Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Fuck,” Roy grunts into the massage table, his hands balled into tight, painful fists.

Gail doesn’t react, of course, headphones blaring too loud for her to hear the fucking fire brigade, let alone Roy’s embarrassing, muffled grunts. And even if she did hear him, her only response is to dig her elbow into Roy’s hamstring a little bit harder.

Keeley called it a “vicious cycle” back when she gave a shit about him, the way he would overcompensate for his failing left knee with his right, and then wind the right up tight enough that he was rendered entirely useless, left to hobble awkwardly up the stairs and throw himself into his king-sized bed. Keeley used to be in that bed, or at least come home soon after Roy collapsed into it, would hop on him and ride him in smooth, languid movements, swallowing Roy’s cries of pleasure and rage and pain into her sweet, cherry lip gloss-stained mouth. 

Now, since he fucked it with her, all he has is Gail’s fucking murder podcasts bleeding out of her headphones, an overly expensive Fleshlight, and the jabbing, insistent pain in his fucking knee.

It shouldn’t even be like this. It’s an international break, for fuck’s sake. Roy should be in the England camp. Or, since he’s fucking decrepit now, on a beach in Spain or Greece or Brazil with a model humping his thigh and two more fighting to get his fingers stuffed inside their tissue-thin excuses for bikinis. He shouldn’t be here, at Nelson fucking Road, running through drills that he’s coaching himself on and letting Gail wail on him until he’s close to tears.

And, if this had to fucking happen, it should the very fucking least be on a Prem team, rather the fucking Championship.

Richmond’s relegation still stings like acid in the back of his throat, the fact that he was benched the entire fucking final match burning even worse. Fucking Yankee numpty excuse of a coach trying to make him care about feelings or whatever rather than his fucking job.

It’s only when the pain of Gail’s hands is actually starting to feel good, a point to focus Roy’s hot rage, when they gently slow to a stop.

Roy angles his head back to ask what the fuck is going on, but manages to catch the clock in the corner of his vision before he can snap. It’s half seven, and he’s been on the table for a fucking hour already, feeling no less relaxed for it. Fucking useless, this shit is, the training and the only eating boiled chicken and asparagus and the no alcohol. No fucking point at all.

He should just fucking hold a retirement presser, soak himself in petrol, and self-immolate in front of all the self-important reporter fuckers. Would be easier than this shit. Less painful, too.

He continues stewing as he heads to the dressing room, shucking off his shorts in one go. It’s deserted, at least, so Roy can slam doors and kick the fucking bench as he tugs on a clean pair of trackies and no one has anything to say about it.

“Having a fit, are we?”

Roy refuses to startle, but his heart does jump into his throat as he wheels around to see Keeley leaning on the dressing room doorframe, thick ponytail swept over one tiny, bird-boned shoulder.

“Fuck you doing here?” Roy grunts. He doesn’t add what he wants, like how fucking fit she looks in that black shirt that shows off too much cleavage and how much Roy wants to punch himself in the throat for not wanting her enough, or the right way, or whatever the fuck she said when she dumped him last summer while Roy was still in a self-hating haze after the relegation. 

Roy’s comment isn’t meant to sting, but a small frown still curls Keeley’s lips, and the urge to punch himself grows ever-stronger.

“I’m working.” Keeley gestures at her skin-tight pink slacks, like anyone with a semblance of professionalism would wear something like that. “Head of P.R. and all? I’m just scouting around the place, finding good places to film content. Why are you here? Shouldn’t you be on hols in Ibiza or something?”

“No. Gotta train.”

Keeley raises a sculpted eyebrow, sceptical. “Don’t you need to rest during breaks? So you don’t, you know, go insane and end up strangling kittens or something?”

“I wouldn’t strangle a kitten.”

“Okay, then a puppy.”

“Where the fuck would I get a puppy?”

“Maybe you’re doing your billionth practice penalty or whatever you do, and some innocent schoolchild is walking their new dog, and it’s a chihuahua, so it’s little, and you think it’s a rat and you strangle it to death. I don’t know, Roy. I’m just trying to protect a little girl’s trauma. Her mum has cancer, you know.”

Roy doesn’t know where to start with that hypothetical, so he just shrugs. “Well, have to be here, don’t I? Fucking geriatric or whatever,” he mutters, gesturing down at his still-throbbing knee.

“If that’s in your contract, that’s ageist. You can sue for that, babe. False imprisonment or something.” Keeley flounces over and takes a seat on the bench nearest Roy without invitation. It’s almost impressive how long she manages to make her crossed legs look when she’s that short.

“It’s not,” Roy replies sourly, just on this side of snapping at her. “Have to train extra to get any fucking minutes anymore. I’m slow.”

Keeley should know this, was there for Roy’s month-long fit of rage when he got benched by Lasso at the end of last season before she left him, but she seems surprised by Roy’s words, anyway, her already round eyes going somehow wider.

“That’s barbaric,” she declares. “Why bother?”

Roy doesn’t grace that with a response, just sighs and tugs on his T-shirt. “Look, Keeley, I appreciate you checking in, but I have shit to get to. If you don’t have some new PR strategy or whatever to get me minutes, I don’t want to hear it.”

Roy shoulders his kit bag and slams the door on the way out before Keeley can give any more of her helpful advice.

Roy’s at yoga a few days later when Keeley texts him. It’s fucking cryptic: I have an idea for getting you minutes. Coffee Tuesday at ten? followed by an address to a place in fucking Primrose Hill.

Roy ignores it and slides his phone into his pocket, leaning back into the arm of the couch. He’s feeling pleasantly stretched out, core just a bit tired from the fucking eon Janice had them in chattaranga, and he’s ready to drink his soda water (no rosé until the offseason if he doesn’t want to get fucking slower) and watch Lust Conquers All without thinking about fucking football.

The yoga mums and he have been steadily working their way through the new season of LCA, and Roy is incensed about the bullshit fucking Danthony is up to before the episode even starts.

“If Danthony kisses Meagan R. one more time without fucking meaning it, I’m going to punch the screen,” Roy mutters to no one in particular, but several of the mums nod in turn.

“With you there,” Rachel murmurs over her wine glass. “Not as bad as that Jamie, though.”

Nicole tuts knowingly. “Poor Amy. Didn’t deserve an ounce of that.”

“It’s not Jamie’s fault,” Janice replies archly. “Denise was throwing herself at him. What was he to do?”

“Oh, come off it,” Nicole says. “You just think he’s fit.”

“Well, am I wrong? Look.” Janice gestures to the screen, where Jamie is laying on a daybed. He’s wearing a painfully small pair of black swimming briefs, patterned with tiny oranges. They’re slung low on prominent hips, showing off his thick thighs, tight abs, and generous chest. Roy can’t help but hope that he flips over and shows his massive fucking arse spilling out of the swimsuit.

Roy’s ancient, not dead, after all.

“She’s right,” Roy comments, watching Jamie adjust his sunglasses while he chats with Gavyn about whatever the fuck is going on between him and Meghan K.

Roy’s phone buzzes again, and he tugs it out of his trackies. Keeley again.

I’m serious

Roy sighs through his nose and likes the message. It’s almost certainly bullshit – Roy is old and slow. Richmond would be better off playing a beached fucking whale – but he doesn’t exactly have much to lose. It’s just coffee. Plus which, it’s an international break, after all, and it’s not like Roy’s unceasing workouts are getting him any fucking minutes anyway, much less his spot on the starters back.

And Roy would start feeling ill about that, but on the telly, Jamie is sticking his tongue down Denise’s throat now, so at least Roy can concentrate on that instead.

“What a tosser,” Nicole says derisively, shaking her head. “That poor Amy.”

“Amy had a wandering eye,” Janice argues, sipping at her rosé. “She was all over Danthony during the dance challenge. No wonder his heart rate got the highest at her performance.”

Dani adjusts her cat-eye glasses. “Well, Jamie’s got the highest at Denise’s, and she hardly touched him. Shame, that. Absolute shame.”

