Chapter Text
It starts on the pitch, because of course it fucking does, and they’re playing Man City at the Etihad, because of course they fucking are, and Jamie is playing beautifully, because of course he fucking is.
It’s always the pitch and it’s always City and it’s always Jamie playing beautifully.
Really, with all of their history with City, Roy thinks he should have expected for this game to change his life. Perhaps not in this way, exactly, but somehow.
And yet.
—
In the five years since Ted’s final season at Richmond, the team hasn’t changed much.
There have been some changes, of course— players have transferred, retired, and gone out on loan, their coming and going making Roy realise just how mushy he is nowadays. Sam was approached by Inter Milan during last summer’s transfer window, and he made Roy cry when he called to break the news that he had accepted their offer. Richard is at PSG, where he helped to lead them to their first Champions League win the season before and made Roy burst with pride. Bhargava and Roberts are both at Villa and delight in causing problems for Richmond every time they face off. Jan Maas is at Bayern, though it’s like he’s still at Richmond considering he sends Roy thirty minute long voice memos after every match they play, critiquing Richmond and Joey Carroll, the twenty-two year old Chelsea academy star who replaced him. O’Brien hung up his gloves and joined Arsenal’s training staff after yet another season on the bench rehabbing his hamstring. McCracken had to retire after a series of injuries left his right hip sore and aching even on the best days, and Rosenfeldt called it quits after his wife had their third child.
But for the most part, they’ve stayed. No matter how many clubs are interested in them, no matter how many offers cross Roy’s desk, no matter that there are bigger clubs out there that can offer better facilities and higher pay than Richmond can, Roy’s players stay right where they are.
They make the news frequently, given how stagnant their roster is— it’s unusual for teams to have as little movement as they’ve had. Roy’s asked about it during pressers a lot, too, and he never quite knows what to say. Doesn’t know how to say that he loved Chelsea and always will, but Richmond is different. It just has something special. It has the spark, the drive, the belief that other clubs just don’t.
It’s what keeps them going even as they get older. There’s more injuries these days, more grey hairs popping up, more tired groans and sore muscles than there were a few years ago, and each season gets a little bit harder than the last. But they’re making it work, playing like they’ve got something to prove even after winning the league twice and a handful of FA Cups.
And it shows, considering they’ve been neck and neck with City all season. Now it’s the final match of the season, they’re playing City away, and Richmond is so close to their third title that Roy can taste it.
They’re up 2-1 with three minutes of added time left, and while he isn’t about to say anything to jinx it, since it’s fucking City, he thinks the game is as good as theirs. With the way Richmond is playing— with the way Jamie is playing, especially— City won’t be getting anywhere near the goal in the last few minutes.
Because Jamie is a force to be reckoned with on the field tonight. Roy doesn’t really know what’s gotten into him, but he’s playing the best he’s ever played. He’s making all the right passes, finding all the best openings, stealing the ball right out from under City’s feet, and dancing around them like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
And, of course, he’s scored both of their goals.
Not even because he’s being a prick and trying to take them for himself. If he was doing that, Roy might not be so impressed. But no, he took them because he was there, because he really was the best person to take the shot, because the team is working together so well that the ball is passed to every player before it eventually makes its way back to him.
Roy is— well, he’s happy, he supposes, and there’s more pride in his chest than he knows what to do with.
And really, all he wants for the last few minutes is for the team to keep City away from the goal. That’s all he can possibly ask of them, and all he really expects.
But Jamie Tartt, it seems, has other plans that he didn’t inform Roy of.
As Foden goes to pass the ball with a minute and a half left on the clock, Jamie swoops in and steals it for himself like some sort of fucking… Walnut mist-ed, orange clad, football playing angel.
“Fuck,” Roy says in awe, because at this point in their friendship he knows the prick well enough to know exactly what Jamie is going to do. His heart flips in his chest.
Jamie fucking Tartt.
“What?” Nate asks at Roy’s side, looking frantically between Roy and Jamie as he tries to figure out what Roy has already seen. “What’s he doing?”
“Just watch,” Roy says, biting down the smile that he feels tugging at his lips. “It’ll be better that way.”
Jamie darts around Lewis, who had been going for a tackle, and kicks the ball over to Bumbercatch. There’s a blur of passing after that, the ball going from Bumbercatch to Colin to Isaac to Carroll to Dani, but Roy doesn’t really pay that much attention. He’s too busy watching Jamie, who has placed himself right at the centre of the pitch, completely open because the rapid passing of the ball is keeping City busy while they try to intercept.
It’s a rookie mistake, especially for City, and Roy already knows it’s going to cost them— with Jamie Tartt on the field, mistakes like that can’t be afforded.
Dani passes it back to Jamie.
Jamie pulls his leg back.
His right foot, which Roy so long ago joked was kissed by God, hits the ball.
It soars through the air as Roy thinks, Fuck, I love him.
The ball hits the back of the net.
And at thirty years old, Jamie Tartt becomes a fucking legend, winning Richmond their third title in four years with a hat trick scored all the way from the center line and thirty seconds left on the clock.
At forty-five years old, Roy Kent realises he’s in love with his best friend.
(And he’s surprised, yeah, but mostly all he can think is that it feels fucking right. That saying it to himself feels like sliding on a well worn jacket, like stepping onto the pitch, like coming home.
He’s in love with Jamie Tartt.)
The stadium erupts. The crowd is deafening, everyone screaming Jamie’s stupid chant at the top of their lungs even if he’s not one of theirs, because they know they just watched history be made. The team is sprinting to hug him, all of them screaming and cheering and swarming him as he just stands there, laughing with his head tipped up to the sky in what Roy knows is pride mixed with just a touch of disbelief. Nate and Beard are losing their minds at Roy’s side, yelling and hugging each other as the reality of what just happened sinks in.
Roy doesn’t pay attention to any of it. All he can think about is Jamie, all he has eyes for is Jamie, all he wants is to be close to Jamie. It’s like they’re the only people in the world, the way he’s so unaware of everything else except for Jamie and his smile and the line of his throat as he laughs.
