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Roy always knew the prick signal would go wrong someday; he just didn’t realise exactly how fucking badly it would. Of course, it had to happen at Wembley. Jamie’s been through more highs and lows in this stadium than any one person should have to go through in their lifetime, let alone at the place all little English lads dreamed of playing at. Jamie’s memories should be of his England debut, and, hopefully someday, winning the FA Cup, not the first time he punched his Dad and the time he was almost stretchered off the pitch.
It was the final of the Caribou Cup, and Newcastle was leading one-nil. This was the first time the Greyhounds had made it this far, and they weren’t giving up without a fight. But with fifteen minutes left in regulation, Roy broke the glass over the in-case of emergency button and pushed. He gave Jamie the signal.
Over the years, Jamie’s gotten the prick signal less and less because, most of the time, it was innate now. Jamie knew when he needed to be a prick and when he needed to switch from team player to one-man wrecking ball. Most of the time, Jamie didn’t even need to try to get under the skin of the other team, with his skill and his inherent Jamie-ness, he lived there permanently.
But Roy gave Jamie the signal anyway, and the Prince Prick of all Pricks lived up to his name, quickly agitating one of Newcastle’s defenders, a giant Swede named Forsberg. Roy didn’t know what Jamie said, couldn’t hear from his white-lined prison on the sidelines or read lips from the distance, but the two spent the next ten minutes lightly shoving each other and mouthing off. Jamie kept a shit-eating grin on his face the entire time, at least until he didn’t, at least until the grin turned to a grimace.
Jan Maas sent a skyward pass that both Jamie and the Forsberg tracked, racing each other to get there first. Maybe it would’ve happened even if Jamie hadn’t gotten the signal, but Roy would never know. Would the defender have reacted the same way if Jamie hadn’t spent the last ten minutes riling him up? Or would he have always chosen to attempt to hip-check Jamie out of the way of the ball?
Jamie wasn’t expecting it; he was watching the ball as it soared through the sky and then bounced in front of him. His legs pumped as he raced to it, and his foot connected with the ball just as the defender’s body slammed into him. Jamie fell fast and hard onto his shoulder, unprepared to break his fall as the ball whooshed into the back of the net. Jamie’s body rolled with the force, eventually coming to rest face down on the pitch.
Roy thought some of the Greyhounds, Richard and maybe Sam, or the new lad on loan from Brighton, Anderson, went directly at the Newcastle player, challenging him for the foul before the ref showed him a red card, but he doesn’t know. Roy didn’t take his eyes off Jamie, so he only saw Colin and Dani surround their fallen teammate and motion for the medical staff. While still in clear pain, Jamie managed to pull his knees under him, but his face was pressed into the pitch, his left hand held a white-knuckled grip on the grass.
“Get up. Get up. Get the fuck up,” Roy whispered under his breath as if he could will the Mancunian to stand, to be okay, through pure thought alone.
After an eternity, the physios, Alison and Nolan, guided Jamie onto his back and then into a sitting position. Even from a distance, Roy could see Jamie was pale with pain and dishevelled, grass stuck to his sweaty forehead. Alison pulled out the magic spray, covering Jamie’s right shoulder area with it. Nolan held Jamie’s arm tight to his body as Alison rolled the bottom of his kit around it in a makeshift sling. Each movement by the physios, intended to ease Jamie’s pain, sent stabs of guilt through Roy like a million knives as he watched helplessly from the sidelines.
He shouldn’t have called the prick signal; he should have trusted Jamie and the team to score on their own. Jamie tied the match for the Hounds, but at what cost? Even if Jamie weren’t injured badly, which seemed less and less likely with every second that passed with Jamie grimacing on the pitch, he’d be unavailable for penalties should the match remain tied.
The internal struggle of worry for Jamie and concern about the match fought in Roy’s mind. It was fucking Sparta in there, and Roy worried both sides were losing. Roy clenched and unclenched his fists, vaguely aware of the instructions Beard gave behind him. He hated the helpless feeling when one of his players was hurt and hated it more when it was Jamie. A different guilt crept in at that and made him feel like somehow it meant he was failing both Jamie and the rest of the team.
Careful of Jamie’s injured side, the two physios pulled Jamie to his feet. The crowd clapped politely as Jamie swayed when he was upright. Jamie said something to Sam, but Sam shook his head. Jamie became more determined, and motioned his head aggressively at his uninjured shoulder, at his left arm, the one with the captain band wrapped around it. Sam shook his head again but did as Jamie asked, carefully removing the ban from Jamie’s functioning arm. It felt wrong somehow, someone else removing it for him when Jamie couldn’t with his other arm strapped tightly to his body.