“And Amy loves him. Her heart rate was the highest at his dance,” Nicole adds.

That entire challenge had been fucking ridiculous. Jamie in a tiny, tiny fucking pair of bright white shorts, closer to being pants than being shorts, a white leather harness shoving his pecs up and out, almost like they were tits. He’d strapped on a pair of fucking angel wings, and, for all the Victoria’s Secret shows that Roy has greatly enjoyed and sampled the models from, Jamie was fucking hotter than all of them. No wonder Amy’s heart rate had been the highest – Jamie was shaking his plentiful, muscly bum right in her face. Roy’s would’ve been the highest, too.

The yoga mums don't seem to agree, though, as Rachel shakes her head dismissively. “I’d vote Jamie off. Too big for his britches, I think.”

“Literally,” Janice says as the camera flashes an unsubtle shot of Jamie’s bum, and everyone laughs. Even Roy, mood sour as it always is nowadays, can’t help but smirk at the joke.

“Wait, wait, it might actually happen!” Dani says, nearly sloshing her entire wine glass over Roy where he sits tucked by her feet on the floor.

Roy’s gaze jerks up toward the screen, where Jamie and Danthony are standing, hands behind their back. Danthony at least looks repentful for his transgressions with Meagen R, head bowed and lips pursed. Good – he was a right twat for the shit he pulled in the Snog, Marry, Pie challenge.

Jamie, though, looks fucking confident as ever, shirt unbuttoned, muscled chest out, jaw set like he’s pissed to be on the chopping block at all.

Roy’s stomach goes funny at the lingering shot of Jamie’s standoffish expression. He’s not sure if he’d rather nut him for being such a twat to Amy, who truly didn’t deserve it, or get Jamie’s mouth on his cock, put those full lips to good use. Maybe both.

“If they send Jamie home, I’m boycotting. I don’t know what else to do-”

“Shush!” Rachel says, patting Janice’s knee firmly. “It’s happening!”

Roy leans his chin on his hand and watches. He ought to be embarrassed by how interested he is in this, but he fucking isn’t. He needs a distraction from his failing career, anyway.

“Unfortunately,” the host says on the screen, “the person who will be leaving the retreat is . . . Jamie.”

Roy can’t hear Jamie’s reaction or confessional afterward with all the cacophony from the yoga mums, whether it be them cheering the fact that Jamie’s heading home or Janice’s bitter complaining.

Roy himself stays silent. It was deserved, after all. Prick was an absolute twat to Amy, and he wasn’t much better to Denise. Really, the only sad part about all of it is that Roy won’t get to see the half-naked idiot’s tiny waist and perfect bum parade around anymore.

Roy’s fucking late to coffee with Keeley. His fucking G-Wagon wouldn’t start for love or money (or Roy repeatedly smacking the steering wheel), and he hadn’t had time to schedule a private car, so he ends up in a fucking Uber Black. And Black is better than regular Uber, sure, but it doesn’t keep the driver from eyeing Roy in his rearview mirror, nor the smell of the driver’s shit cologne wafting all over the car without a barrier to put up.

It has Roy feeling hot and sick, even more pissed that he’s wasting his last day of the international break. By the time he shoves open the glass door of the coffee shop, he’s barely able to resist the urge to growl at the pleasant chime the movement makes.

Keeley’s perched at a table in the corner, looking immaculate as always. Her hair is swept into a bun, her shirt white and ruffly and low-cut as ever. Roy nods at her before sliding into the blonde wood chair across the metal table. Fucking low-budget place, decorated like a goddamn Chipotle. Of course Keeley picked this place – no one would guess they would ever go here, so no one would recognize them.

“Hiya,” Keeley says brightly. “Got you a latte.”

It’s in a yellow mug, topped with foam and cinnamon. It smells fucking delicious, but Roy pushes it away. Can’t be having fucking whole milk if he can’t even run a sub-six minute mile.

“Thanks,” he says, anyway, because even as tetchy as Roy is, Keeley is doing him a fucking favour.

“How’re you?” she asks, stirring her own coffee-milkshake monstrosity with a pink straw.

“Fine. What’s your idea?”

“No pleasantries, then,” Keeley huffs, even as her cheeks colour with pleasure. He used to see that when he bought her new Versace heels or Valentino lipstick, but it’s the same expression now that Roy wants to hear whatever PR strategy she’s cooked up. Maybe it’s a testament to Roy moving on (or just how shit his life is at the moment) that he doesn’t react at all to it.

“No,” Roy agrees. “What is it?”

“Glad you asked.” Keeley smiles and reaches into her gargantuan red purse before slapping down a genuine, honest-to-fucking-fuck manila folder, like a ‘90s spy movie. “Drew up a plan last night. I’ll email it, too, if you decide you’re interested.”

Roy eyes her suspiciously, but he doesn’t appear to notice or care.

“Open it,” she urges, wrapping lipsticked lips around her straw and taking a long sip.

And Roy knows he ought to have at least a modicum more pride than this, for fuck’s sake, enough to not meet Keeley at a fucking cafe filled with mums and office workers to open a suspicious manila folder like it’s a shittier, sadder, low-budget Mission Impossible. But Roy’s pride left with his starting spot, so he flips the folder open and stares down at the image on the first page: a headshot of fucking Jamie from Lust Conquers All staring up at him, smirking.

“The fuck?”

“Read it,” Keeley says, tapping the page with an acrylic. “Trust me.”

The top of the page reads Roy Kent’s PR Plan, 2022. Roy’s mildly impressed it’s in black and a normal font rather than a pink, sparkly one.

The next page is dominated by a pie chart, entitled Ticket Motivations Richmond 2020-1. About half of the graph is attributed to Longtime Richmond Supporters, denoted in red. A thinner, blue chunk is labelled Convenience. A small sliver in green is for fucking Schadenfreude, which makes Roy bite the inside of his cheek with annoyance. The last, second-largest block, about a quarter, is labelled in yellow: Player Support.

There’s a smaller pie chart on the bottom, wherein the names of various Richmond players are colour-coded in every shade of the rainbow. Isaac and Sam have decent slices, but Roy’s is certainly the largest, almost a third of the graph coloured the purple denoting him.

“Fuck is this?” Roy asks Keeley. He’s a footballer – he hasn’t the time nor the brain to be able to dissect fucking charts, especially when the charts are apparently dissecting him.

“Breakdown of why people bought tickets to matches last season,” Keeley says with a wide smile. It’s clear, despite her insistence Roy look at the fucking folder, that she’d rather explain it out loud than have Roy read in silence.

“We sent some surveys around last season, since our attendance was so poor.” Keeley makes a face at that, but it’s gone as soon as it appears. “Ms. Welton had me look into it over the offseason.”

“Ticket attendance doesn’t mean fucking shit for my minutes,” Roy huffs, half-ready to call another fucking Uber home. Of course Keeley would misunderstand this. She’s a PR person, more concerned with public image and brand deals and general vapidity than anything that actually fucking matters for Roy’s career.

This was fucking idiotic.

But Keeley shakes her head confidently, and continues, “See how it says Player Support?”

Roy grunts in affirmation.

“Well, that means . . .” she pauses, reading upside down. “24.6 percent of ticket revenue comes from fans of a specific player. And-” She taps the second, smaller pie chart. “-32.1 percent of that comes from you specifically.”

“So I’m a relic that people like. Cheers.”

“No,” Keeley corrects, rolling wide blue eyes. “It means that you're a relic people want to watch play.”

“How the fuck is that going to convince Ted to play me? And why the fuck is Jamie from LCA on the cover of this?”

“So you know him already?”

“I’ve seen an episode,” Roy hedges. Keeley’s biting the inside of her fucking lip to hold back a smile, so Roy adds gruffly, “Now explain how this actually fucking helps.”

“I’m getting there.” Keeley flips to the next page, this one a table that has Roy’s eyes glazing over within seconds. “See, here’s the revenue of a typical Championship side.” She taps a seemingly random cell. “And next to it’s their operating cost.”

“I’m trying to play football, not be a fucking accountant.”

