”

Jamie’s look is thoroughly unimpressed. “Need to get your hearing checked? I said, if I kissed you right now. Like, on the mouth, a proper snog—what would you do?”

“Fuck. I don’t know?” Roy manages, not at all certain. He watches Jamie’s throat move as he swallows.

“I can work with that. So what, you never thought about it?”

Jamie doesn’t wait for an answer, which is something Roy always appreciated about him. When he wants something, he just goes out and fucking takes it.

Now it’s Roy’s turn. He’s wanted, he’s being kissed. Jamie’s hands are freezing cold on the side of his face, delicate, a bit shaky. His lips are cold, too, and soft. Roy keeps his eyes open—he can see the flutter of Jamie’s eyelashes over his cheeks, the softness of his features as he sighs into the kiss like he’s committing this moment to memory. Nervous as hell but he went for it anyway, and Roy is filled with sweeping affection for this beautiful earnest boy, so much warmth—his body goes slack as he melts. He opens his mouth against Jamie’s. Unbidden, a rough breath makes its way past his lips.

It’s a slow kiss, tender and not even a little bit dirty, but there’s something about the raw happiness on Jamie’s face when he pulls back that reaches inside Roy’s chest and squeezes. He hadn’t looked half as happy out there on the pitch.

“Yeah?” Jamie’s smile is slow, cautious. They’re looking at each other; he runs his hand through his hair and huffs. “C’mon mate, give me something to work with. I can’t keep doing all the work here.”

“All the work about what?”

“You know, reading your eyebrows, interpreting the grunts, body science. I’m like the Roy Kent translator. Was that—I mean, it was good, right? You’d be into that?”

“I didn’t…” He doesn’t mean to lick his lips; it just happens, Jamie’s eyes follow it, his face bright and pale in the shadows. “I haven’t—you asked if I thought about it, and I haven’t, but I haven’t not thought about it, either.”

Jesus, that’s one shitty sentence. Jamie still soaks it in like it’s poetry.

“Oh, thought so. Good.” He’s smiling, nodding, messing up his hair even more. “Weren’t sure, ‘cos you’re always so intense, and watching me is sort of your job, but I figured… was going to wait, you know, but you kept throwing me all those longing looks, and you called me gorgeous, so I thought I’d go for it.”

“I meant your fucking game, you muppet.”

“Same thing, innit?” Whatever goes through Roy’s face at that makes him laugh. “Thought so.”

“It’s not like…”

“No, I get it. It’s the complete package that gets you going. So...” He shoves his hands under the coat again. “Would it be alright if, like, we did that again? ‘Cos you did say I should get to choose what we’re doing, and I think what we should do is each—”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Roy says, quite heroically, half-expecting Jamie’s face to fall. It doesn’t.

“Right. ‘Cos, if we fucked, that would make things at work weird.”

Thoughts of Jamie and fucking in close proximity are something Roy has never let himself consider, therapy or not therapy; it feels dangerous to let his mind truly go there. Now, of course, he can’t fucking help thinking about it.

“Right,” he says, unhappy. Jamie gives a beatific nod, like he’s indulging the old fart.

“Like they aren’t weird already?”

What the fuck. “They aren’t,” Roy shoots back, almost outraged. He’s made damn sure of that.

“Not bad weird! Just weird. Roy, you—you’ve been really great with the team lately, you know that? ‘Cos, it’s like you can’t say anything nice to me until you’ve told something nice to five other people first, so you’re all encouraging and shit. All the lads are like, Oh, shit, Roy said I did good! It’s fucking great for morale, now that they’ve decided it weren’t psychopath behaviour—”

“Lovely.”

“—so, y’know, can’t see what would be different if we actually did something about… all of this.”

Another of those sweeping tour guide gestures, this time encompassing only Roy and Jamie and the terrifying magnitude of the feeling about to crush them.

“Jamie,” Roy breathes, just as Jamie leans in—Roy can only think that he’s about to be kissed again, but Jamie settles in a comfortable slouch, his forehead pressed into Roy’s shoulder.

“When we do something together, that’s always the best part of my day, you know that? I wake up in the morning and I’m fucking excited to do sprint intervals just ‘cos we’ll get to talk about it later. When I get good news I can’t wait to tell you. It’s just, I’m proper fucking gone on you.”

“Jamie.” This time, it has the weight of a confession. Roy wishes he could see Jamie’s face right now, but he likes this even more—the press of Jamie’s face nestled in the crook of his neck, like he’s sharing a secret meant just for him.