He’s always been drawn to Jamie, always seeking him out, attuned to his location, finding him the same way a sunflower finds the sun and all that poetic shit— and Jesus Christ is he fucking thick, to have missed it all these years— but this… He doesn’t really have words for this.
‘Cause he’s proud, yeah, but he’s also drowning in how much he loves Jamie, and he can’t believe it took this long for him to realise, and he’s suddenly desperate to get his lips and hands on Jamie, and he wants to rush to him at the same time as he wants to go hide and reevaluate the past eight years that they’ve known each other, and he’s as thrown by the revelation as he is settled, and—
And from the middle of the pitch, surrounded by his teammates, Jamie’s eyes find Roy’s. He smiles when he sees Roy already looking at him, one of those small genuine ones that Roy’s become so familiar with these last few years.
Just like that, Roy knows.
All the away games where Jamie sat next to him on the coach, all the early morning training sessions where Jamie was up and waiting for Roy, all the offseason holidays that they’ve taken together, all the meals they’ve shared and the movies they’ve watched and the days they’ve spent together.
Jamie is in love with him, too.
The smile Roy had been biting down bursts through, and he doesn’t even try to stop it.
Jamie— who just became a football legend, who has an entire stadium singing his name and yet only has eyes for Roy, whom Roy has been so fucking daft about— smiles right back.
—
Between the trophy, the locker room celebrations, the presser, and everyone wanting a piece of Jamie and the match ball he has tucked under his arm, Roy doesn’t get a chance to actually talk to him alone until long after the game is over.
Roy can’t honestly blame everyone for keeping Jamie from him— between the way he played tonight and winning the league, Jamie Tartt is going to go down in history. And he deserves all of the praise and congratulations that people are wanting to bestow upon him, too; he was fucking beautiful out there.
And yeah, Roy wants a chance to get him alone, to tell him that he’s finally caught up and realised what they’ve been doing all this time, to kiss him and make it obvious just how much loves him, but he can be patient. Everyone out there only gets to be with Jamie now. If Roy has his way, he’ll have Jamie by his side for the rest of his life.
Besides, he knows Jamie will come find him, eventually. They always finish the season out by getting a bottle of champagne and drinking it dry together, a combination of Roy hating going out to clubs and a tradition that started back when Jamie played City on a fucked ankle.
So he goes and takes care of his post match responsibilities— press, checking in with the other players, seeing if anyone’s injured or hurting, making sure they know he’s damn proud of how they played this season. He makes a plan to have a season debrief with Beard and Nate once they’re back in London, and answers the text Rebecca sent him thanking him for a great season (and showing City where they could stick it, but that’s as a friend rather than his boss).
Then he walks the short distance to the hotel they’re staying at, shooting Jamie a quick text to let him know where he’s going to be.
Once he’s back in his room and changed into a fresh black t-shirt and black sweats, he sits down on his bed and picks up his phone to make his customary post-match phone calls.
Phoebe picks up after the first ring, just as she always does, and greets him excitedly. “That was absolutely incredible, Uncle Roy! I knew you were going to win, but oh my god!”
He laughs, the sound of her voice soothing some of that restlessness that’s been sitting with him since his realisation. “Thanks, Phoebs. It was something else, huh?”
“All season, jockeying with City for first, and bam! You beat them three-one!”
“I know. I can hardly believe it. What did you think about Jamie tonight?”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” She basically shouts in his ear, and all Roy can do is laugh. “He was fucking incredible! I’ve never seen him play like that, ever. That last goal… I can’t wait to tell everyone that it was my Uncle Jamie who did that. You must be so proud of him.”
And really, the fact that Phoebe calls him Uncle Jamie should have clued Roy in, shouldn’t it have?
“Language, Phoebe,” he scolds lightheartedly— she’s thirteen now, after all, and fuck knows he was saying worse when he was thirteen. But he promised Sarah he’d try to stop her cursing, so he has to say something. “But I’ll let it slide, since you’re right. He was fucking incredible. And I am proud of him. I also—” He falters, the words getting caught in his throat from how much he means it, from how much he loves Jamie.
“You what, Uncle Roy?” Her voice is gentle. Knowing.
Of course she knew, he thinks. All those Uncle Days with Jamie sitting right there… She’s been trying to make him see it for years, always too smart for her own good, no matter if she was six or eight or thirteen.
“I also realised that I’m in love with him. Have been for a while, I’ve just been too fucking daft to see it.”
There’s silence on the phone, then— a scream of delight so loud it blasts out his fucking eardrum.
“Fucking hell, Phoebe!” He shouts, pulling his phone from his ear and putting it on speaker. “No need to be so fucking loud about it.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding very sorry at all. “I’m just really excited for you. I’ve been waiting for you to come around. What made you realise?”
“His hat trick,” he sighs. Perhaps it’s strange, to be having this conversation with his niece, but she’s the only one he can really imagine it happening with. She’s the most important person in his life, and for all that she’s put up with his grumpiness over the years, she deserves to hear something good from him. “I mean, I saw it coming the second he took the ball, but it took my breath away. It was just… Beautiful. He’s beautiful.”
“And funny, and charming, and talented, and you want to kiss him all the time—”
“Okay, that’s enough!” He cuts her off, though there’s a smile tugging at his lips.
“Fine, fine. But we both know I’m right.”
“Maybe, but I’m not gonna tell you all of that. You’re a fucking teenager.”
“Are you going to tell him, though?”
He lets out a long breath, leaning his head against the wall. “...Yeah, I am. Tonight, once he’s not being swarmed by everyone. I’ve barely even seen him since we got off the pitch, actually, it’s been so busy.”
“Well,” she says, and she sounds so much older than he remembers her being that his chest hurts for a moment, “it’s about time. He’s been waiting for you, you know.”
“Yeah, I know, Phoebs. I’ve been properly daft about him, haven’t I?”
“Just a bit. But at least you’re doing something about it now.”
“You’re too smart for your own good. Hey, listen. I’ve got to go, but I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Maybe Jamie and I can take you out for a fancy dinner or something.”