Keeley ignores him. “Below that is Richmond’s financials. See the difference?”

“No,” Roy says without looking down.

“Richmond’s operating at an extreme financial shortfall, even compared to other relegated teams.” She brushes her finger over a few other rows of the table. “That’s bad for the team. We’re losing money.”

Roy knows she’s dumbing it down to an obnoxious level, but at least it’s fucking understandable, so he just grunts in affirmation.

“How do we fix that? By cutting costs or increasing revenue.” She flips the page again to another page of tables. “Cutting costs has been difficult. Contracts are pretty ironclad, we already serve shit food, and we have the worst facilities of any major football association, including League One teams.”

Roy nods at the last bit. That he gets – his gym and practice pitch at home are both nicer than Richmond’s.

“So, the solution is increasing revenue.” Keeley grins as she moves to the next page. “Most people won’t come to Richmond matches if they cost more.” She taps a bar graph in the top left corner. “Nor can we make our tickets any cheaper.” This time, she calls Roy’s attention to another indecipherable table.

“Can you get to the fucking point?”

Keeley narrows his eyes at him. “Shut it, Roy. I’m almost done.”

Roy crosses his arms, gesturing for Keeley to continue with a jerk of his chin.

“Thank you,” she says sarcastically before patting the paper above a large pie chart in the middle. “The majority of people said they would attend matches if there was a player they were interested in. That means,” she says, eyeing Roy as if wondering when he will don his literal dunce cap, “ if we want to increase revenue, we have to find players that fans are more engaged with.”

“We don’t have any money for new contracts, though.”

Keeley’s smile turns wolfish. “Exactly. So we need to make our current roster more exciting for fans. And, if a certain player happened to drive the most traffic to Nelson Road, they would need to be prominently featured, wouldn’t they? Especially if the amount they’re driving the traffic increases.”

Roy resists the urge to say “in English, goddamnit,” but he does quirk his head in confusion.

“The most popular player ought to get the most minutes. Ergo-” Her eyes flash at the word. “-make you more popular, and you get minutes.”

Roy goes cold once he gets it.

Keeley wants him to be a fucking mascot. Again.

“No,” Roy says stiffly.

“No? Why not? This is genius.”

“I’m not going to parade around like a fucking show pony just for people to give a shit about me. What would you even have me fucking do? Leak a sex tape? Build a fucking hospital?”

“Not quite,” Keeley says, flipping to the next page as if Roy had never objected. It features yet another pie chart, dominated by a giant red slice that takes up nearly two-thirds of the thing. “We polled people on what would make them more interested in a footballer. Overwhelmingly, respondents said it was their love life.”

“You know I’m fucking single,” Roy hisses.

Keeley ignores him though, pointing at a bar graph on the bottom left. “Interest in Piqué spiked one hundred and fourteen percent when he started dating Shakira. Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain’s engagement rose ninety-four percent when he got together with Perrie Edwards. And shit, Roy, Becks’s interest soared three hundred and eight percent when he started dating Posh.”

“That doesn’t fucking help me.”

“Yes it does. This indicates that fans are interested in your love life, Roy. And-” She turns the page again to yet another picture of Jamie from LCA, posing shirtless in a pool, fucking winking at the camera. “-I have the perfect candidate for you to date.”

“Jamie from LC-fucking-A? Didn’t he just get fucking kicked off for slagging around?”

Keeley nods. “Jamie Tartt,” she confirms. “He’s captured the public’s attention. People have a vested interest in his love life now. And, he’s already been vetted.”

“How? He only got the boot last night.”

“You watched, huh?”

Roy doesn’t grace that with a response, so Keeley continues, “I dated him a few years back. He’s well fit, and he’s good people.”

Roy feels his cheeks go red. “You’re setting your ex-boyfriend up with your other fucking ex-boyfriend?”

“I was with Jamie before I even met you,” Keeley sighs, eyebrows wrinkled. “And Jamie’s perfect. He’s smart, he’s discreet, and he has the paps wrapped around his little finger.”

“How in the fuck is he discreet? He fucked around on Amy without a shred of care.”

“That was for the cameras. Believe me, I know him.” Keeley flips to the next page, where Jamie’s fucking face is still staring up at Roy on glossy colour printer paper, this time from a screenshot of an Instagram page.

“Why him?”

“Jamie has more than a million followers on Instagram alone. His last selfie got more than seven hundred thousand likes. You’re a bit of a relic. If you want to raise your public image and get people interested in you, this is who you date to do it.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Roy scoffs. He’s pathetic, sure, but he’s not fucking low enough to hire a glorified fucking escort just to get minutes.

“This will work, Roy. The data show-”

“Don’t give a shit.”

“You could just meet with him. Discuss what you want – desired monetary outcomes, hard physical boundaries, things like that.”

The words make Roy’s stomach curdle, and he stands almost without meaning to, nearly knocking his chair backwards with the violence of the movement.

“Fuck, no.”

Roy storms out of the coffee shop and is halfway down the block before he realises he has no fucking way to get home except for yet another fucking Uber. It’s a testament to how angry he is with Keeley that he calls one up without a second thought.

Roy spends the evening after that bullshit meeting doing what any self-respecting footballer with no friends, no girlfriends, and no desire to get papped within an inch of his life would do during the offseason: he grabs a lemon water (no more fucking Darsteiner for him), a shit curry (courtesy of a bullshit health-food restaurant on Deliveroo), and settles in to watch Sky fucking Sports.

If Keeley were still around, or his sister and Phoebe weren’t on holiday in Australia to see coral reefs, they’d tell him he was fucking pathetic, a sadsack, pitiful. As it is, Roy eats too much curry to the point where his sides are starting to ache, drinks two lemon waters in the space of one commercial break, and is half-considering fucking off to Australia, too, just for something to do.

Sky Sports is no help, going on and fucking on about new prospects and Zava’s workout routine, but at least it’s noise that isn’t about his failing fucking career. Of course, that doesn’t last long.

“Moving back to the Championship, what do you think about Richmond’s chances this year? They’re not too far off the top of the table.”

Jeff Stelling smirks on the telly. “Chances of making it back to the Prem? Less than nil. I’d be surprised if they don’t get relegated again.”

A picture crops up in the corner of the screen of Roy, red-faced and defeated, after the last match of the past season. He hadn’t played a single fucking minute of that match, but it’s not like Richmond has any more famous faces to flaunt.

“I’ve been in the dressing room with them,” Cartrick adds. “Lads have no cohesion, you know? Nothing stringing them together.”

“Can’t blame ‘em, can we? Not when they’ve got a checked-out geriatric for a captain,” Chris Kamara replies smartly.

Cartrick actually fucking snorts, and Roy’s guts twist unpleasantly. “Captain? Captain of the bench, more like. If Lasso’s learned anything from last season, Kent won’t be getting any minutes unless an asteroid strikes their entire second team.”

Chris Kamara smiles sharply. “I wouldn’t even let him on the bench. Who knows if bum knees are contagious, you know?”

It’s a credit to the anger management courses Roy took once Phoebe was born that he shuts off the TV instead of throwing the remote at it.

Fucking shitfuckers. Fucking twats, thinking they know how Roy is going to play, the condition of his knee. Roy is going to play a full ninety for their remaining dozen fucking games if Lasso knows what’s fucking good for him.

Or if Ms. Welton wants to sell a single fucking ticket, according to Keeley. Not that Roy doubts it, exactly. No one’s shelling out the cash to attend a match for fucking Bhargava, that’s for fucking sure.

He’s who people come to see. Even if he’s a fucking relic. Even if that’s all he has left, now that he’s old and slow and has trouble fucking focusing, or whatever the fuck Nate was on about in Liverpool last season. Fans give a shit about him, more than anyone else on Richmond’s pathetic fucking squad.

Because that’s what he is: a fucking mascot.

Maybe it’s the shit curry, or the telly, or just the hot pit of rage and embarrassment twisting in Roy’s abdomen, but he digs his phone out of his pocket and opens his email.

