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Jamie is dancing with an absolutely gorgeous woman and Roy can’t take his eyes off him.
He dances like the cocky young fuck he is, writhing and gyrating, a man absolutely in love with his own body. The girl grinds her backside into him, slowly; she knows the moves, but has a grace about her, so it doesn’t look as sleazy as it could. Just sleazy enough.
Near them, the others are celebrating. Richard is dancing with his beautiful new girlfriend in a way that makes you hope they use contraception. Jan Maas has given up on actual moves and is just jumping up and down with a pint of Dutch beer in his hand which is splashing his Dutch face with every Dutch jump.
Jamie is putting his hands on the woman’s hips now, and as they grind together he slowly lifts his hands up her bare midriff, to the hem of her crop top, slightly forward, up inside her top, just this side of keeping it PG-13, nope, crossed it. Is she going to object? No, she's very happy being fondled in public. That makes sense to Roy. Jamie is a god tonight, an icon, the shining prince of London, and whether or not the girl knows or gives a shit about football, she can surely feel it.
They make fun of footballers for being superstitious, but sometimes you just know.
When they were all getting in line in the tunnel before the game, tense and concentrated, Jamie leaned over to Roy and said quietly, “I know I shouldn't say it but I am on today. I can feel it.”
There was nothing about the words that needed to be kept secret, but Jamie was lowering his voice because he was talking to Roy Roy, not Coach Roy.
And Roy said, “I know you are. You’ve been fire all week. Just keep your head.” (That was both Roy Roy and Coach Roy; they happened to agree).
Then they fist-bumped and Jamie was off to be not only on but absolutely fucking dazzling for 90 minutes in the freezing autumn rain. An unstoppable force of nature that pirouetted around some defenders, outran others like fucking Sonic the Hedgehog, and ended up scoring three beautiful goals, leading the team to an unbelievable 3-0 win against Chelsea on a night that the pundits were already calling a turning point in the history of Richmond.
There was a part of Roy that assessed Jamie all evening with professional gratification, because if you love coaching, who would you rather coach than this explosion of natural talent that just needed some nudges in the right direction to take his place (no injuries, please no injuries) as one of the greats?
But Roy was also a football fan and a Richmond fan, and tonight he found himself looking at Jamie just like the fans did, in awe and possessive pride (he’s ours!), whooping at every good move, jumping and yelling at every goal like the rest of the coaches and the staff and the players and the 26,000-strong crowd who were all, each and every one of them, wholly mesmerised by Jamie Tartt.
The team crowded Jamie so wildly as they danced into the dressing room roaring the "Jamie Tartt" chant that they almost knocked him out, and then he was on everyone’s shoulders in turn, including Roy’s, and then, after they all got a few casual dressing-room beers in them, and signed the match ball for him to keep as a souvenir, and drew some dicks on it (because that’s what happens when you give a boy a marker), they agreed it was time to get properly sloshed like professionals.
And so Jamie, who is one of the players assigned the task of keeping up with where the hottest clubs are, brought them to this place they are in right now, which is big and dark and loud and overpriced (not that any of them cares) and smelling of the trendy perfumes and trendy clothes and trendy hormones of beautiful 20-year-olds who are all too cool to let on that they’re in any way excited to have a group of Premier League footballers among them.
Because normal human rules don't apply to Jamie tonight, he even found a moment when no one was looking and pulled Roy over into a dark corner behind a column to kiss the living daylight out of him. “Dance with me,” he said. “I love dancing. It turns me on.”
"I can't," Roy said.
So for the moment, Roy is on his own by the bar, mesmerised by Jamie dancing with the girl, and at the same time still flashing back, on loop, to Jamie’s last volley, how he looked in the air with his rain-soaked kit sticking to his body, and the crowd roaring, and Jamie’s victorious knee slide all the way to the stands, splashing water from the cold, soggy grass.
There’s a small hand tapping Roy’s arm. “Hey.”
It’s the girl Jamie has been dancing with. Roy looks at the dance floor, confused, but Jamie is nowhere to be seen. Roy glances at the hem of the girl's top where Jamie’s hands were roving.
“Sophia,” she says.
“Roy.”
“You one of these clowns? The footballers?” She looks at the team in the middle of the floor.
“No.”
“But you’re with them, right? Staff or whatever?”
“Yes.”
“You like Jamie, don't you."
Roy’s face doesn’t move.
“Saw you looking.”
Roy feels like he's finally catching on. "You two know each other. You’re dating."
"Hah, no, not dating," Sophia says. “But you like girls too, right? No, sorry, none of my business. Just that you look like you might. The shoes and everything. Okay, nice to meet you.”
It takes Roy’s drunk eyes a moment to register that she’s no longer standing next to him. He looks down at his shoes.