“I’d be good with just ice cream,” she says, reassuring him that she is still in fact the same little girl she’s always been. “But yeah, that would be nice. I love you, Uncle Roy. I’m glad you figured it out.”
“Goodnight, Phoebe. Love you.”
He hangs up then, and takes a minute to just breathe before he calls Keeley. She picks up quickly too, no doubt waiting for his call while sitting next to Rebecca, the two of them back in London so that they could support the women’s team while they took on Arsenal earlier in the day.
“Hiya, Roy! Congratulations on the title! I’m so proud of you. Jamie was incredible, wasn’t he? I could hardly believe my eyes.”
“Yeah, he did great,” he says, then cuts to the chase. “How long have you known that I’m in love with him?”
The line goes quiet except for the rustling of fabric, and he can just imagine her sitting upright, a pillow clutched to her chest as she looks at Rebecca with wide eyes. “Oh,” she says. “We’re doing this, then.”
“We’re fucking doing this.”
“Right. God, I wish I could see your face right now. Um, okay. I honestly think you’ve at least wanted to shag him since the beginning. You know, get out all that aggression and frustration?”
“Fucking hell,” he says faintly, wondering if calling her was a mistake.
“But being in love with him… Well, I don’t think that started until after you guys went to Amsterdam. I think somewhere amongst all of your gallivanting about at midnight and seeing windmills and shit, you started to fall in love with him. But I couldn’t really tell you a specific moment. It was just gradual, yeah?”
“Yeah. That’s— that makes sense.” He sighs, then confesses quietly, “I’ve been so fucking stupid about him. All this time, he’s always been stuck in my fucking head. And at first, yeah, it was hate. But now it’s like. I always want to be with him, and I just want him to be happy and achieve everything he dreams of, you know? It was so obvious. Or at least it sounds like it was obvious to everyone except for me.”
“Phoebe?”
“Phoebe,” he confirms.
“Yeah, she’s a firecracker, that one. But listen, Roy. You just… You tend to shut off emotions that scare you, remember? It’s what happened with us over and over again, and you must have done the same thing with your feelings for Jamie. It doesn’t make you stupid, though.”
“I know,” he groans, “Dr. Sharon would say the same fucking thing. I just… I feel like I wasted so much time. But I’m going to tell him tonight. I don’t want to wait anymore.”
“O— Oh.” Her voice hitches, but Roy doesn’t pay attention to it, because just then there’s a knock on his door. There’s only one person it could be, and the thought of Jamie standing on the other side of his door is enough to make all the air go right out of his lungs. “Roy, you should—”
“Hey, I’ve got to go, Keels. I’ll talk to you later.” He hangs up without waiting for her response, and rushes to open the door. “Jamie. Hi.”
Jamie grins right back and steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. He’s changed out of his kit and is now in a pair of trackies and a shirt that Roy is fairly certain is his, considering the fact that it’s a dark charcoal and has absolutely no other patterns or colour on it. How Jamie got it, Roy has no clue, but he’s the opposite of bothered. There’s a bottle of champagne in Jamie’s hand, too, and he sets it down on the desk as he walks past it.
He’s so beautiful, and Roy loves him so much, and it takes everything in him not to just step into his space and kiss him right now.
“Hey, Coach. Sorry I didn't get to talk to you much after the match, it was mad out there. I heard you saying goodbye, was that Keeley?”
“Yeah. She said you were incredible, and congratulations on the win.”
He smiles, that small pleased one he gets when he knows he’s made someone proud, and passes a hand through his hair. Roy has to force himself not to follow the motion with his eyes, captivated by him. That’s nothing new, but his awareness of the fluttering in his heart is, and Jesus fucking Christ, he’s thick. “Ah, it weren’t all that. Just some goals, yeah?”
Roy raises an eyebrow. “Tartt, you have never once been humble in your fucking life, don’t start now. What you did out there was fucking legendary and you know it. They’re going to be singing your praises in this league forever.”
Jamie’s cheeks go a delightful shade of red, and his smile grows even more. “Yeah, I guess it was pretty fucking mint, weren’t it? But I was just playing the game.”
“And you did. I mean, fuck, Jay, you were fucking incredible. I’ve never seen anything like it. That was the best you’ve ever played. I couldn’t take my fucking eyes off of you. Fucking… Beautiful. You’re beautiful.”
Jamie’s eyes go wide, flashing in recognition and hope, but Roy doesn’t give him a chance to talk before he continues.
“Wait, just give me a chance to say this, because if I don’t tell you now then I might never get it out. Watching you today, Jamie… I’ve never felt that way about anyone. I was so fucking proud of you, and the player and the man you’ve become. That was even before your hat trick. But then you made that goal, and everyone was cheering and celebrating but all I could think was that I’ve never wanted to kiss someone as badly as I wanted to kiss you then. And I realized I’ve been so fucking blind this whole time. The reason I’ve never really been able to figure out what I want is because you’re right in front of me, and I was looking anywhere but there.”
Jamie’s eyes are wide as saucers, and Roy tracks the bob of his throat as he swallows. When he speaks, his voice is shaky. “Roy, what are… What are you saying?”
“I love you, Jamie. I’m so fucking in love with you that I don’t know what to do with it, and I’m sorry I’ve been so fucking stupid. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to notice. But I’m here now, if you want me.”
“Roy, oh my god. Is this actually fucking happening? You’re in love with me? I’m not dreaming?”
Roy laughs a little, and takes a half step towards Jamie, whose brain he can practically see short-circuiting. This ridiculous, ridiculous man. Roy fucking adores him. “Yeah, babe, I am. Do I need to kiss you to make it obvious?”
“That…” Jamie’s tongue darts out to wet his lips before he smiles like the little shit he is. “That might be nice, yeah. Just to make sure I really get it and shit.”
And so Roy does— he steps right into Jamie’s space, grabs Jamie’s face between his hands, and kisses him.
He told Rebecca once that she deserved someone who made her feel like she was being struck by lightning, and kissing Jamie is exactly like that. It’s electric, all consuming, his world narrowing down to the press of Jamie’s lips against his and Jamie’s hands burning hot where they’re pressed against his hips.