Jamie had worn it since Isaac left for AC Milan in the off-season, entrusting it to Jamie. Any chance he got, Jamie handed it to Sam. This time, though, Sam didn’t relish it; there was no playful banter like Jamie told Roy about all those years ago when Isaac climbed into the stands to defend his best friend’s honour. Sam said something to Jamie before he carefully wrapped the band around his own arm, and Roy could see it suddenly felt like a weight to the younger man. Jamie clapped him on the back and continued towards Roy.
There had been another time, another match, another year, another universe, where Jamie stepped over a potentially injured Sam and ended up in a shoving match with Roy. The roles of the three were as different now as the men were. Some days, Roy could hardly believe that version of Jamie ever existed after years of this Jamie in his life. Jamie could still be a prick, but now he was their prick.
Alison and Nolan’s firm hands guided Jamie towards where Roy was waiting, heart in his throat, his brain playing the greatest hits of all the times over the years Jamie had been injured under his watch. Maybe they should’ve gotten the stretcher, Roy thought belatedly, wondering if he’d gotten softer in his old age or if he just cared more about his player’s bodies now than he ever did his own.
Gonzalez subbed in.
The match resumed.
Roy fought his rising panic.
Roy fought his rising panic, and his anger. The anger he’d worked so hard over the years to tame was bubbling like a long-dormant volcano, ready to erupt and destroy all those within a hundred-kilometre radius. He wanted to wrap his hands around Forberg’s throat and squeeze until the Swede’s eyes popped from his skull, but he couldn’t do that. But the Newcastle defender wasn’t the only one whom Roy felt ire towards.
He was pissed at Jamie right now, too. Pissed that the muppet had wormed his way into Roy’s heart years ago. Pissed, he forced his way into a tiny crevice and made it a chasm big enough for Sam, and Isaac and Colin and every other Greyhound under his charge over the years. Because now he cared about them. Now he had to worry about them. Now he had to worry about Jamie.
Fuck.
Roy probably should’ve stayed with the team. But he was manager now, so that meant he would have gone with any one of them had they been bundled off the hospital the minute the match ended like Jamie was.
Newcastle scored three minutes into injury time, and the Greyhounds never made it down the other end of the pitch. They were distracted after losing Jamie, and Roy couldn't blame them. He’d been distracted, too. Still was. Newcastle was likely still celebrating at Wembley, and the Greyhounds were on a sombre bus back to Nelson Road.
He was disappointed, of course, but part of Roy, the part of his brain rewired around Jamie Tartt, was relieved they lost. He couldn’t stand another night while the Hounds celebrated and Jamie iced his injured body, sacrificed to the cause. Somehow, he thinks the hospital wouldn’t be too fond of champagne being smuggled to their patient, so that celebration would’ve been out, too
Not that Jamie could enjoy champagne right now, laying on a gurney, right arm strapped to his chest, collarbone and shoulder covered by ice and an elastic bandage. He looked uncomfortable and tired, and Roy inwardly winced in sympathy. Between the adrenaline crash after playing almost a full match and the painkillers, Jamie was barely functioning. Roy tried to push some carbs into him, but Jamie was nauseous from the painkillers.
Jamie needed carbs, and they were fast approaching the midnight cutoff where he wouldn’t be able to eat with surgery scheduled for the morning.
A kind nurse called for a doctor what seemed like hours ago, hoping to give Jamie some anti-nausea meds to settle his stomach and let him eat something. Didn’t these twats know he needed all his strength to recover? That meant eating fucking food. Fuck he wished they were at Ruth’s hospital. Roy was mentally preparing all the lost calories he would fill Jamie with tomorrow when a quiet voice pulled Roy from his culinary plans.
“Roy?”
“Yeah, Jamie, I’m right here. You’re okay”
Jamie was in and out of it ever since they made it to hospital. Every few minutes, he’d become agitated or scared, and Roy wished they could perform the surgery tonight so he wouldn’t be so upset. But the best orthopaedic surgeon, the one recommended by everyone Roy called, wasn’t available until tomorrow morning.
“I’m scared, Roy. Never had surgery before.”
Jamie shifted, then hissed. He eyed the door to the room warily but whether he was thinking about fleeing or who would be coming through the door, Roy was unsure. Jamie was on too many pain meds to have a clear conversation. Roy thought of reminding Jamie that his father couldn’t be coming through the door, but Roy wasn’t about to bring up James Tartt if Jamie hadn’t thought of him on his own. Ghosts were hard enough to vanquish; Roy didn’t need to summon them.