Roy’s arms reach out to lace around Jamie’s back, holding tight.

“Freaking out, aren’t you? Emotions too big?”

“Oh, fuck off—”

“There it is.”

“I’m not,” Roy says. “I’m not freaking out.”

“Oh.” Jamie straightens up from his half-slumped hug so he can stare Roy in the face. “True, that. Good.”

“I’m just thinking.”

“Is that very hard for you?” Jamie asks, all sympathetic, like. “‘Cos it’s fucking cold and we’re just standing here—could be doing something to warm me up.”

And then he sticks his fucking freezing hand inside the collar of Roy’s coat, making him jump.

“Fuck’s sake,” Roy grumbles, but once he gets used to it, it’s nice—Jamie’s splayed-open hand on the back of his neck, Jamie’s face so close that their noses are about to bump into each other.

“What you thinking about?”

They’re so close, breaths mingling.

“I think about you all the time. I think you know that already...” That gets him one of those quick little smiles, and Roy can’t even feel self-conscious about all the corny shit spilling from his lips. “I felt so fucking privileged earlier, that you decided to ditch everyone else and do shit with me. I like being around you. You’re—you’re lovely.”

“Roy.” There’s a kiss to the corner of his mouth, quick and butterfly-light.

“And you’re a fucking great footballer.” Not the most important thing but, Jamie said it. Complete package.

“Obviously,” Jamie grins, that cocky swagger he puts on when he’s about to fall apart. “And also you really want to shag me, right.”

Roy hums. He studies Jamie’s face, brushes the back of his knuckles down Jamie’s cheek. He hasn’t thought about it in detail—wouldn’t let himself indulge—but he knows what he’s about.

“Want to fuck your mouth,” he hears himself say. “Pull on your stupid fucking hair and fuck your throat until your voice’s a wreck, and you’ve got tears in your eyes. Strip you naked. Want to bite your thighs and eat you out for hours. I want to make you beg me to let you come.” It’s like he thought. Once the words start spilling out, he can’t fucking stop. Fucking Christ. “And I’d fuck you, yeah.”

He takes a certain satisfaction in the way Jamie sways on his feet like he’s drunk, flushed even in the dark.

“Fucking mint, yeah. We should do all that.”

Then his mouth’s on Roy’s again, warm and open, fucking demanding. Jamie’s tongue pushing inside his mouth, Jamie’s wet lips moving with his own. Kisses under his jaw, down his throat, open-mouthed suction that makes him shiver. He nips at Roy’s bottom lip.

“Fucking stop saying my hair’s stupid, you fucking wanker, I know you’re into it,” Jamie mutters, all fired up and magnificent. “Wanna fuck your mouth so you’ll fucking shut up about it.” Roy laughs. Jamie’s kisses get even more aggressive.

It goes on for a while, a filthy affair with tongue and grinding and everything, until they’re both breathless and tugging at clothes that should be dry-clean only, and they pull apart with some regret.

“You want to wank me off in the Amstelpark at half past one in the morning? ‘Cos I think that’s what we’re headed for, if we keep on going like this.”

Roy’s dick shouldn’t like that thought as much as it does. “Well, that’s your fucking fault, isn’t it?” He doesn’t know if he’s talking to Jamie or down to his crotch.

He takes a very regretful step back, but tugs on Jamie’s hand as he goes, just to maintain some of that skin contact. Feels nice; so does Jamie’s laugh.

“This is going so much better than I thought it would,” he informs Roy, looking delighted and so fucking smug. Then, “I really would’ve been fucking happy just hanging out tonight, you know? I mean, I'm dead fucking glad I went for it, but we don’t have to fuck, or nothing—like, we should at some point, but…”

He sounds so very earnest, like he didn’t just rub his clothed cock all over Roy’s thigh in a public park and got him hard right before they have to ride on fucking bicycles.

“Oi.” He tugs at Jamie’s hand to get his attention. “Offer still stands. You choose. We can go to that café with the pavement tables and fucking talk about historical facts, or we can go to the hotel and do whatever you want. Or we could… get one of those fucking houseboats, like Rebecca’s boytoy’s got, or whatever.” Then he says, “Your chat-up game is shit, just so you know.”

“Worked, though, didn’t it?” He licks his fucking lips, fingers tightening around Roy’s. “Hotel. We can do the history shit next time.”

Next time. They’re never escaping fucking Amsterdam. Roy finds that he doesn’t even mind.