He means for the kiss to stay relatively sweet, the way he thinks a first kiss should be, but then he gets a taste of the vanilla chapstick Jamie is always carrying around in his stupid fucking bum bag, and he can’t fucking keep it together. He just dives in, tugging Jamie as close as he can, kissing him hard and desperate, hands roaming over Jamie’s shoulders and torso, giving it everything he has as if this one moment can make up for all the time that they could have been doing this but weren’t.
Jamie kisses back just as fiercely, with the same intensity he brings to the field, and Roy feels like he’s drowning. The glide of their lips, the brush of their tongues, Jamie’s hands jumping between grabbing Roy’s bum and tangling in his hair as if he can’t decide what he wants to touch more, the small gasp Jamie lets out when Roy nips at his lip—
All the sudden, Jamie breaks away and is across the room before Roy even realises what’s happening, muttering to himself. “Wait, wait, wait. Fuck, wait.”
Roy is left feeling suddenly cold. He thought they were on the same page, but what if he got it wrong?
“Fuck,” he says, numb. “What, what’s wrong? Jamie, talk to me.”
“I can’t,” Jamie blurts out, and his eyes are so wide and sad, and Roy can already feel his heart breaking into pieces even though he doesn’t understand what’s happening. “I can’t, Roy, I’m so sorry.”
“Jamie?” He asks, breath caught in his lungs. “Jamie, what do you mean? Did I do something? I’m sorry, I thought—”
“No, no, it’s not you, Roy, I—” Jamie gasps, and Roy is horrified to see tears in his eyes. “Roy, I love you, do you know that? I mean, I loved you even when I was a kid— you know, you saw my poster back at Mummy’s— but that were different. That was just… Idol worship, or whatever. I didn’t know you. Never thought I would, and I was fine with that, yeah? I mean, that’s just how it is, innit? And then I got transferred to Richmond, and yeah it was shit at the start, and I fucking hated you. Thought maybe people had it right when they said not to meet your heroes. But things changed, eventually— after that first Man City match with me dad maybe, or when we got promoted and you headbutted me, or Amsterdam, or… Whatever it was, we became friends, and I realized I was fucking right to be obsessed with you. Fell in love with you all over again, didn’t I? You’re fucking incredible, babe, you’ve got no idea. I love you so fucking much.”
Roy never thought a love confession could rip his heart out and yet here he is, eyes burning with unshed tears because Jamie is crying while saying he loves Roy, and he doesn’t fucking understand what’s going on. He doesn’t understand why Jamie sounds so anguished, why he’s on the other side of the room saying this instead of in Roy’s arms, why there’s a sick feeling of dread in his stomach, why why why—
“Jamie, what’s going on? I love you too, why are you—”
“I’m leaving Richmond, Roy.”
The world goes out from under Roy’s feet, and suddenly he’s trapped in a freefall. He can’t see, can’t hear, can’t feel anything except the blood rushing in his ears and his heart shattering and his palms sweating and all he can think is no.
Jamie. Leaving.
It’s—
It has to be some sort of cruel joke. It can’t be real.
They were supposed to have forever.
It’s why he waited for everyone to leave, it’s why he didn’t rush to Jamie even though all he wanted was to hold him, it’s why he—
It’s why he wanted to tell Jamie tonight. So that they could start forever now and make up for all that lost time.
But—
But Jamie is leaving.
(Suddenly, the way he played tonight makes more sense. It was a farewell. One last gift to the fans, to the club, to Roy before he left.)
“W—” His voice cracks, and he has to clear his throat before he finally gets out a weak, “What?”
Across the room, Jamie’s eyes are shining. “I’m going to Ajax. Agreed to sign a two year contract as soon as the summer transfer window opens and my contract with Richmond is up.”
“Why didn’t I know?” Roy asks numbly. He knew Jamie’s contract was expiring at the end of the season, but since Jamie hadn’t brought it up, he’d just assumed it meant Jamie would re-sign it the way everyone always did. Hadn't even thought to ask about it, considering how Jamie was flourishing at Richmond. Figured Rebecca would let him know as soon as they sorted out Jamie’s next contract. “I never saw anything about them signing you, I didn’t even know they were interested—”
“It was my idea,” Jamie interrupts, and fuck, his hands are knotted in the fabric of his shirt the way they only do when he’s anxious. Roy hates that Jamie’s anxious, hates that this conversation is making him feel that way. Hates that he’s too fucking confused to do anything to help. “I asked Rebecca and Keeley to reach out to other teams, see who was interested. And you didn’t know because I asked everyone who knew not to tell you. Not ‘cause I were trying to be sneaky, or anything. I just wanted to tell you myself. And I was going to, swear down! I had a whole speech prepared and everything, but I was waiting for the season to be over. We had a real chance at winning, you know, and I didn’t want to ruin anything or distract you or the team. And I— I guess I were also a bit nervous to tell you.”
Somehow, that hurts most of all— more than the fact that it was Jamie’s idea to leave, more than the fact that he’s going to another fucking country, more than the fact that apparently Keeley and Rebecca knew while he was kept in the dark. That Jamie would be nervous to tell him makes him… It makes him feel almost sick. It makes him angry.
He just doesn’t understand. They’re long past the days of secret keeping. Jamie is the first person Roy goes over new plays with, the first person he calls when there’s something up with Phoebe, the first person he told when he found out he had to go in for a second fucking knee surgery. And Jamie hits him right back, telling Roy the second anything happens. For fuck’s sake, he was the first person Jamie called when Georgie found out she had arthritis and was worried she wouldn’t be able to keep cutting hair at the salon. They trust each other, is the point, enough to share the hardest truths about their lives and know that the other will be there to support them through it.
Or at least, he thought they did. Clearly he was wrong, considering Jamie apparently didn’t trust him with this.
“Why the fuck would you be nervous to tell me? Did you think I wouldn’t fucking support you? Jamie, why—”
“No!” He bursts out, hands twisting further into his— Roy’s— shirt. “No, it weren’t like that, Roy, I swear. I just… Didn’t want you to be hurt. I know how you are about people leaving you, even if you don’t say it out loud.”