“They’re gonna fix you up, brand new. I promise.”
Roy ran his hand through Jamie’s sweaty mop of hair. He’d seen Keeley do it earlier before she left to pick up some clothes for the both of them, and Jamie seemed to relax into it, so he tried to mimic the action in an attempt to calm him down.
Jamie would be fine. The doctor reviewed Jamie’s x-rays over the phone and assured Roy he performed surgeries like this all the time. It wasn’t a complicated break, but the recovery could be, with higher rates of non-union with conservative treatment. Jamie’s broken clavicle just needed a few pins to stabilise the fracture and help it heal faster. And they all knew Jamie would be crawling the walls trying to get back onto the pitch, so the faster, the better. When it came to broken bones and footballers, a fractured clavicle was better than an ankle or a leg, but it wouldn’t make it any easier on Jamie.
“They’re gonna fix you up, brand new. I promise,” Roy repeated.
“Roy, what if they operate on the wrong arm or, like, my leg or something? I saw a show once where they cut off the wrong leg on a guy,” Jamie’s eyes were frantic. “What if they cut off me leg, Roy?”
“They’re not gonna cut off your fucking leg,” Roy said, fingers running quickly through Jamie’s hair, again trying to calm him down through sheer will alone. “They’ll write on you so they know what to operate on.”
“Don’t you find that a bit worrying that they can’t figure it out without that? Like, should we trust them if they can’t figure out what to fucking operate on?” Jamie gestured at himself with his unsecured left hand.
Roy paused, his hand stuck halfway through Jamie’s hair. Fair point. Anyone could see the bump on Jamie’s collarbone that wasn’t supposed to be there. He didn’t need Ruth’s MD for that.
Jamie hit Roy’s hand away. “And stop running your hand through me hair. You’re gonna mess it up more than it already is.”
So much for that tactic.
“I’m trying to comfort you,” Roy complained.
Jamie blinked against the harsh lighting of the emergency room and shifted on the gurney, wincing as he did so.
“Well, stop. It’s making me feel weird.”
“That’s the pain medication.”
“Or it’s me best friend being a fucking weirdo when all I need from him is to just fucking be here.”
Jamie stuck his tongue out, and Roy couldn’t help but smile. Maybe just being there was comfort enough; he didn’t need to try to fill Keeley’s shoes. He’d never be able to walk in those five-inch monstrosities with his knee anyway.
The night passed both slowly and quickly for Roy and undoubtedly slowly for Jamie, who had a fitful sleep with nurses waking him all hours for checks Roy couldn’t imagine were needed and that Ruth would assure him were necessary.
“They’re gonna fix you up, brand new. I promise,” Roy reminded Jamie in the morning when he’s wheeled away and Roy’s left to wait. He hated the wait.
The next time he saw Jamie, he’d be fixed. The next time he saw Jamie, he would be alright. Everything was going to be alright.
Everything was not alright.
“Shit! Fuck! Roy! Come quick, I need help! Please! Fuck! Hurry!”
Roy rushed back into Jamie’s living room faster than he thought his knee could go. He hadn’t been gone long, just downstairs to put some laundry in the dryer and another load in, but Roy had only heard this certain timbre of hysteria once in Jamie’s voice, and he was desperate to save Jamie from the level of despair he was in then. Jamie had gone pale by the time he was in, Roy’s eyeline, and Roy followed quickly out of fear. What had the muppet done to himself?
“It ripped, shit, fuck, they’re not supposed to rip. You have to call Ruth. Please,” Jamie begged, eyes wide and red.
Why was Jamie crying? They were watching television when Roy left and had been for an hour, mainly in silence, but Jamie hadn’t moved. Roy’s strides cut the distance to Jamie quickly, and he took in the younger man. Jamie had tears streaming down his face and his stuffed shark held tightly against his chest with his good arm. Jamie had been cuddling with him since he was released from the hospital the day before, using the shark to support the arm stuck in a sling or just cuddling the stuffed toy when he wanted.
“He said it hurts, Roy. You have to help him.”
Jamie’s pupils were so large Roy could hardly see any of the grey of Jamie’s eyes. Had he taken more pain medication when Roy was doing laundry? Was he delirious from pain and oxy, and he thought he was the shark?
“Okay, let me see,” Roy said gently, using the voice he’d use on Phoebe when she skinned her knee and he needed to coax her hands away so he could clean it properly.
Jamie looked unsure; he squeezed the shark tighter against his chest before eventually deciding he could trust Roy and slowly handed the animal to Roy.