Keeley’s sent him a copy of the file without his permission, of course, but he isn’t livid like he should be. Instead, he scrolls past the legalese, the idiotic statistics about ticket sales, the billion fucking pie charts, and finds the link, highlighted in yellow, at the bottom of the document. The link to @jamie.tartt’s fucking Instagram.

Roy’s team manages his public socials, but he’s not that fucking old. He has his own Instagram, private, mostly for liking his sister’s mindfulness posts and, when Keeley gave a shit about him, seeing how fucking fit she looked in that week’s magazine cover. Roy’s grateful for the stupid thing now, when Jamie Tartt’s page pops up. Public, of course. Verified, obviously. 1.2 million followers.

His profile photo is a tightly cropped photo of his face with a sunset-coloured background, pouting in a way Roy believes is supposed to be sexy. When Roy clicks to enlarge it, he thinks Jamie Tartt might be right about that.

His eyes are a soft grey, carefully manicured eyebrows arched in a way that makes him look both intimidating and warm at the same time, like the U10 coaches Phoebe works with sometimes. His eyelashes are long, as if he’s wearing mascara or eyeliner, or even those obscene mink extensions Keeley would waste Roy’s money on.

Roy carefully exits out of the profile photo, but is confronted with the rest of Jamie Tartt’s Instagram. The grid is a miasma of shirtless pictures with idiotic captions, things like “Man Crush Monday” on a video of him squatting 150 kilos, or “Forgot the suncream” on a close-up photo of his torso with the hem of his shorts pulled down, exposing his pale Adonis lines in contrast to his tanned abs.

Fucking ridiculous.

Yet, once again, Roy does what any self-respecting, horny footballer would do when confronted with a sex-obsessed influencer’s socials on a night in and nothing else to do: he pulls his half-hard dick out of his shorts, spits in his hand, and starts up a slow, easy rhythm.

Normally, Roy likes a little bit more romance in a wank, likes some sort of music, or at least lube, but for this, Roy doesn’t give a shit. He knows it’s pathetic, the idea of having a wank to an ex of his ex who wants set them up to save Roy’s failing career. This wank isn’t meant to be pretty, or languid. It’s sloppy and it’s sad and it feels fucking great when Roy twists his wrist over his frenulum and clicks to enlarge a picture of Jamie fucking Tartt spilling out of a pair of tiny pink swimming briefs on a beach somewhere, the location tagged to Ibiza.

Roy’s pretty sure he knows every private beach down there from his twenties, but he doesn’t recognize this one, which means Jamie must be on a public one, sticking his fucking arse out and pulling his swimsuit up enough that Roy can’t imagine it’s comfortable on his balls. All for a fucking Instagram shoot. Fucking vapid little thing.

There’s pictures of Jamie half-naked in tropical places, fully naked and tastefully covered by potted plants in hotel rooms, clothed and smiling at fancy restaurants with similarly horrifyingly beautiful friends. There’s a video of him from early January, blowing out twenty-four candles on a purple-frosted birthday cake, grinning at the camera and leaning close enough to the cake to get frosting on his nose. There’s a picture of him in a Man City kit at the Etihad with some tiny little bird wearing a shirt so strappy it almost looks like she’s just twined up in ropes.

Roy spits one more time on his hand and focuses on a picture of Jamie lying, naked, on his stomach in a sunlit bed somewhere, warm yellow light caressing his muscled back and thick fucking thighs, his round bum just barely covered by a conveniently placed, wrinkled sheet. Jamie’s hair is a tangled, golden mess, and his face is turned into the pillow just enough to show that he's hiding a smirk. He has dimples on either side of his spine above his bum, and Roy sees a light shadow next to one of them that looks like the shape of a mouth.

The caption reads simply “pc: @officialkeeleyjones.”

Maybe it’s jealousy, or the fact that Jamie looks like he’s just been well-fucked within an inch of his life, but Roy’s hand starts to move faster on his cock, twisting near the head and squeezing at the base.

There’s more Keeley further down on Jamie’s Instagram, from when they were together. Photos of them at clubs, Keeley spilling out of some ice-blue dress, Jamie not faring much better in a matching suit with no shirt. Jamie and Keeley at a dinner with a table full of random actresses and models, forks poised over a luscious chocolate cake. Jamie on Keeley’s lap on some park bench, Jamie’s cheeks pink.

It’s probably from the setting sun in the picture, but Roy wonders if Keeley had just finished sucking Jamie off here, if the contented smile and blush painting his face is that of a man who’s just had Keeley fucking Jones’s mouth around them. Roy’s sure he’s looked like that many times before the breakup.

The image urges a fat bead of precome to dribble down Roy’s shaft, slicking the way further as his dick grows hot and red in his hand.

He can see it, Jamie laying on his back under a tree, birds fucking chirping, losing his mind as Keeley tugs him out of his pants, as she begins to kiss under the head and around the base. Jamie wouldn’t be as big as Roy, but would be thicker, and would be getting hard fucking fast under Keeley’s ministrations.

Jamie’s fingers would clutch onto Keeley’s shoulders, squealing, his face splitting in a pleased grimace when she’d pull back, tell him to hush or they’d have to stop.

Back on his own couch, Roy carelessly drops his phone as the fantasy lights him up, using his newly-freed hand to tug at his tight, heavy balls, the tip of his middle finger just barely brushing back against his hole, not enough to penetrate, but enough to make its presence well-known.

Roy would do that ghost of a touch to Jamie if it were him sucking Jamie off. Just a tease, a whispered echo of a finger-fucking, enough to make Jamie ache and clench and ask for more.

“Not now, baby,” Roy would chide, swallowing him down again before pulling back. “Calm down.”

Jamie would be making sweet noises, muffled into his forearm, or, if Roy was feeling generous, maybe Roy’s hand. if they were in that park from the photo with Keeley, he’d be laying back on the grass, squirming, feet kicking out before his heels would dig into Roy’s shoulders. Maybe people in the park would start to get closer, and Roy would have to pull back, tuck Jamie’s dick away and rest his head on his thigh like some drunken cuddlers until the people passed, until it was safe again.

Jamie would be desperate at this point, soaking his pants with precome, but Roy would let him suffer, until he was begging, until his whole body went the pretty fucking pink colour from the picture.

The image makes Roy’s cock jump, and he works himself through his orgasm with trembling hands, hardly even caring when come stains his shirt or soaks his fist. He keeps going past when his cock’s spent, abs fluttering, heels digging into the fucking couch cushions like Jamie’s riding him here and now and Roy’s trying to shove deeper inside.

Eventually, when his hand aches and his cock burns too much for there to be much pleasure in it anymore, Roy releases his grip, wiping his palm lazily on his already-ruined shirt.

“Fuck,” Roy breathes to the ceiling. “Fucking fuck.”

He barely has his breath back before he’s picking his phone up and opening his text threat with Keeley.

Chapter Text

Roy has no reason to be nervous. It’s just a meeting with Keeley and some influencer twat. It’s not even anywhere public, just Keeley’s office, where the most intimidating individual is her ridiculous leopard statue.

Besides, Roy’s had meetings with insufferable pricks loads of times. Of course, he never had to discuss “hard physical limits” or “desired monetary outcomes” with those pricks. Never had a wank to any of them, either.

Roy gets there early, before Keeley even. He gets himself a black coffee from the disgusting machine in the hall, and paces back and forth in front of Keeley’s office, fast enough that he’s half-worried he’s going to throw off his daily macros, letting anxiety fill him from his leaden feet to his frazzled brain, like a fucked bottle of syrup.

Because what the fuck is he doing? Planning to publicly prance around with some twenty-something twat who probably cares more about his skincare routine than the Prem standings? The amount of effort Roy’d putting into this shit would be better spent with the physio, in extra training, making himself fucking good enough that benching him isn’t even a fucking option.

He’s Roy fucking Kent, for fuck’s sake. Fans should be begging the league to extend the game so Roy’s able to play even more than the full ninety. He shouldn’t have to fucking prostitute himself so they care enough that he gets minutes, like he’s some slag on an Academy team who thinks the assistant coach might be in the mood for a bit of grab-ass before lunch.