The fight goes out of Roy all at once; even in this, Jamie is thinking about others before himself. He’s come so far, grown up so much since Roy met him; it only makes him feel even more dickish for getting angry so fast.
Because really, all his feelings— the sadness, the unfairness, the hurt— are personal. As Jamie’s manager and the person who’s been training him for seven years, he knows this is the best career move for Jamie. He’s too big for Richmond. Has been for years, really. Ajax can offer him the facilities, the pay, the training staff, the stepping stone to bigger clubs that Richmond just… Can’t, anymore. It’s a good fucking move.
He opens up his arms with a sigh. “Fuck. Jay, babe, come here.”
Jamie’s face crumples in relief at the offer and he all but trips across the room, falling into Roy’s arms. He smashes his face right up against Roy’s neck, close enough for Roy to feel the dampness of tears on Jamie’s cheek, and he hates this manifestation of how miserable Jamie feels. Here he is telling Roy about the opportunity of a lifetime, and he’s fucking crying because he was scared of hurting Roy. Fucking hell.
“Jamie,” he says, taking extra care to keep his voice gentle. “You know I’ll support you no matter what, yeah? I’m going to miss you, probably more than you can fucking imagine, and the team will too, but you deserve to go wherever you want. And at least it’s Ajax instead of fucking… PSG or something, I don’t fucking know.”
Jamie laughs wetly, sniffing as he pulls back just enough to meet Roy's gaze. “Please, I’d never go and play for fucking PSG, or any French team. I’d have to see Richard again, the smug bastard. Still haven’t forgiven him for knocking us out of the Champions League.”
Roy smiles despite the way he can feel his heart tearing itself in two. “Oh yeah, fuck that. Fucking Richard.”
Jamie huffs out another laugh, then falls silent again. His arms tighten around Roy, warm and secure and solid, and fuck but Roy misses him already even though he’s right here.
After a while— Roy doesn’t actually know how long it’s been, minutes or hours could’ve passed for all he was paying attention— Jamie lets his arms slip away. Tentatively, he asks, “Can we… Talk about it more? I’m sure you have questions.”
Roy, trying not to miss Jamie’s arms around him already, hums in agreement and snags the champagne bottle from the desk. He holds it out to him. “For old time’s sake?”
“Yeah. Old time’s sake.” Jamie smiles weakly as he says it, and Roy knows he’s trying not to think about the fact that this is— this is going to be the last time they do this. This is their last match together.
He pops the cork on the bottle to distract himself from the pit in his stomach.
They end up sitting up against the headboard, passing the bottle between them with their legs pressed against each other. They don’t bother with cups— they never have, but a small part of Roy can’t help but think there’s really no point now, seeing as they’ve had their fucking tongues in each other’s mouths.
If he thinks about that too long, though, he thinks his heart might break all over again, so he doesn’t. He just asks, “Why international? If you needed a change of pace, why not try for one of the other Premier teams? Go back to City, try Chelsea, fucking… Liverpool, I don’t fucking know. You’re good enough for any of them. Better, even. They have the facilities, too, and would have given you anything to have you play for them. Chelsea especially, they’ve been hounding me about you for years.”
It had been a thorn in his side, actually, all those calls and emails from his old club. He’d passed them all on to Jamie, though, like he was supposed to, and been secretly relieved every time Jamie turned them down. No matter that Chelsea would always have a piece of his heart, that he’s bled blue for four and a half decades now, he hadn’t wanted to let Jamie go.
If only he’d known this was the alternative.
“I know. I just… Needed to get away, I guess.”
He doesn’t need to ask what Jamie is getting away from. Not with his confession ringing in his ears, saying that they became friends and he fell in love with Roy all over again. If he was in that position, pining after someone who showed no inclination towards feeling the same, he’d want to get away too. He’d want to get away from—
“From me,” Roy deadpans, heart aching in his chest.
Jamie winces as soon as the words leave Roy’s mouth. “Not from you, just… My feelings for you, or something? I don’t know how to explain this; I’m not good with all this feelings shit.” He takes a long drink to stall, trying to pick the right words. Roy, as rotten as he feels right now, appreciates the thought Jamie’s putting into it.
“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be around you. Sort of the opposite. I always want to be around you, cause I’m sort of helplessly in love with you, ain’t I? And I was fine with that. Didn’t bother me that you didn’t feel the same, I was just happy to be friends. But then the lads started noticing, and Keeley got on my case about just telling you, and every time we were together everyone would look at me with such… Pity. I just couldn’t stand it anymore, so I started thinking about where else I could go.”
“I’m sorry,” Roy says thickly, looking down at his hands because if he looks at Jamie he’ll cry. “If I had just put it together sooner then—”
“Hey.” Jamie’s hand darts out and catches his chin, tilting it up towards him. His eyes glitter intently as he holds Roy’s gaze. “That ain’t your fault. I don’t blame you one bit, Roy. You’ve been everything I needed you to be, and I could have told you, anyway. But I was happy with how we were and I didn’t want to fuck things up, so I didn’t. ‘Sides, you’re not the only reason I started thinking about it, no matter how much you might flatter yourself by thinking so.”
Something is soothed in Roy’s chest at that, and he swallows down a shaky exhale. “No?”
“Nah. I fucking love Amsterdam, don’t I?”
Roy barks out a laugh and snags the bottle from Jamie while he rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, you muppet.”
“I’m serious!” Jamie objects, also laughing. “I do!”
“Yeah, I know you do! But that’s part of why you decided to go, not why you started looking.”
“Look at you, still sharp as a tack even in your old age. Alright, yeah. S’pose you’re right.” His smile slips away, and he looks down at his hands. “I guess it were also just… Well, I only have so much time left to play, yeah? I’m playing well, but I’m thirty now and me ankle’s getting worse with every season, even though we’re all pretending it ain’t. I know there’s only a few more seasons until it’s done. I’ve got four, maybe five left in me. I can feel it. But there’s still so much football left for me to learn. Teams to play against, strategies to try out, managers to play under, all that. I don’t want to miss out on that, no matter how much I love Richmond.” He nudges Roy with his elbow. “Or having you as my gaffer. ‘Cause I fucking do, you know that right? Not a bit of me regrets playing for Richmond, for you, this long. It’s home, innit? But I think I need to grow. Stretch me wings, and all.”