Roy saw the problem right away. He was so worried he would see a swath of red on Jamie’s shoulder where his stitches were, he was relieved to see only white stuffing falling from one of the shark’s fins. Roy laughed; he was so relieved.
“Oi! What the fuck are you laughing at? This is serious!”
“Jamie, it's just a little rip. I can fix it; let me get the sewing kit.”
Jamie ripped the shark back from Roy, a look of disgust on his face.
“You?” Jamie scoffed. “You’re not a fucking doctor. Call Ruth and tell her we need her right now. Right fucking now, Roy. I can feel him fading.”
The tears returned to Jamie’s eyes as quickly as they stopped. He was rocking slightly now, on the verge of hysteria. Roy was worried he might do something stupid and rip his stitches for real. It was bad enough Jamie kept forgetting and attempting to use his right arm despite the sling; Roy didn’t need to have to call Ruth if Jamie really needed her to fix his stitches.
“Okay, okay, I’ll call Ruth,” Roy conceded, taking his phone out. She would be annoyed, but she would come. She always came. Roy still didn’t understand why Jamie was so agitated and seemingly high. “Did you take more of your pain meds?”
“What? No,” Jamie looked at Roy incredulously as he walked to the table, the shark still clutched tightly against him, knuckles white. He slowly put down the shark and grabbed a piece of brownie off the tray on the table. The brownies had been there all morning since Kenneth, the bus driver, dropped by. Jamie had one after lunch, said he wanted to be polite while Kenneth was there. Roy hadn’t had any yet.
“Jamie, how many of those did you eat?” Roy asked as he held his ringing phone to his ear.
“Three, why? I mean, I just had one, then had another two when you started laundry because I got hungry.”
“Ruth? Yeah, can you get to Jamie’s now? Like right fucking now. It’s an emergency.”
Jamie finished the bite of brownie as Roy took the tray away.
“Hey, what the fuck? I’m not done. I’m fucking starving.”
“Oh, course you’re hungry, you muppet,” Roy sighed. “You’re fucking high.”
“He’s in good hands. Ruth is fucking amazing at what she does. She’s going to have him back to you in no time, Jamie.”
“Roy,” Ruth said, looking from the shark to Roy to Jamie and back to Roy. “I went to medical school–”
“Exactly why you’re here.”
“You told me it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency, Ruth,” Jamie interjected, gnawing at his knuckle nervously.”You have to help him.”
Ruth glanced down at the stuffed shark on the table in front of her. She couldn’t believe she was about to do this. Technically, this wasn’t anything she hadn’t done for Phoebe, but Phoebe wasn’t 28 years old like Jamie. 28 years old and apparently high out of his mind.
“Okay, fine. Jamie, he’ll–”
“Don’t tell me, tell him, tell Lenny,” Jamie interrupted, pointed a finger of his hand not in the sling at the stuffed animal, then resumed biting his finger.
“Lenny?”
Jamie nodded vigorously.
“Don’t worry, Jamie, Mummy is going to take good care of him,” Phoebe said.
Ruth had a moment of appreciation for her empathetic daughter and then took a deep breath. Roy took care of Phoebe all the time; she told herself, you can do this for his friend. Play along. Jamie’s a good lad. If this would make him feel better, she would do it, though she was a bit worried at how high he was. One problem at a time.
She patted the shark gently. “We’re gonna fix you up, brand new. I promise.”
Jamie nodded along exaggeratedly next to her. She began to carefully stitch the rip in the side of the shark, using real sutures at Jamie’s insistence, making sure to return any stuffing to its original place. Three pairs of concerned eyes watched her. Well, two pairs watched her, and the other watched Jamie.
Ruth’s mind filled with questions while she sewed. What was with the shark? How had it gotten ripped? And why was Jamie so high?
Ruth finished and looked to Jamie. “All done. He’ll need rest, but Lenny is good as new.”
“Don’t you need to cover the stitches?” Jamie asked.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Right, yes,” Ruth said as she rummaged through the medical bag she brought thinking this was an actual emergency. She wrapped the shark’s fin and taped the gauze in place. “Now how about you, Phoebe and Lenny, relax on the couch while I talk with Uncle Roy?”
“Thanks, Ruth. We owe you,” Jamie smiled.
Roy placed his hand under Jamie’s uninjured elbow and helped him to stand while Phoebe gently picked up the stuffed shark. Phoebe took Jamie’s left hand in hers and led him to the couch. Once they were settled, Ruth turned to her brother for answers.
“Did he take extra pain medication? Or is this a bad reaction?”
“He’s high. Off weed brownies. Accidentally.”
Ruth’s eyebrows migrated to her hairline. “What? How?”