But just when he’s turning on his heel to leave, to go wallow in the weight room, or, more likely, some pub somewhere while googling flights to fucking America or something, Keeley rounds the corner, a bright smile splitting her face.

She looks fit, like always, in green slacks and a pink top with puffy sleeves, cleavage bouncing as makes a beeline for Roy. Her necklace is a lime green salamander in purple sunglasses. It almost looks like her, if Roy squints.

“Hiya, babe,” she says, pulling Roy in for a quick, perfume-scented hug. “You know there’s a track outside for laps, right? Don’t need to wear out the carpet in here.”

“Fuck off,” Roy replies out of instinct, but Keeley pouts at him, so he sighs and adds a muttered, “Sorry.”

Keeley shrugs, turning the key and holding the door open for him. He trudges in like he’s facing his execution, if his chopping block was a purple throw pillow-covered armchair, his firing squad a P.R. guru in glittery lip gloss, and the guillotine a reality star/influencer who poses in rainbow suspenders and briefs and nothing else for pride. (Roy spent far too much time on Instagram last night.)

Not that that specific image has been burned behind Roy’s eyelids since he first saw it. That would be silly, and embarrassing, and ridiculous, given that Roy is a fucking football legend who is going to have to deal with this prick, anyway, for who knows how long of stupid photo-ops and painful small talk.

“Buck up, Roy-o,” Keeley says softly, leaving the door ajar behind her and giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “I wouldn’t have picked Jamie if I didn’t think you’d actually get along.”

Roy has about a hundred things to say to that, starting with “you shouldn’t have picked anyone at all, should have just shot me and put me out of my misery” and ending with “fuck you, I’d rather shit out my fucking mouth constantly for a hundred years than be here right now,” but he manages to restrain himself.

“Why him?” Roy says, strained.

“Like I said. Funny, smart, hot, good with paps.”

“How much are you paying him?”

Keeley bats her fake eyelashes, the picture of innocence. “He’s not a prostitute.”

“Then what’s in this for him?”

Keeley steeples manicured fingernails, sucking her full bottom lip into her mouth. “Let’s just say Jamie is having some career struggles, too.”

Roy would roll his eyes, since that’s fucking ridiculous – the prick is twenty-fucking-four, fit as fuck, and coming off a stint on LC-fucking-A. He can at least get a brand deal for flat tummy teas or some bullshit. Roy dated Keeley long enough to know that at least – but he’s distracted by a soft, polite knock on Keeley’s office door.

Roy fucking jumps at the sound, his heart hammering against his chest. He nearly spills what’s left of his coffee all over his fucking T-shirt, fucking idiot that he is.

Keeley spares Roy a quick glance, eyebrow cocked. Roy remembers this language from when they were dating: Alright? You’re acting like an idiot.

Roy grunts quietly. Fine. Fuck off.

And maybe it was the way he was so dismissive like that which convinced Keeley to leave his arse in the dust in the first place, but at least their little eyebrow signals work now, with Keeley nodding in ascension and going to open the office door.

It creaks open, and Jamie fucking Tartt from LCA is standing there in all his glory. And shit, he’s not bad-looking in person. Not at fucking all.

Even better than he looks on his Instagram, to be honest. In person, those big, grey-blue eyes from his photos look like they’re pools of ocean water, even in the shitty fluorescent lights of the hallway. He’s a day or two out from his last shave, dark stubble dotting his jaw and cheeks, but his skin looks soft and pink above it, his left nostril adorned with a small gold hoop. His hair is a wild tangle of honey blonde curls, brushed just carefully enough that Roy thinks the style is intentional. Jamie’s shirt is soft, maroon velvet, above leather trousers that are a shade too tight and covered in an obscene amount of zippers. His bum is straining out of them, his chest full against the shirt.

Fucking hell. If Roy saw him at a club, he’d be tugging Jamie into his lap. If fucking Janice from yoga were here, she’d be drooling. Instead, Roy just stands awkwardly, staring.

“Hi, babe!” Keeley crows, practically leaping into Jamie’s arms and wrapping him in a bear hug.

He’s broad, so much so he dwarfs Keeley. When Roy was with Keeley, he could nearly wrap two hands all the way around her waist. With Jamie, Roy thinks he’d struggle to do the same with his full arm. 

“Christ, Keeley,” Jamie chuckles in the charmingly thick, Northern accent Roy recognizes from LCA. “It ain’t like I died or nothing.”

“Moving back to Manchester and then fucking off to LCA is pretty much the same thing, sweetheart,” Keeley admonishes through a full smile.

“Well, I’m back now, ain’t I?”

“And thank fuck. Who was going to take me shopping? Shandy? She wouldn’t know Valentino from a knock-off if it bit her extensions.”

Jamie laughs, loud and full and rich. It makes Roy’s insides burn, and he swallows against the odd feeling. No fucking reason for that.

“I’ll take you shopping tomorrow, yeah?” Jamie promises after a moment.

“You better,” Keeley sighs, stepping away from him. “Here, babe, come in. You want a cuppa?”

“Would love one.” Jamie follows Keeley into the office, closing the door behind him before he stops, his gaze going straight to Roy like it’s magnetised there.

“Hi,” Jamie says brightly. “I’m Jamie.”

Roy feels his cheeks burn, and he tries to glower to hide it, but Jamie seems undeterred, crossing the office in three short steps and grabbing Roy’s hand to shake. The grip is tight, his palm smooth and warm against Roy’s.

Roy must be more nervous than he already felt, because the contact has him fucking tingling from wrist to heart. He wants to scream or stab himself or jump off a bridge. But all he can do is clench his jaw and stand there.

“Roy,” Roy grunts.

Up close, Roy can see his pointy teeth perfectly as they bite into his plush bottom lip.

Shut the fuck up, Roy thinks viciously to himself. It’s fucking embarrassing. He’s Roy fucking Kent. He should be beating off reality star Instagram models with a stick, not begging them to pretend to be his fucking fake boyfriend so he stays fucking relevant.

It’s depressing and it’s sad, and if this were a movie, Roy would be flinging popcorn at the fucking screen.

Still, despite himself, he finds himself staring at Jamie’s broad shoulders, the muscles bulging through his shirt, the tendons shifting under his tattooed forearm. Jamie really is fucking large. Maybe not quite as tall as Roy, but broader, taking up too much of Roy’s space. The muscles he showed off constantly on LCA must just be vanity, given his career, yet he looks like he could fireman carry Roy a hundred metres without even breaking a sweat.

And that shouldn’t be a vision Roy has, let alone think is a bit hot, not when they’re here to sign a fucking contract, but Roy can’t help it. Jamie gets fucking paid for being pretty, and he’s about to be contracted to be Roy’s fake fucking boyfriend or some shit.

Thank fuck for Keeley, who comes over before Roy can continue to spiral, a cuppa for Jamie in hand. It lets them break the fucking handshake, thank God, which has been going on for an eternity too long by Roy’s estimate.

“You boys look so gorgeous together!” she declares, passing Jamie a lavender mug.

“Of course we do,” Jamie replies easily over his cup. “When don’t I?”

It’s a prick thing to say, and Roy ought to be annoyed, but he finds himself forcing a scowl to keep from smiling. Keeley has no such compunctions, laughing brightly at it.

“I don’t know,” Keeley says with a hand on his shoulder. “You look pretty fucking ugly when you’re hungover in Amsterdam and puking on my Louboutins.” Keeley’s nose crinkles fondly as she says it, and Roy is struck with sudden visions of them when they were dating, more vivid than anything on Jamie’s socials, more intense than anything he imagined while stalking Jamie's Instagram.

Jamie kissing Keeley’s ticklish stomach before going down on her. Holding each other every night. Being each other’s arm candy for whatever event they want to attend, without ever feeling awkward or like they’d rather be at home, the way Roy always did with Keeley.

“Hey,” Jamie says lightly. “We don’t talk about that anymore.”