He gives Roy a shy smile, as if making sure he remembers that boot room conversation all those years ago, and then ducks his head with a heavy sigh.
“Plus… I feel like so much of my career’s been determined by people who weren’t me. I mean, when I first signed with City, yeah I wanted to because it were home, but it was also because I knew anything else would’ve pissed me dad off and I was desperate to keep him in my life. My loan to Richmond was pretty much decided without my say, too, though I didn’t fight it too much because I wanted to play with you. Getting sent back wasn’t me, quitting was to get away from Dad, and coming back to Richmond was what I wanted, but it were also because I knew no one else would take me. So I just want to do something because it’s what I want to do. Not ‘cause anyone else expects it, or ‘cause I’m trying to make anyone proud or pissed off. Just because it’s my choice. So when Ajax responded and said they’d like to have me…”
“You said yes.” Roy gets it— he remembers realizing that his knee was fucked, remembers wishing he’d spent more time having fun with the game instead of moping around for years like he had been. For Jamie to be making this choice for himself at this point in his career… Roy is so proud he thinks he might choke on it. “Fuck, Jamie, I’m so fucking proud of you, you know that?”
Jamie laughs quietly. “I want to kiss you so fucking bad right now, it’s not fair.”
“You can,” Roy offers, even though he knows he won’t. He heard Jamie say he couldn’t, felt Jamie tear away from that first kiss. If they had a chance, it’s long since passed. “I wouldn’t mind.”
His smile turns sad, and he runs a knuckle across Roy’s cheek before letting his hand drop. “I really do love you, Roy. I’ve wanted this to happen for so long. But I really want to go to Amsterdam. And I know that if I start something with you now, I’m not going to go.”
And Roy— Roy wants to beg him to change his mind, wants to kiss him and make him stay, wants to tell him that finding out he loves Jamie only for him to leave makes him feel like he’s dying. But he loves Jamie too much for that; he wants him to be happy too badly to be that selfish. So he just smiles his own sad smile, instead.
“Yeah. Yeah, I understand.”
Jamie deflates into Roy’s side, slumping over as if his worry about Roy’s reaction was the only thing keeping him up. “Thank you, Roy. And I really am sorry, you know. I’m sure you had a whole idea about how this night was going to go, and—”
“It’s fine,” he cuts Jamie off. “It’s just… Right person, wrong time, yeah?”
“Sure.” His voice sounds hollow, though, and he bites at his lip as if he doesn’t believe Roy when he says it’s fine.
Roy sighs. “Look, babe, I just want you to be happy. And if going to Amsterdam is what’ll do that, then… Well. I’m hardly going to stand in your way.”
“Yeah. It will make me happy, I think. Thank you, Roy.” They’re silent for a long moment, the champagne bottle sweating between them, then Jamie asks, “This doesn’t change anything about our summer, right? I mean, I don’t have to be in Amsterdam until the beginning of July, other than for my signing. I still have my six weeks off, and I really just… I just want one more good summer with you. Like we usually have.”
Roy snorts. “Course not. Already bought our plane tickets for that trip to Italy, didn’t I? And I told Phoebe—” and fuck, Phoebe is going to be devastated when she finds out, “—we’d take her out for a fancy dinner, which she negotiated down to ice cream. Then there’s the extra training we’ll have to do if you’re going to move to Amsterdam and eat fucking stroopwafel all the time. And I want to help you move, if you’ll let me. Make sure you’re set there and everything.” He glances down at Jamie, now leaning his head against Roy’s shoulder, and risks dropping a kiss to the top of it. “You’re not getting rid of me that fast, Tartt.”
Jamie grins and shifts his head just enough to smile up at Roy. “Oh. Well, that’s good then, innit?”
“Fucking mint,” Roy offers back, just to make him smile even wider.
“And I’d love for you to help me move. I asked me mum, but Simon’s scheduled for back surgery a few days before I leave, and she needs to stay and take care of him. He’s been waiting for it for ages, so it’s a bit more important.”
“Good for him,” he grunts. “His back’s a fucking wreck, innit?”
Jamie laughs then, full bodied, and Roy’s heart fucking glows.
It’s not at all how he thought his night would go, and he knows the heartbreak will hit him the moment Jamie leaves, and he knows he’s going to spend every moment of the summer kicking himself for not realising how he felt about Jamie sooner. But for now, Jamie is leaning against his side and they’re sharing a bottle of champagne and they know that they love each other, and that’s enough.
It has to be.
They only have six weeks left after the season ends, after all.
—
They share Roy’s bed that night by unspoken agreement, Jamie wrapped around Roy like a fucking octopus and Roy holding him even closer as if that’ll somehow keep him from going, as if it can stave off what’s coming six weeks from now.
When he wakes up in the morning— Jamie’s hair in his mouth, his left arm numb from getting trapped under Jamie’s torso, and Jamie’s drool drying on his chest— it doesn’t even matter.
How can it, when he only has six weeks of this left?
How can it, when soon he won’t have Jamie around at all?
—
He doesn’t let himself think about it again until he’s back at his house in London that evening, Jamie at his own place for his weekly call with Georgie.
It’s the first time he’s been alone since Jamie told him the news last night and the silence settles over him, thick and stark and oppressive.
It’s all he can think about, that this is what it’s going to be like once Jamie leaves. No more Jamie popping over unannounced, begging Roy to make dinner for him. No more Jamie lounging across his couch, as comfortable as if it were his own home. No more Jamie singing in Roy’s shower after their early morning training, uncaring that Roy can hear him. No more Jamie fiddling with the radio on the way to work, griping about nothing good being on until he inevitably plugs in his phone.
No more Jamie taking up space in Roy’s home and Roy’s car and Roy’s life.
And he knows that it’ll be good for Jamie, that he deserves the chance to become the star that Roy knows he’s meant to be. But he can’t help but be terrified of losing him, too, and the emptiness that will be left once he’s gone.
