Chapter Text
Roy Kent was having a terrible day. The team had lost their match two days before, seemingly immune to being able to listen to strategy, and they had to get themselves back on track in order to rejoin the Premier League quickly - as a coach, Roy felt this pressure immensely, hiding his stress behind irritation. He had barked an order for everyone to be at training an hour early today, and was nearly disappointed when everyone showed up on time. He would have liked to have a more recent, acceptable excuse to yell.
He’d snapped at his players and other coaches all day, practically snarling when, on the pitch, Ted had placed a delicate hand on his shoulder and offered him the opportunity to take a break and clear his head. In addition to the extra hour of training - which went exceedingly average, only serving to worsen Roy’s mood - he had gotten at the Dogtrack earlier than even Beard to review footage of the match and had sacrificed sleep he very much fucking valued, thank you.
His attitude was so poor, he had even snapped at Keeley this morning. Bless her, she had about laughed in his face, but still - something else to feel guilty about.
The mediocre practice had just finished, with Roy storming out of the locker room in a fit of rage. He’d just finished a lecture about passingthefuckingballwhenyouseeafuckingopening and notfallingasleeponthefieldlikehisnanaftertea. For the moment, Roy had run out of steam, simply grateful for the training to be over and to go home and crawl into bed with Keeley and finally apologize for being so prickly - maybe after he had told her one more time how incompetent the team was, though.
Suffice it to say, Roy was less than pleased with the turn his day then took, surpassing bad and going straight to hellishly awful.
He’d just rounded the corner towards the exit by the security desk, turning over some new training ideas and motivating insults in his head for the next day, when he heard the arguing.
“—not fucking listening to me—” A desperate, angry, young voice was nearly shouting.
A more familiar, albeit just as angry voice answered. “I’m only going to say it one more damned time, lad, leave the premises before I call the police!”
Roy’s head snapped up to take in the situation in front of him.
A gangly figure was half-leaning over the security desk, his back to Roy, a ratty black backpack slung over one shoulder. He was wearing faded blue jeans and an old jersey undistinguishable at Roy’s angle - Roy could see, however, the way the person - presumably a teenager - had their fists clenched on the desk, as well as their shock of ginger-blond hair, just long enough to curl at the back of the kid’s head. Tommy, the head security guard, was standing on the other side of the desk, hands on his belt, looking furious. Roy knew Tommy vaguely, had run into him before in his years at Richmond, and best understood him to be a take-no-fucks kind of man, broad and big-shouldered and more than capable (and happy) to throw an intruder out. Tommy’s face was red and he was huffing, and Roy asked (barked), more on instinct than thought, “Fuck’s all this, then?”
The kid spun around - he looked about sixteen, vaguely gaunt but fierce-looking, with angular features and a swollen black eye that extended out to the kid’s cheekbone. He was wearing a Man City jersey, although Roy was too busy staring at the blood on the kid’s collar to bother looking at what player was displayed. The kid practically snarled at him, spitting with a thick Mancunian accent through a split lip, “I’m looking for Jamie Tartt.”
Of all the words Roy might have guessed the lad he was going to say, those were not them. Who the fuck did this kid think he was? Roy’s mood darkened. Often, people would sneak past the clubhouse’s outer security and make it here, arguing with Tommy and the other security guards about being allowed in to speak to various players or take a photo or even - blasphemously - use the pitch for themselves. The audacity of people never ceased to amaze him, and the kid’s look - jaw tilted back and clenched, eyes narrowed, face beaten (no doubt from a schoolyard fight the kid had started himself) - told Roy he was nothing but trouble.
Of course Tartt would bring in some kid like this. He’s probably dying to follow in his prickish footsteps and just couldn’t take no to seeing his beloved superstar for an answer. It wasn’t outlandish, especially with the little shit’s surge in publicity recently for what Roy had to admit was pretty stellar playing.. (Although, Roy personally had found himself begrudgingly growing fonder for Jamie outside of the pitch as well - a feeling that had only solidified after Roy had seen the first-hand damage his bastard father did at Wembley. If anything, this was one more reason to keep the kid away. Jamie didn’t need this kind of shit, and neither did the rest of the team.)
“Oi, you need to leave, now.” Roy was snarling back now, suddenly two feet from the lad. “Come during a match like everyone else, alright? This is private fucking property.”
This only served to enrage the boy more, it seemed. “I’m not a fucking fan, I—”
Tommy jumped in again, having come around the desk and now standing on the other side of Roy. “Watch your mouth and leave before we decide to press charges.”
The boy, Roy noticed, kept glancing out the glass doors to the carpark. Was he hiding from someone? Police? This thought took root quickly, making Roy raise his voice and step forwards, yelling, “If you think you can just hide in here from whatever trouble you’ve dragged in—”
“Fucking—sir, please, I need to see him, it’s fucking important—”
Tommy surged forward suddenly and grabbed the kid’s arm, making to haul him physically towards the door. “I’ve fucking had it—”
Roy suddenly felt very out of his depth. He understood Tommy’s irritation, and more than understood yelling at the kid, but was there such a need to physically make him leave? Something shifted in his gut and he took another step forward, watching the kid thrash in Tommy’s grip, looking more like an alleycat than someone no older than sixteen.