Jamie appears at his side. Roy is starting to feel a bit shaken by this place where ridiculously pretty young people keep fucking appearing and disappearing in the dark.
"Let's get out of here. My place,” Jamie says. Thank Christ.
"Thought you wanted to dance."
"No, I'm done. I saw you enjoying the show though. Come on, we'll take my car."
“Tartt, you're too drunk to legally fucking walk."
Jamie glows. All the way home in the Uber, he glows, and smiles to himself, and looks like he’s thinking some evil thoughts. He knows Roy wouldn't want to kiss in front of the driver, so he doesn't do anything, but Roy wishes he would. Roy needs to be inside of him so badly he can barely breathe.
The moment Jamie closes the house door behind them, Roy pushes him against the wall.
“No. Wait.”
Jamie isn’t melting in Roy’s arms the way he usually does the moment Roy gets aggressive. Maybe it’s the glow. Maybe you can’t be aggressive with someone when they’re like that. Maybe you can’t touch them at all.
“Roy. No games tonight, yeah?"
"What?"
"I don't feel like playing games."
Roy must look worried because Jamie adds, “I mean I do want sex. But let's just have, like, normal people sex. Okay?”
Roy swallows his relief. "You think I can’t get off without making you fucking... lick my shoes?”
“I don’t know, do I, you pervert. We never tried.”
Then Jamie grabs Roy’s head and kisses him wildly, making Roy forget what they were saying, what he was thinking, and what his name was. Jamie also leaps up and wraps both legs around Roy’s waist, and the strength in those thighs is threatening to make Roy lose his mind. Roy holds on to Jamie's legs, leans him against the wall, and keeps kissing.
“Take me up to bed,” Jamie says.
“You think I can --” Roy bites Jamie’s lower lip hungrily -- “fucking carry you upstairs? With my fucked knee and your fat arse?”
“I’m twelve stone! Don’t be lazy.”
“Twelve? Maybe before you started drinking.”
“Good point. I need to piss.” Jamie jumps down and disappears into the downstairs bathroom in the darkness, as Roy sighs and stumbles up to the upstairs one.
When he steps into the bedroom, Jamie is already there to pull him right down onto the bed on top of him. “Take off your clothes,” Jamie says.
“It would be easier if you didn't pull me down, you drunk idiot.”
“Just get naked, you furry fuck.” They kiss again.
It’s not elegant, especially since Jamie's hideous designer jeans have about a dozen zips in places where God did not intend for zips to be, but they manage to strip themselves and each other off eventually, and then Jamie’s on his back with Roy lying between his legs, humping him like a teenager. They’re both hard as rocks.
Jamie's bubbling over with drunken joy. “Fuck, I love it when you're naked. I missed your cock. Did I ever tell you that I love your cock?”
“Repeatedly.”
“Okay. Okay. We have something very important to talk about first.” Jamie holds up a finger in Roy’s face to denote importance. “You. You need to tell me how good I was today."
"What?"
“I'm serious.”
“What the fuck, Tartt. I told you already! Fucking everyone did. A million fucking people sang your name.”
“I don’t care. I want you, Coach Kent, to tell me, Jamie, right now, how good I was." He grabs Roy's face to show how serious he is.
"Is this what normal people sex is for you?" Roy asks through squished lips. "Someone just telling you how great you are? Should have guessed."
"Tell me or I’m kicking you out!”
"All right." Roy leans down and kisses Jamie’s neck. “You were amazing,” he says. Kiss. “You were incredible.” Kiss. “You were the second coming of Thierry Henry.”
Jamie looks elated as he moans and wriggles under Roy. “Yes! Wait, Thierry's not dead is he?”
"You are the best fucking striker in the whole of London,” Roy continues, “and I feel incredibly honoured, nay, humbled to be about to fuck you in the arse.”
This makes Jamie giggle. “See, you think you're being sarcastic, but it’s actually facts.” He takes Roy’s face and places it on the other side of his neck, which Roy kisses just as thoroughly.
“Now tell me which goal was your favourite, and why.”
“How much fucking worship do you need in a day, Tartt?” Roy’s trying hard to sound put out.
“Tell me!”
“Third one. Obviously.”
“Obviously. But tell me why.”
Roy moves down from Jamie's neck to his perfectly smooth chest. “Because it was a fucking perfect volley that came out of nowhere and it was sexy as hell.”
“Could you do it?” He's asking because Roy was somewhat known for crazy volleys in his time.
Roy pretends to think while he's licking circles around Jamie's left nipple. “Not with my knee.”
Jamie moans, then laughs. “Shut up! You know what I mean. Did you ever score a volley this good?”
“No. Not this good."