The silence that’ll be left, the silence that’s ringing in his ears already.
He can’t stand it, doesn’t want to bear it a moment longer than he has to, and he’s fumbling for his phone barely five minutes after getting home to dial Dr. Sharon’s number. He knows it’s late, but she’s always said that she’s available in case of an emergency. Considering the way his heart feels like it’s cleaving itself in two, he thinks this counts as one.
(It’s funny— five years ago, he would have rather pulled out his own teeth than voluntarily call a therapist. And now here he is, hardly thinking twice before ringing her late at night. Getting old and maturing is fucking brutal.)
She picks up after just a few rings, voice steady as always when she greets, “Coach Kent. What can I do for you?”
“Hiya, Dr. Sharon. Sorry for calling so late. I just… Do you have a bit of time for an emergency session? Bill me extra, I don’t fucking care.”
On the other side of the line, he hears a pen click and the rustle of pages being turned. “Of course. Whenever you’re ready.”
Good old Dr. Sharon. He makes a mental note to buy her a damn nice bottle of wine for her end of season gift. He might even phone Richard for help picking it, which is how he knows he means it; he avoids asking Richard about wine purely on principle.
“Did you watch the match last night?”
“Yes, I did. I watch all the matches. For observational purposes, obviously. Congratulations, by the way. Are you pleased?”
He breathes out a laugh, going to lay down on the couch to stretch out his knee. Even two years on from his second surgery, it still gets achy and sore at the end of the day. “Well, it was a good fucking game, you know? We had three minutes left and the game was already pretty much ours, and all I could think was that I was so fucking proud of everyone. Jamie especially, he was fucking… Something else. And then he scored that hat trick, and all I could think after that was that I’m in love with him, and I think I have been for a while. Just hadn’t noticed yet.”
He catches the barest whisper of a sharp inhale, something he was clearly not meant to hear, and he wonders what it says about him that he’s managed to get that reaction from Sharon Fieldstone, of all people. When she speaks, though, she’s as calm as ever, so he supposes he’ll never know. “I see. Pardon the basic question, but how did that make you feel?”
“Fucking ecstatic,” he answers honestly— he got over feeling like he had to hide from her a long time ago. “I felt like I was on top of the fucking world. We had just won the league, but all I wanted to do was run to Jamie and tell him how I felt. And so I did. I told him how proud I was, how beautiful he looked, how daft I’d been for not realising how I felt about him sooner. And then I kissed him. And he told me—” He swallows. “I know you can’t tell me what you talk about when he sees you, but I know he’s been coming in more, so I assume you know where he’ll be next season.”
“I do,” she confirms.
“Yeah,” he says, and is humiliated to find his voice breaks. “We talked about it a lot and I told him he should go, that I’m proud of him and am going to support him no matter what. And that’s true, I fucking am and I fucking will, but… But I’m fucking sad as shit, too.”
“What’s sad about it, Roy? That he’s leaving the team, or that he’s leaving you?”
“Both. But I guess— that he’s leaving me, mostly. I know the team will be okay, in the end. They’re a good group, and there are tons of new players coming up in the league that we can scout. But I thought…” He takes a shuddering breath. “I thought we’d have forever, starting yesterday. But he’s leaving, and he doesn’t want me, and now I’m alone and can’t stop thinking about how I’m always going to be alone once he leaves.”
“Did he say he doesn’t want to be with you? Or do you think it’s just that he doesn’t want to enter a relationship now, when he’s about to head into a new experience where he’s already going to be away from you and everyone he loves?”
She somehow has a way of plucking exactly what he’s thinking from his head, and he sighs. “The second one, I fucking know it’s the second one. Deep down. I just… Fuck. I wanted it to go differently. But I guess… Well, it’s like I told him. Right person, wrong time, innit?”
“That’s a good way to think about it, Roy. Because it being the wrong time now means there could be a right time in the future, and you and Jamie can find your way back together.”
“I guess. But what if the right time was in the past, and I was just too stupid to realise it?”
“Then that wasn’t the right time. It can only be the right time if you’re both ready.”
Roy stops short for a moment, tossing the words over in his head. Then, “Fuck. That was good.”
“Yes, I thought so myself,” Dr. Sharon says, and he can hear the wry smile in her voice. “Now, Roy, I want to go back to something you said before, about how you’re going to be alone once he leaves. Why do you say that? I was under the impression that you’re friends with your assistant coaches, not to mention Keeley, Rebecca, and the team.”
“S’pose. But it’s different with Jamie. I mean, he’s… He’s fucking Jamie, isn’t he?”
Knowing she’s going to want more of an explanation than that, he takes a deep breath and tries to find the words. Used to him at this point, she doesn’t try to fill the silence.
“With the other players, when they leave, I’m upset. I mean, Sam leaving was devastating; he was the fucking best of us all. But I got past it, didn’t I? We have a game to play and matches to win. There’s more to focus on. But Jamie… He takes up so much more of my life than they do. It’s not just work, it’s also cooking for him, hanging out with him, looking after Phoebe with him. He’s my best fucking friend. He’s fucking everywhere in my life. All entangled in it and shit. So when I think about him, and losing that, it feels like… It feels like my heart is being fucking ripped out of my chest. Like I won’t survive without him.”
“The two of you have always had a passionate relationship, whether you were fighting on the pitch or were best friends. It makes sense that the thought of losing him scares you so much.”
“I just don’t know how to get past it. I mean, I woke up this morning and he was right there next to me, drooling on my chest. But instead of appreciating that, I was thinking about how I only have the last few days of the season, and then six weeks of offseason left with him. I don’t want every moment of my time left with him to be spent counting down the days until he’s in fucking Amsterdam and I’m stuck here.”
Dr. Sharon hums. “It can be hard to enjoy the present when we have something that frightens us, or that we’re dreading, in the future. But there are some exercises you can do to help keep you tethered to the current moment, if you’d like to learn them?”
Roy agrees in a heartbeat— he doesn’t want to waste any more of the time he has left with Jamie.