Before Roy could do anything, the kid executed a move that could only have been learned in a street scuffle, slamming his booted foot down into Tommy’s knee, making him shout in rage and collapse to the floor. The instant Tommy loosened his grip, the kid was down the hallway, incredibly fast, sprinting in the direction of the locker room.
Any kind of sympathy Roy had for the kid instantly disappeared, followed by shock, although grudging respect did creep in. He stood there for several seconds, gaping open-mouthedly at the kid’s retreating figure. Seriously, who did this little prick think he was? Roy took off after him on instinct, at least determined to make sure the kid didn’t pose any risk to anyone, and heard Tommy’s own footsteps behind him nearly immediately.
—
Sam Obisanya was having a wonderful day. He had greatly enjoyed the additional hour of training that morning (despite Coach Kent’s foul mood), eager to show his coaches how hard he was willing to work to get better after the disaster that was their last match. Ted had winked at him when he called for a water break, subtly showing his appreciation for Sam’s work ethic, and Jamie had grinned at him and even complimented his cross afterwards.
The two of them had grown closer recently, much to Sam’s delight. When Jamie had first returned to Richmond, Sam had been deeply upset, sure that his presence would only lead to cruelty - something Sam had been sincerely relieved to see go, for the most part, with Jamie’s previous departure back to Manchester. However, Sam was thrilled to be proven wrong, slowly and in small, important ways, starting with Jamie’s support of his opposition to Dubai Air. After Wembley, Sam had made sure to be present even more for Jamie - slowly, nights that were once spent studying football textbooks and missing his parents desperately were spent with Jamie Fucking Tartt, who was shockingly very good at cooking and eager to provide kindness and encouragement, even with clumsy actions… although Sam sometimes had to gently remind him that insults were not affectionate.
Currently, Sam was basking in the post-training glow of happiness and endorphins, slowly changing into street clothes to get food with the team in. The rest of the team was similarly slow, teasing and gently pushing at each other like brothers, chattering on about various topics and arguing about where to get dinner from. Colin was practically begging Isaac to let them go out afterwards, stating repeatedly, “I need to dance, skip!” in an increasingly thick Welsh accent. Jamie, who was lacing up his trainers and intermittently pitching in ideas for dinner, caught Sam’s eye and grinned, nodding at Colin and Isaac and then shaking his head subtly. Sam smiled back, and then lifted his eyebrows at Jamie when Dani materialized next to the Mancunian, cheerfully patting his back and asking him something that Sam couldn’t catch. Jamie flushed, mouthed a quick fuck you to Sam, and then turned his full attention to Dani, getting that special smile he reserves for him… and Sam, now, sometimes!
Sam tiled his head back, eyes closed, and shook his head, thinking about exactly how long Jamie was going to take to finally take the bait and ask Dani out. He exhaled, feeling at peace, and smiled.
It was about then that all hell broke loose.
The locker room door slammed open, thunking against the wall with a loud crash, and a bedraggled teenager stood in the doorway, breathing heavily and looking entirely out of place. Sam’s head flashed with shock, and then worry, and then shock again. A teenager?
Isaac and Jamie had both jumped to their feet at the noise, both of them undoubtedly reliving the horrid events of Wembley in their own respective roles. Sam had mentioned to Jamie how he had noticed how jumpy he was in the days after, although he did his best to say it offhandedly and with gentleness. Jamie had lifted a shoulder, dropped it, and sighed through his teeth. "Comes with the territory, don’t it?" He had said, giving Sam a quick smile before jogging off to beat Sam to the carpark. Sam had thought about what that could possibly mean for several seconds before bounding after Jamie. He was never able to refuse a good race.
The other players, for their part, looked equally startled and concerned, even on-edge. Richard was staring open-mouthed at the teenager in the doorway, while Jan Maas was doing his best impression of a whisper to say to Thierry, “Who is that?”
The teenager took several quick steps into the room and looked around. He was skinny and his face was bruised, wearing a blue jersey and jeans, looking guarded and wary. He shrugged off a battered backpack, and it landed on the floor at his feet. He was still breathing heavily, scanning the room, when Sam watched his eyes lock on Jamie, recognition flashing. Jamie stood immediately, and the two of them took several steps toward each other, and Sam worried for a brief moment that this was going to turn into a serious conflict. Afterall, why on Earth was the boy running?
Sam was stunned when Jamie instead planted two large palms on the teenager’s shoulders and smiled warmly, although worry was clear in his face. “Top,” his voice was fond but surprised, and he only had eyes for the teenager in that moment, despite the various looks his teammates were throwing in his direction. “What are you doing here, lad?”
The boy’s mouth opened, face full of relief, to answer, when the second wave of hell was unleashed. Roy and someone appeared to be a security guard burst through the locker room door again, both of them panting and practically growling. The security guard instantly spotted the teenager and reached out and yanked at the back of the kid’s jersey, causing him to go stumbling backwards out of Jamie’s grip. Several players instantly shouted in protest at a child being treated this way, Sam among them - he had suddenly found himself on his feet, prepared to intervene, and he could see Colin do the same in the corner of his eye.