“Kenneth brought over brownies. He insisted they were fine, but he must’ve mixed them up.”
“Roy, you keep saying people’s names like I know who the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Kenneth, the bus driver, you know him,” Roy insisted. “Remember I took you to his drag show for your birthday?”
“Oh, right! Great show. How many brownies did he have?”
“Three. I called Kenneth, he said they were for a friend so they weren’t as strong as he usually makes them thankfully.”
“Oh fuck,” Ruth said, looking at Jamie, who was caressing the face of the shark. “He must be high out of his mind with the way he’s touching the shark’s face.”
“No, that, unfortunately, is just normal, Jamie,” Roy sighed. “He’s okay, right? He’s not going to OD or anything, right?”
“He seems okay. Make sure he stays hydrated,” Ruth said. “I have to go to work. If his breathing starts to get shallow, then call 999, but he seems okay. Are you sure Phoe’s good to stay with you two here? Keeley said she could stay with her.”
“Yeah, she’s good.”
“Thank you. I owe you.”
“I think we can call it even for you rushing over to stitch up a fucking stuffed animal.”
Ruth laughed and reached up to hug her brother and then walked to the couch to say goodbye to Phoebe and Jamie. Phoebe sat on the couch, and Jamie was a few feet away, pillow supporting his injured side. Between them sat the newly stitched Lenny the shark, only now with a makeshift sling securing his fin to his chest, much like Jamie’s arm was fastened to his.
“Phoe, did you do this?” Ruth asked, taking in Phoebe’s handiwork. She’d taken a triangular bandage from the first aid kit and wrapped it around the shark’s neck, cradling the newly stitched fin. Phoebe nodded. “Well done, poppet.”
“Thanks, Mummy.”
Ruth kissed Phoebe on the forehead and ruffled Jamie’s hair before grabbing the first aid bag and heading for the door.
“Good luck, Roy. Love you all.”
Roy thought Ruth was joking when she wished him luck. Turns out, he needed it. A semi-high, Jamie, and a Phoebe indulging his every high thought meant Roy was at not only Jamie’s beck-and-call but also the beck-and-call of a stuffed fucking shark.
Phoebe, Jamie and Lenny all needed snacks.
Phoebe, Jamie and Lenny all needed drinks.
Phoebe, Jamie and Lenny all needed blankets.
Phoebe, Jamie and Lenny all needed to give Roy a fucking break.
This is why when Jamie and Phoebe decided they should have a sleepover, Roy readily agreed so he can relax after the two, or, three, counting the fucking stuffed shark, are all in bed for the night. Roy has never inflated a blow-up mattress so fast in his life before tucking Phoebe snuggly under the covers. Roy repeated the process with Jamie, ensuring he was properly propped in bed so he didn’t roll in the night and could stay as comfortable as possible with his injury.
Jamie cleared his throat loudly when Roy stood up. “What about Lenny? You didn’t tuck him in.”
“He’s already under the fucking covers,” Roy rolled his eyes.
Jamie pouted, “Yeah, but you didn’t tuck him in. He’s injured too, you know.”
“Fine,” Roy ground out and walked around the bed to tuck the stuffed shark into the bed properly. He kissed Phoebe on the forehead before reaching for the light. “Night, Phoebe. Night Jamie.”
“What about Jamie?” Phoebe asked. “You didn’t kiss him goodnight.”
You’re almost done, Roy. Just do what they ask for a few more minutes.
Roy walked to Jamie and gave him a kiss on the forehead. This time Phoebe cleared her throat loudly.
“What now?” Roy grumbled.
“Lenny!” Jamie and Phoebe said simultaneously.
So Roy kissed the fucking stuffed shark on the fucking forehead and eventually turned the fucking light off.
“Goodnight Phoebe. Goodnight Jamie. Goodnight Lenny. Love you all.”
“Goodnight Roy!”
“Goodnight Uncle Roy!”
“Night muppets.”
Roy shut the door to giggles on the other side. No way they would be asleep anytime soon.
Ruth let herself into Jamie’s house the next morning with the key under the not very well hid hide-a-key. She planned to take a cat nap on the couch until everyone woke up. Instead, she found Phoebe asleep on an air mattress, Roy and Jamie sleeping on opposite ends of Jamie’s couch, Lenny tucked under a blanket between them.
When Roy called Ruth from the hospital after Jamie was injured, he kept begging Ruth to tell him it would be okay. She told him it would because that was her job as both his sister and as a doctor. But looking at the three of them today, four if she counted the fucking shark, well, now she knew it was true. Everything was going to be alright.