“Ruined my best shoes,” Keeley argues. “Embarrassed us in front of the entire Hoofstradt.”

Jamie has the good grace to blush at that, pink dusting his high cheekbones. “You’re joking, right? I looked fit as fuck during that. Made my voice all raspy.”

“Sure, babe.” Keeley smirks conspiratorially at Roy before going over to her desk. “Well, have a seat. Let’s get down to business.”

Jamie plops down in one of the plush armchairs, crossing his legs at the knee and balancing his mug on top in a strange, delicate pretzel. It’s almost silly-looking, would be if Jamie wasn’t so fucking . . . pretty.

Roy needs to get a grip. This is a business deal. It doesn’t matter what Roy fucking thinks of his fucking legs or face or whatever the fuck. He’s embarrassing himself here, making his situation somehow more pathetic than it already is.

“So,” Keeley begins, uncapping a pen and tapping it against her lower lip. “I drew up some agendas for you.” She passes them each a sheet of paper. Roy’s eyes catch physical affection guidelines, and he sets it down without looking any further.

He catches Keeley frowning at him, but she doesn’t say anything. Good. Roy doesn’t need any more fucking humiliation.

“Right, so we can start with introductions.” Keeley ought to be feeling fucking awkward, given the fact that she’s shoving her two fucking ex-boyfriends together like Barbie dolls, but her eyes are narrowed with determination. Roy can respect that, even as he doesn’t respect whatever this is, despite it being something that he’s somehow desperate enough to need.

“Jamie, do you want to start with an introduction?” Keeley says with a flash of white teeth. “Just a bit about you, nothing crazy.”

Jamie nods, his hair moving with his head. He turns his hair to look more directly at Roy, and Roy wants to drown in acid at the look of practised interest Jamie is giving him. It’s an expression ripped straight from one of Jamie’s confessionals on LCA, and Roy fucking hates that he can recognise that.

“I’m Jamie,” Jamie says, almost sheepish. “I’m from Manchester, but I’ve moved around a bit the last few years. My favourite colour is purple, and my favourite ice cream is chocolate.”

It’s like they’re fucking children, like Roy is overseeing one of Phoebe’s fucking U9 matches. Jamie spouting bullshit like they genuinely ought to get to know each other, like Jamie isn’t peddling a fucking product that Roy is already feeling buyer’s remorse for.

Roy feels iciness spike up his spine, his hand curling into a fist.

“I’m not fucking doing this,” Roy tells Keeley stiffly. “This was a fucking mistake.”

“Roy-”

“No. This is fucked. He-” Roy jerks a thumb at Jamie. “-is a fucking muppet who got kicked off of a bullshit reality show for fucking around on the only half-decent person there. I’m fucking leaving.”

“Oh, come off it,” Keeley sighs, but Roy is already picking up his coffee and standing stiffly.

Of course, though, fucking Jamie stands then, too, firmly in Roy’s path to the fucking door.

“‘Scuse me, mate,” Roy grunts, attempting to shove past him, but Jamie stops him with a hand on his shoulder, warm enough that Roy feels it through his leather jacket.

“You don’t have to go,” Jamie says quickly. His nose ring is catching the light, and Roy studiously ignores it. “How’s about I go take a lap or something and you have a bit of a chat with Keels? Can grab you something from the canteen, if you’d like.”

“Fuck off,” Roy huffs, but Jamie still doesn’t fucking move his hand from Roy’s shoulder.

“Really, man, just take a beat. Babies and baths and all, right?”

 Roy can’t even begin to fucking parse what the fuck that means, because Jamie is clapping him on the shoulder and murmuring, “Sound, sound,” before Roy can get a word in edgewise.

Then he’s swanning out of Keeley’s office, clicking the door shut behind him, and Roy has no fucking choice but to stay. If he left now, he’d run square into Jamie, and Roy’s not sure he can tolerate any more fucking . . . politeness from the vapid twat.

Leaving isn’t a bad bit of tactical warfare on Jamie’s end, to be honest, one Roy would appreciate if he wasn’t on the brink of a career-ending nervous breakdown and being stared down by his not-unintimidating ex-girlfriend.

“Sit down,” Keeley says stiffly from behind her desk, and Roy does for some fucking reason. Maybe he needs a therapist over a PR guru. “Fuck was that?”

“This is fucking bullshit, Keeley. What did you fucking expect?”

Keeley takes a long, slow sip from a bright pink water bottle. “For you to be a professional, for one. And to have a basic fucking sense of manners, for two.”

“Wha-”

“Jamie isn’t doing you a fucking favour, you know,” she hisses icily. “His image is absolutely sour after LCA. Most brands won’t touch him with a ten foot pole.”

“Can’t he just do more reality shows?”

“He doesn’t want to.”

“So I’m supposed to faff around and pretend to be moony over a dolled-up twat because poor fucking Jamie doesn’t want to do reality shows?”

“It’s mutually beneficial,” Keeley says crisply. “Neither of you are happy with your careers and neither of you have a love life to speak of. It’s fucking perfect.”

“Or do you just want a fat cut of my cheque to keep you on retainer?”

Hurt registers in Keeley’s blue eyes before she smooths her expression out, and the memory of the pain on her face when she dumped Roy’s arse into a fucking gutter flashes through Roy’s mind like a slide projector of fucking shame.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “That wasn’t fair.”

“It wasn’t. And if this were just for you, I probably would quit now. But Jamie deserves something good, so I won’t.”

“Why don’t you just date him, then? Stop with the cloak and fucking dagger.” It’s not a bad idea – Keeley’s still famous enough that she has to Instacart her groceries rather than risking being hounded at a store. A few well-timed kisses with Jamie, and he’d be in the good graces of every fucking brand with an ounce of sense.

“I don’t want to,” she says flatly. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m really trying to build something here. I can’t let my image continue to be some WAG-” She looks at Roy pointedly. “-or hanger-on or whatever. I need to come across as serious.”

“Fine,” Roy admits begrudgingly.

“And, obviously, I’m working for you, so if you want to call this off, say the word. But you don’t get to be fucking rude to Jamie, or cruel to me.” She crosses thin arms over her chest, and Roy lets the weird, sagging feeling inside him that happens when he’s realised he, once again, has gotten inappropriately pissed flood his chest.

“Neither of you deserved that,” Roy chokes out.

“We didn’t. Let me text Jamie to come back now, if you’re ready to be an adult and act marginally pleasant.”

Within a few minutes of Keeley tapping at her phone and Roy shifting uncomfortably and studying the wood grain of Keeley’s desk, her office door is sliding open again and Jamie is sitting back down, an apple in hand. The canteen is fucking closed for the break, so Roy has no idea where the fuck he got it, but he’s not about to ask and risk Keeley calling the whole thing off at his rudeness.

Because, at the end of the fucking day, Roy’s fucking fucked, and this is the only plan anyone has been able to come up with short of Roy building a goddamn time machine.

“Hi,” Jamie says as brightly as if Roy had never even looked at him, much less near lost his shit at him. He crunches a bite of his apple and adds, mouth full, “What’d I miss?”

“Sorry for . . . that,” Roy huffs before Keeley can apologise for him. “It was inappropriate.”

Jamie shrugs, smiling through his bite. “Nah, mate, you’re good. Seen a few of your matches – I’m just lucky I didn’t get the headbutt, eh?”

Roy doesn’t reply, so Keeley thankfully fills the space for him.

“Let’s start with timelines, then. I was thinking we set the end of the season as the end of any scheduled appearances. Barring a scandal, media traffic for footballers tends to die over the offseason, so it would be a waste of effort.”

“Sound,” Jamie says, nodding like a goody-fucking-two-shoes, complete with his honest-to-fucking-god apple for the teacher.

Keeley grins. “We can throw in a break-up scandal toward the end of the summer, before LSDivas starts filming, for you, Jamie.”

“Mint,” Jamie says happily, sipping his cuppa. “With any luck, we won’t even need it.”