Maybe all of them were on edge after Wembley.
Jamie, however, was already there, and actively involved in the conflict, looking angrier than Sam had seen him in maybe a year. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, grabbing ‘im like that?”
Jamie now had a firm hand around the security guard’s wrist, the other on his chest, making him drop the boy, who skittered behind Jamie. Jamie instantly made himself bigger, broadening his shoulders, with the teenager behind him, who was looking more and more upset by the minute and, worse, afraid. Sam recognized the look on his face - it was the one Jamie got when he felt he was backed into a corner.
The security guard lunged for the boy again, ignoring Jamie, who promptly put his forearm across the man’s chest and leaned into his face, pushing against him, his other arm out to keep the child behind him. Roy leapt into action, placing a firm hand on the security guard’s shoulder and pulling him away, firmly. “Come on, now, let’s—”
Ted chose this moment to burst out of the office, demanding, “What in the hell is going on out here?”
He seemed more exasperated than mad, clearly having thought it was a regular argument occurring, before realization at the situation sunk in at sight of security. The American looked around wildly for answers, gaze landing on the teenager, “Who—What—?”
Jamie was still obviously infuriated, looking similar to a snake, coiled and ready to strike to protect her eggs. Jamie was shouting, now, cutting off Ted, “Putting your hands on my fucking kid—”
Well, that was a development. The teenager was beginning to shake, and not for the first time, Sam felt worried for him, drafting a plan to get him ice for his eye as soon as… whatever the situation was, calmed down slightly.
The security guard was in Jamie’s face as well, now, roaring back, “That little bastard broke in, he has no business being in here—”
Roy gave the man a firm tug to the door, growling something to him, obviously arguing for the security guard to leave. The two of them argued, hand gestures and curses flying, while Sam’s attention - and undoubtedly the rest of the team’s - focused back on Jamie and the teenager. Did Sam hear Jamie call him “Top”?
Jamie was ushering the boy to sit down in front of his own locker now, crouching in front of him. Jamie was only just now in his sweatpants and hoodie, having just finished his shower, hair unstyled and dripping, feet bare and braced against the locker room floor. His hands were again on the boy’s - Top’s - shoulders, who was still shaking, casting nervous glances towards the doorway and around the locker room at the team and appearing to the world like a trapped animal. Jamie was speaking softly to him, his words growing clearer as Roy’s argument with the security guard faded - they must have taken it into the hallway.
“Top,” Jamie was saying, “Top. Lad, are you alright? What happened?”
The teenager’s face dropped from its guarded, somewhat angry expression. Previously, Sam had thought Top to be maybe seventeen - now, he was betting fifteen. He looked infinitely younger, and more than anything, tired. He collapsed forward, to Jamie, who wrapped arms around him and embraced him tightly, one hand coming up to cradle the boy’s head against Jamie’s neck, while the other started to rub circles into Top’s back. Young fingers curled into Jamie’s sweatshirt, and Sam averted his eyes when the teenager suddenly gave a wet gasp. Jamie was hushing him, rocking him slightly, looking some combination of seriously concerned and angry - for Top, Sam realized.
Top drew back, taking a deep shuddering breath. He was furiously swiping at his eyes, now, chest rising and falling rapidly.
Roy chose this moment to enter back into the locker room, instantly five feet from Jamie (Sam was a little proud he had the sense to stay farther away) and saying, “What the fuck is going on, Tartt?”
Jamie’s head snapped to the side to glare at him, something he hadn’t done in any serious fashion for some time. “I don’t know, Kent, why don’t you tell me why you and fucking security were chasing a kid?”
Roy, for his part, looked a little abashed. “I heard arguing at the security desk. He was trying to come in and see you and he was getting heated with Tommy—”
Top shot to his feet, jaw tilted like a boxer. Like Jamie. “I tried to tell you, he wouldn’t—”
Ted whistled sharply. He looked absolutely bewildered, hair wild like he’d been pulling at it, looking from the teenager to Roy to Jamie and then to the team, and back again. “Alright! Alright.” He cleared his throat, obviously trying to desescalate the situation. His eyes fell back onto the kid and stayed there. “Excuse me, son? I think you might need to—”
“Ted,” Jamie said sharply. He turned big wide eyes onto the gaffer for a moment. His message was clear: Let me handle this.
Ted put his hands up in surrender, looking somewhat relieved, before giving the team a swift nod to continue their after-training routines and, it was implied, give Jamie space. Jamie turned back to Top, gently placing a hand back on his shoulder and moving him back to the bench. He sat with no opposition, looking exhausted, staring at Jamie with dead eyes.
The rest of the team was shuffling now, moving, trying to pretend they weren’t listening. Sam slowly applied deodorant. Jamie seemed unconcerned about the team, his sole focus in front of him. His eyes remained on the teenager. Again, he asked, “What happened?”
The teenager gave another heavy sigh, and started to speak.