“Alright then,” Dr. Sharon says. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
—
He texts Keeley after he hangs up with Dr. Sharon. Really, he should’ve texted her sooner, but he’d been so caught up in Jamie and his feelings and the transfer that he just… Hadn’t.
But he owes her, because she’d tried to warn him, hadn’t she?
Oh. Roy, you should—
He doesn’t really know how she would’ve finished the sentence, but he can imagine it.
You should wait a bit longer. You should ask him about next season. You should know it won’t be that simple. You shouldn’t get your hopes up. You should be careful.
You should have figured your shit out sooner, because now you’re too fucking late.
Well. It’d be nicer, in that Keeley Jones way of hers, but the gist of it is there.
Either way, however the sentence would have ended, she tried. He just didn’t listen.
Almost immediately after his text shows as delivered, three dots appear on his screen, and her response comes moments later.
Roy sighs, passes a hand over his face. He honestly doesn’t know if it helps, knowing that Jamie almost didn’t go, or if it hurts, knowing that he decided to go after all.
But it doesn’t matter, because it’s what Jamie wants, and it’s what he deserves, and it’s what will make him happy. He doesn’t need Roy having all these… Feelings about it. Besides, Roy would never forgive himself if Jamie decided to back out because of him, or the way he feels. In that moment, he promises to himself that he’s not going to mention anything about it to Jamie. His feelings, his fears, how much he’s going to miss him… None of it.
But to Keeley—
He laughs to himself. Keeley fucking Jones, indeed. He’s lucky to have her.
He shuts his phone off and heads up to bed, where he tries and fails not to miss Jamie’s arms around him.
His sleep is restless, plagued by fingers slipping through his and sad brown eyes gazing at him from across the room.
—
The last three days of the season pass in a blur of officially announcing Jamie’s transfer.
Jamie tells the team first in an emotional locker room speech, with Rebecca, Keeley, Higgins, and Ted— who Rebecca had flown in as a surprise for Jamie’s last few days— in attendance as well. It’s long and rambling, the way it always is when Jamie tries to speak from the heart without much preparation, but it’s still fucking gorgeous. He jokes about them teaching him how to pass and showing them all up in his last match with them, but he also thanks them for helping him become the man he is today and tells them that there’s not a single team he’d rather have spent the past seven years with. By the time he finishes, there’s not a single dry eye in the room— not from Beard, not from Roy, not even from the newer lads who’ve barely gotten to know him.
They have champagne and cake— made by Ted, of course— afterwards, and they play Jamie’s favourite playlist, and they laugh a lot, and it’s pretty fucking good as far as team farewells go. It takes some of the pain out of it, Roy thinks, to see Jamie so obviously happy and loved.
While they’re doing that, the official statement— which had been carefully crafted by Keeley and Jamie— goes out on Jamie and Richmond’s official social media accounts. By the time the party wraps up, the entire football world knows Jamie Tartt has played his last game at Richmond.
(“How do you feel?” Roy asks as they walk out of Nelson Road together, Roy holding Jamie’s bag and Jamie holding the leftover cake. Every part of him longs to take Jamie’s free hand in his own, but he doesn’t. “Now that everyone knows?”
Jamie looks up at the night sky, exhaling slowly. “Good, I think. Excited. But sad, too. I’m going to miss it here.”
He looks at Roy, then, and he hears the unspoken, I’m going to miss you.
“Yeah. We’re going to miss you, too.”
I’m going to miss you, too.)
The next day, Jamie is fully booked. He spends the morning at training with the team, which is really just a lighthearted scrimmage to let everyone have some fun. Roy, Nate, Will, and Beard even get in on the action when Jamie asks them to join in, and he and Jamie have a penalty shoot out just for old time’s sake. Jamie crushes him, of course, but Roy doesn’t even care. Not when Jamie’s smiling like that, free and wide and gorgeous.
After training Jamie has an interview with SkySports, then he’s carted back over to Nelson Road for a presser. It’s the most packed Roy has ever seen the press room, and he baulks just walking in. Jamie, of course, saunters in as if he hasn’t a care in the world. Roy is seated next to Jamie at the front of the room, just in case things get out of hand, but Jamie honestly doesn’t need him. He fields the questions beautifully, thoughtful when it’s called for and cheeky when he can get away with it, oozing charm and gratitude and humility. It’s fucking incredible to watch, and Roy is glad all the attention is on Jamie rather than him because he just knows his feelings are written clear across his face.
In the evening, they all go to Ola’s for their traditional end of season team dinner. Jamie cries when he walks in and sees all the old transfers and retired players there too, also brought in by Rebecca. Sam had arranged for an open bar, so they get drunk and eat and laugh, and there’s a long line of toasts— from Dani, Sam, Ted, Isaac, Rebecca, everyone wanting a chance to tell Jamie what he means to them and what they hope for him. Roy, despite everyone’s urging, doesn’t give a toast of his own; Jamie already knows how Roy feels about him, after all, and that’s more important than anything else.
(“So,” Ted says, slipping into Jamie’s recently vacated seat next to Roy. “When did you realise?”
He juts his chin over toward Jamie, over at the bar with Sam and Dani, and Roy sighs.
“Fucking hell. Who told you? Keeley? Rebecca?”
“No, no. It was some of my other best friends, actually. My eyes and my ears. Yeah. You look at him like you’ve been stuck in the desert and he’s the first rain you’ve seen in a long, long time. Like you love him.”
“Christ, I’m that fucking obvious? I’ll have to gouge my fucking eyes out, then,” he deadpans, only half joking.
“Don’t, it’s cute. Very rom-communism.”
Roy just shakes his head and bites down a laugh. Fucking Lasso. He never changes.)
The party starts winding down around one in the morning, everyone drifting out with a hug and warm goodbye for Jamie, until it’s just Roy and Jamie left to make their way home together.
And Roy knows he shouldn’t, but as they head out, he slips his arm around Jamie’s waist.
Jamie just leans into it and doesn’t say a word.
They go to Roy’s house, fall asleep curled around each other once again.
Roy tries to use Dr. Sharon’s exercises, tries not to count the days. It only mostly works.
(Forty-two.)