Roy doesn’t even want to know what the fuck LSDivas is, so he just shifts in Keeley’s overly-cushy armchair and lets Keeley and Jamie continue to plan his future like she’s a fucking commodity trader from that American movie Roy’s sister likes, the one with the orange juice.

“We should probably work backward from there to discuss some relationship milestones.” Keeley reaches down and rustles in her desk for a moment before retrieving a fucking Unicorn of the Month calendar.

“Unicorns? Really?” Roy huffs before he can stop himself.

“Yeah, mate,” Jamie replies smoothly. “Sparkly, innit?”

Keeley smiles approvingly at Jamie as she flips to August. Roy isn’t cowed, exactly, but he does shut his mouth. He has at least that much tact.

“So,” she hums, grabbing a red Sharpie from the pink cup on her desk. “Next season starts the thirteenth of August, so we probably want a breakup around the tenth for maximum saturation.” She circles the day and writes BREAK-UP in it, sketching a fucking broken heart in the corner.

Roy exhales harshly, but doesn’t say anything, to his credit. His sister would be proud.

“July ought to be mostly quiet. Maybe we leak a picture or two if we think it’s pertinent.”

Roy’s not quite fucking sure when Keeley started using words like “pertinent,” but he once again keeps his mouth shut.

“June, we ought to gently phase out presence on socials, pap walks, whatever, so it’s not as much of a shock if you drop off the face of the Earth in July.”

Jamie taps a day in June as soon as Keeley flips to it. The unicorn for that month has a green bow around its horn.

“That’s London fashion week,” he says. His fingernails are painted maroon, matching his shirt. “We can do a little red carpet there, maybe.”

“No red carpets,” Roy hisses quickly. He fucking hates them – he never photographs well, has no idea what do with his hands, for fucking one – and Rachel, his sister, has a horrible habit of sending him photos of any and all red carpet photo ops that crop up in the tabloids, regardless of how shit Roy looks.

“We’ll mark that as a maybe, then,” Keeley hedges, starring it and flipping back to May. “Last match of the season is the 22nd, so definitely an appearance then.”

Roy opens his mouth to complain that he’ll just be on the bench anyway, so there’s no fucking point, but shuts it quickly. If this fucking works, maybe he’ll be back where he belongs, with the starters. Maybe.

Roy won’t let himself hope yet.

Keeley continues to work backward, noting matches and potential days for coffee dates or pap walks or whatever the fuck. Roy’s eyes glaze over after a minute, even as Jamie is nodding interestedly, adding in his own thoughts every so often.

Roy catches something about the insipid fucking charity gala, a potential outfit for Jamie to wear to a match, but it’s all just bullshit, washing over Roy in waves. No fucking point to this, is there? He probably ought to storm out, would if he had any fucking standards or dignity. But he doesn’t. He’s out of options, at the end of the day.

Working out nonstop and eating clean and getting constant help from the physios for absolutely no fucking minutes has a way of robbing oneself of their standards, after all.

“So, why don’t we just move on to mutual expectations,” Keeley says eventually, closing the calendar and moving on to a black binder. For fuck’s sake, Roy’s misery has a management binder. He ought to bury himself fucking alive. At least this one doesn’t have unicorns on it.

“Yeah, good thinking,” Jamie says, tucking his legs under him in the chair as if it’s his fucking living room. Ponce. “Social media presence is going to be a big one. Posts, comments, whatever.”

“I don’t do that,” Roy answers quickly because, despite whatever depravity happened the previous night, he doesn’t. He has fucking standards. Or used to, anyway.

“That’s fine,” Keeley says, waving a manicured hand. “I can handle that part. Now, how do you two feel about physical affection?”

Roy’s ready for Jamie to answer first, but he’s carefully silent, strong chin leaning into his palm, huge eyes staring at Roy. Roy fucking hates it. He hates having an audience ever, but this one, with earnest eyes and buttons threatening to fly off his fucking shirt, is somehow fucking worse.

So fine. Fucking fine. Make Roy do the hard part. Roy wouldn’t expect anything less from a failed, pouty reality star.

“Minimal physical affection,” Roy finally says.

Jamie drums his fingers on his jawbone, the twat. “I think a bit would be good, to be honest. People care way more about kissing or back garden blowjobs than they do about someone showing up to someone’s matches or whatever.”

Roy stiffens at the idea of back garden blowjobs, dangerously close to his fantasy last night as it is. “I’m not a prostitute,” Roy mutters.

“Me neither, mate. Just want this to work, don’t I?”

“Why don’t we note down ‘physical affection as appropriate?’” Keeley interrupts, already scribbling in the binder with a sparkly blue pen.

“Yeah, alright,” Jamie says, shifting in his seat.

“Roy?” Keeley prompts without looking up.

“Fine,” he grits out.

“Lovely,” Keeley says, capping her pen with a flourish and exchanging it for a black one. “Lastly, let’s talk boundaries.”

“Nothing interferes with footy,” Roy says immediately. “If there’s a fucking . . . twat parade or some shit, and I have training, I’m not fucking going.”

Jamie snorts at “twat parade,” but nods. “Yeah, that’s fair. Whole point is to get you minutes and all.”

“And no public sex,” Roy adds. “My fucking sister could see that.”

“Prude,” Jamie says through a laugh that Roy can only describe as a chortle. Jamie lifts his hand as if to clap Roy on the shoulder again, but one look at Roy’s fucking glare, and he quickly lowers it. Good. Prick could stand to learn some respect. “But that’s fine with me,” Jamie finally adds, a hair sheepish.

“Anything else?” Keeley asks, still writing.

“Yeah. This stays between fucking us three. No lawyers, except for an NDA.”

“That’s fine,” Keeley replies easily. “Already have a boilerplate one drawn up.”

“Wait,” Jamie interjects. “I don’t want to lie to my mum. I don’t want her to think we’re together if we’re not.”

Of course Jamie’s a mummy’s boy. Prick probably tells her everything. Roy could see him stealing some producer’s phone and calling her after he fucked Amy on LCA. She’s probably a mom-ager, for Jamie to be as vapid as he is. Maybe forced him to start modelling at six months or whatever, which is why Jamie has a gaping hole in his soul that makes him do idiotic things like go on reality shows and pose naked on Instagram and pretend to date a geriatric footballer for some fucking reason.

But, then again, pot and kettle and all.

“No,” Roy says, as firm as when Phoebe is asking for ice cream for dinner again. “Absolutely fucking not.”

“Who’s she gonna tell? Me stepdad?” Jamie’s tone would be accusatory, but he’s staring at the table instead of Roy, so it reads as more sullen than anything else. Fine. Roy can handle that, has dealt with it coming from himself for near four decades now.

“Don’t care. This is humiliating enough. I don’t need more people to know about it.” Roy can picture the fucking headlines now: Kent Bent to Avoid the Bench. Or Roy’s Flying Failure of a Life, Told in Pictures.

What if his fucking sister heard? Rachel would never let him hear the end of it. Would admonish him and tease him and feel disgusted by him, all in equal measure.

She’s a fucking doctor, after all, and of course Roy’s career is why she could afford medical school and A-level tutors and a fucking play medical kit when she was six in the first fucking place, but Rachel thinks the entire concept of football is stupid. When she got pregnant with Phoebe in the middle of med school and Roy tried to hire a nanny instead of taking a leave to take care of them, she’d iced him out for a painful month.

If she knew Roy was sacrificing his dignity and likely the health of his knee to squeeze out a few more matches with the starters, she’d probably give him the bollocking of his life.

Keeley finally puts down her fucking pen. “Roy-”

“No. Deal-breaker.”

Keeley sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Jamie, is that okay?”

Jamie swallows, his eyes scanning over Roy. Roy recognises the action from boys at the Academy, from when he was a young prick at Sunderland. Jamie’s assessing him, looking for any chink in his armor to stab.

So Roy puffs his chest out and tightens his jaw, just fucking daring Jamie to try it. According to Keeley, Jamie needs him as much as the other way around. That means Roy has room to fucking bargain.

But he doesn’t have to.