"Knew it,” Jamie says, victoriously.
Trying to think of something to shut Jamie up, Roy moves south. He licks Jamie’s belly down the trail in the middle of his sixpack, buries his forehead in his pubic hair for a moment, gives his inner thigh a quick bite --
“No. Don’t! We're not done.” Jamie pulls Roy back up to him. “Tell me what you thought about that run. That run. When I beat four of them."
Roy can’t help smiling now. “This feels kinkier than anything we’ve ever done.”
"Call it a new game then. And the rules are, you tell me what you thought about that run. Come on.”
Roy gives up. “It was fucking brilliant, okay? I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. You made them look like fucking idiots. Can I fuck you now, Tartt? Please? You'll notice I’m asking very fucking nicely.”
“Yes. I mean no. Not yet. Oh, fuck it, okay, yes." Jamie stretches an arm to find the condoms and the lube bottle in the nightstand, while dropping anything else that was on there or inside. His hands then find Roy's cock.
"Oh, fuck, you're so fit I can't stand it,” Jamie groans. “This way?" He lifts his knees up.
"Any way you like," Roy says. "You're the boss. Apparently." He gets ready.
"Only problem is, I don't feel you’re really appreciating the situation,” Jamie says. “I don’t think -- oh fuck --" he gasps when Roy pushes the first finger in -- "don't think you realise how lucky you are to be fucking Jamie fucking Tartt. Oh my god." His eyes roll up in pleasure.
"Lucky. Very lucky,” Roy promises. "Honoured.”
"Oh! Another thing. Tell me how good I looked out there.”
Roy starts laughing now, really laughing, which usually wouldn’t work with what he's trying to do right now, but tonight it works with the magic of the win and the drink and the fact that Jamie's radiant face is also laughing.
"You know I get a hard-on out of sheer gratitude whenever you're wearing a kit and not a fucking Gucci clown outfit," Roy says.
Jamie gasps and giggles. "No, come on.”
“You looked fucking incredible, okay? You looked like a fucking… superhero drawn by a fucking 14-year-old boy who’s secretly gay."
“I did, didn't I,” Jamie says, starry-eyed, and then gasps again, because Roy has entered him.
“Tomorrow," Roy continues, panting, "I'm going to look at the official photos of you from the game, and I’m going to wank off to every single fucking one. It’ll take a while, and I’ll get dehydrated and need an IV. Okay? Enough?”
"Thank you, that's -- oh my fucking god," Jamie says. "Okay. Maybe tell me -- fucking hell."
"Pardon? You were saying?"
"You can-- oh, fuck, Roy. I swear you have a magic cock." Jamie is still laughing, silently, with one hand in his mouth to bite down on a scream.
Roy wonders if he might be too drunk to finish, but then he moves in a way that makes Jamie moan very loudly and drag his fingernails hard down Roy’s back, which, in turn, makes Roy’s blood boil in a familiar way. “This bit’s a part of this game too,” Jamie says, a little apologetically, as if he forgot to mention it before. "The bit with the… pain."
So Roy lets one of Jamie's knees go to pull Jamie’s hair so hard that Jamie cries out loudly, and then he buries his teeth in the flesh of Jamie's upper arm.
"Ow! Fucking hell. Can't blame you though, I do look delicious. Do it again. Ow!" Jamie's cry turns into a moan.
Roy gets to a pace that rattles the bedframe and makes Jamie moan louder until a shake goes through his entire body and he screams into his palm and says "Yes, Roy," in a way that takes Roy right over the edge, his head pressed hard against Jamie’s chest.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, Roy. Oh, fuck, Roy," Jamie whispers under his breath, shaking in waves, holding the back of Roy’s head. Roy doesn't say anything because he wants to listen to Jamie saying his name for as long as he can.
Then it's done, and there's no need to hold Jamie until he's back from another dimension, they can just wipe themselves down and fall back on the bed and drift off, Roy on his back, euphoric and tingly, and Jamie cuddled up to him, with a heavy, bratty leg and arm slung over Roy's body.
Roy is woken up by something extremely warm happening to his penis. The room is filled with cold, cloudy daylight. After a minute Roy remembers where he is and figures out that the head that’s bobbing above his crotch belongs to Jamie.
“Morning,” Roy says.
“Ullgh,” Jamie says.
Roy remembers last night. “Oh, fuck,” he says. “That was…” He rubs his face. “Wow.”
"Urgh ullng,” Jamie agrees.
“Eh. Wouldn’t go that far.” Roy yawns, grabs one of the water bottles he can reach on the nightstand, and drinks it all. Then he picks up his phone and checks his messages. A thousand congratulations from everyone he knows, to go over later when no one’s around to see him get emotional.
He opens the news to find that Richmond has made it out of the sports section and into the front pages. They’re doing the thing where they unnecessarily compare Jamie to various footballing legends, which is unfortunate because his head might explode and his head is doing a very good job at the moment.
There’s a buzz from Jamie’s phone, which Jamie ignores (good boy), but Roy gives it a look. “It’s your girl from last night. Sophia.”
“Unngg.”
“We talked a bit, by the way. She said my shoes didn't look gay. I don't think that's a compliment."
That, regrettably, makes Jamie lift his head. “Oh.” He pulls himself up so he’s sitting next to Roy. There are some bruises and scratches on his chest, which Roy is going to pretend are all from the game. “Listen, I didn’t know she would be at the club. We just ran into each other.”
“So?”
"We just hang out sometimes, that’s it."
"Tartt," Roy says. "I don't fucking care."
"Okay! I'm just saying. In case you thought I was, like, disrespecting you."
“Why the fuck would I think that?”
Jamie throws his hands up in frustration. “Whatever!"
Roy grunts.
“I mean you’re not fucking anyone else, are you,” Jamie says.
“Since when," Roy asks slowly and clearly, “is that any of your fucking business?”
“It’s not. But I mean, you’re not.”
“Maybe not,” Roy says. "Maybe I can't be fucking bothered. Again, my fucking business, not yours."
“Okay. It's just… I am, you know. Fucking other people. Or getting fu--"
“Don’t need the details, Tartt.” Roy rolls his eyes.
“And you’re okay with that?”
Roy loses his patience. “What the fuck do you want? You want me to beg you not to fuck anyone else?”
"I don't want anything, you fucking arsehole!" Jamie calls out heatedly and gets up to go to the bathroom.
...What the fuck just happened, Roy thinks.
He takes a few deep breaths.
"Tartt," he says when Jamie comes back. "Come here.” Jamie looks like he doesn’t want to, but then sits down on the bed and leans back into Roy’s arms. He can’t resist being held. “We’re both adults,” Roy says. “We’re both getting all we fucking want. So what’s wrong?”
“What is it you fucking want?” Jamie asks, quietly.
There it is.
There's a small part of Roy that rebels against having to say it, that hates seeing weakness in a man at all, that wants to bark at Jamie and tell him to man up and stop being so fucking soft. But Roy doesn't care for that part of himself, and he doesn't give it the mic.
"Well, you, of course," he says instead. “I like you a lot, and I like seeing you as often as possible. Just not so often that my dick falls off. I also like to get a fucking good night’s sleep sometimes. I don't care what you do with other people because it has fuck-all to do with me."
Jamie’s body is suddenly crumbling into itself. He looks like he wants to disappear, he’s so overwhelmed. Then he turns his head to Roy hesitantly and Roy can see he's blushing like a child. It softens his jutting features into something that makes Roy’s heart skip a beat.
“What? What's with the fucking… puppy eyes?" Roy asks. "Of course I like you, you knobhead. What the fuck did you think I was doing here?”
Jamie just shakes his head. Roy holds him tighter.
Jamie picks up his phone and scrolls through it for a while. He seems to need time to process the new information.
Actually, Roy needs a few minutes to recuperate as well. Two men who were forced to have a conversation.
"So you don't mind about me with other people," Jamie says. He’s sounding like he’s getting an idea, which is always dangerous. "But… you kind of like seeing me dance with them? Don’t pretend it didn’t turn you on."
Roy frowns.
"Only, the text from Sophia. Listen." Jamie reads from his phone. "'Hey d-bag.' That's her nickname for me. 'Your stupid face is in all the papers like you beat Napoleon. Fire emoji. If you’re with bearded man emoji, grumpy emoji, tell him I said hi, winky face.' That's you! I think she fancies you. She's cool, you know. I trust her."
“Oh,” Roy says. And then, “I don’t know.”
“It’s going to be hot as fuck and you know it. You just want to do the thing where you’re grumpy and old and you pretend you’re not into it and let me convince you.”
He’s too annoying. He’s too sweet. Roy backs away from Jamie and pushes his back gently to roll him over on his stomach. "Oh,” Jamie says in delight. He spreads his legs.
It strikes Roy that it’s pretty weird that he gets to do that to Jamie morning and evening while also getting to train him. It’s a lot. Jamie’s ego aside, that's really, legitimately, a huge fucking amount of luck for one man to have.
With his heart full, Roy runs his fingers through the back of Jamie’s hair. His dazzling player. His beautiful boy.
"I think I actually might be a genius, by the way,” Jamie says. “In addition to the other stuff. The Guardian says what's really special about me is my 'split-second decision making’.”
"I'm going to need you to get a ball gag for next time," Roy says.