“Fine,” Jamie sighs after a minute. “I don’t fucking like it, but fine.”

“Good!” Keeley claps her hands together. “That’s all I have. I can send over an official contract this evening, but do you two want to get started now? I can send a leak over to the press, have them catch you at coffee or something.”

“Sure,” Jamie says quickly, and Roy desperately wants to argue, but he keeps his mouth shut. It’s this or fucking retirement, he reminds himself grimly.

The shop they wind up at is better than the one he met Keeley at. It isn’t overly posh, but is still a bit too much for Roy’s tastes, filled with greenery and bright-white subway tile and signs that say things like Rosé All Day in big, block letters. Still, the tea’s decent, and the lighting is making Jamie fucking glow, so hopefully it’ll make Roy look alright in the tabloid photos.

Keeley’d driven Roy over, the entire drive stilted and awkward, Jamie following behind in the most ridiculous Aston Martin ever foisted upon Roy’s eyeballs, since there was no way Keeley’s tiny Porsche could fit two full-grown, muscly men into it, and Roy wasn't about to let a near-stranger chauffeur him. Prick would probably take him to Trafalgar Square and display him for the tourists.

“So do we make first date conversation now?” Jamie says brightly as soon as they sit down, leaning over his own drink, an iced matcha concoction with so much sugar that Roy thinks he might puke just smelling it.

They’re at a table by the window for easy pap shots, the awning lowered appropriately so there won’t be glare. Smart move of Jamie to sit there, Roy supposes. Not that he deserves any fucking credit for one of his main skills being having a good relationship with the paps or whatever the fuck.

“I guess,” Roy shrugs, swirling a spoon around in his mug. “You’re from Manchester?”

Jamie beams. “Born and raised. Someone did their research, huh?” Jamie nudges at Roy’s leg under the table with his shoe. Roy knows it’s just for pictures once the paps get here, for anyone overhearing them, but he feels his body fucking spark at the contact. Fucking embarrassing.

“Yeah, guess so,” Roy mutters. “City or United, then?”

Jamie makes a face at the mere mention of United, scrunching his nose up like Roy just shat on the fucking table. “City, Jesus. Wouldn’t be caught dead within a mile of Old Trafford.”

“You’re wearing their colours now,” Roy points out helpfully.

Jamie’s footsie turns into a hard prod on Roy’s shin as he spits back, “They’re bright red. This is maroon. You going blind in your old age?”

Roy scowls, but it has about the same effect on Jamie as it does on his sister: pleasant disinterest. “Watch the fucking leg, yeah? I need that to play.”

Jamie holds up his hands innocently. His fingers are long, the index of his left hand adorned with a thick, silver ring. “Sorry, sorry. No kicking till the third date, got it.”

If it were anyone else, Roy would kick him right back, and fucking harder. But the burning feeling in Roy’s chest and throat that he only gets watching the fucking match from the bench starts to blaze in him, so he just swallows a too-hot sip of his tea instead.

Too pathetic to even defend himself at this point. Christ.

“How about you?” Jamie asks when Roy sets his cup down. “You’re from Sunderland, right?”

Roy can’t help but give a quite unappealing snort at that. “Fuck, no. Just went to the Academy there. I’m from South London.”

Roy is used to that coming with a badge of pride, but Jamie just frowns gently. “That explains the accent. Did your whole family move up to Sunderland, then? Hope you brought jackets, Christ.”

Roy frowns, can’t help it. No one asks that, not even Keeley. She’d just said she hoped he was able to visit home often. Fucking nosy of Jamie, really.

“No,” Roy says into his tea. “Billeted with a nearby family.”

Jamie nods in a way that would be sage if not for the strand of blonde hair falling into his eyes. “That must have been shit,” he replies simply.

“It was,” Roy grunts.

There’s a beat of silence, and Roy readies himself to fill it with some inane question about Jamie’s favourite movie or whatever, but before he can, Jamie is leaning across the table, carefully edging his cup out of the way of his muscled chest so he doesn’t knock it over.

The movement puts him a full foot closer to Roy, close enough that Roy can see the glitter on his cheekbones from his highlight, see each individual pore on his face, fucking smell him. He smells like Lynx, no fucking surprise there, but under it is lavender, maybe from a lotion or a shampoo. Roy can smell the powdery scent of Jamie’s makeup, feel the warmth of his breath.

He feels like a fist has grabbed his organs and squeezed, but he stays carefully still and calm, muscles clenched. No need to panic; just a man a little too close to him. Happens on the pitch all the time.

Of course, then the fuckers smell like sweat and dirt under the Lynx, not all soft and floral.

“There’s a pap outside,” Jamie whispers conspiratorially, a smirk painting his features. “Brush the hair out of my eyes.”

“What?” Roy asks, throat dry.

Jamie rolls his eyes and smiles. “Don’t be shy. I read the gossip rags. You’ve done much worse on a first date.”

Roy almost chokes when he feels Jamie’s foot against his again, this time rubbing his calf with the laces of his combat boot.

“I’d do it to you, but your hair’s too short,” Jamie says with a slight pout to his lips, like he remembers the mullet Roy had in his twenties and misses it.

“Fuck off,” Roy says out of instinct.

“C’mon,” Jamie sighs, tenacious shit that he is. His foot drifts up Roy’s leg, closer to the knee, Jamie’s toe prodding at the inseam. “This is the shit they go wild over. Did it to my ex once, and we got twenty thousand followers in a week. Each.”

“I don’t do this shit.”

“I know. That’s why you’re riding the bench. Now fucking do it, granddad.”

Roy should object. He ought to, particularly at the fucking nickname. And even more because what does this twat model know about riding the fucking bench? Only thing he’d know about it was if he was fucking the reserves.

Which, given Roy’s new status, Jamie is technically doing.

The image is enough to make bile rise in the back of his throat. Roy has no choice but to do it, to let the paps take the picture and speculate and photoshop it and all the shit that makes Roy ill, all the shit that he’s been trying to avoid for twenty fucking years.

His hand is stiff and clumsy as he does it, movements bitingly awkward and robotic, but it follows his command as he raises it to Jamie’s forehead.

“There you go,” Jamie teases, his breath fanning over Roy’s wrist. “There’s more of them out there. Practically shitting themselves right now, probably.”

If Roy weren’t as desperate, he would leave. If he weren’t so fucking slow, he’d have no reason to ever think about Jamie fucking Tartt except for a potential argument with the yoga mums over LCA. If Keeley hadn’t been in the dressing room last week, Roy would be at home, nursing a soda water and wishing it was beer and watching Sky Sports mock him and Richmond for the millionth fucking time. Never seem to get bored of it, do they?

As it is, he uses the side of his thumb to swipe Jamie’s hair back into place. It’s not quite long enough to tuck behind his ear, but Roy tries anyway. Jamie’s eyes flutter closed, and Roy knows it’s a performance, but it makes the pit of his stomach twist the way it did when he did this to Keeley.

Fuck. Fucking fuck.

Quickly as it started, though, it’s over, and Jamie leans back in his chair, smiling proudly, those pointy fucking teeth biting into his lower lip yet again. “Great job, granddad. You’re a natural. You’ll be on the West End before the week’s up.”

Roy huffs half a laugh through his nose and goes to sip his tea, hoping it hides the fucking heat in his cheeks. He’s blushing just from brushing Jamie’s stupid hair back from his stupidly grinning face, like he’s a fucking teenager again, fumbling desperately with Connor Baker’s fly in the fucking Sunderland fieldhouse. Pathetic.

“How did you get so good at this?” Roy asks, partially because he’s curious and partially because if Jamie’s talking, Roy has to focus on what’s saying, rather than staring at the way Jamie looks all fucking golden in the afternoon sunlight, his eyes shining blue-gray.

“Pap stuff, you mean?”

Roy nods.

“Trial and error, I guess. If your income is driven on clicks, you learn how to drive clicks, you know? It’s like that thing in ecology . . .” Jamie trails off, gesturing in a way like he’s waiting for Roy to fill in the gaps, like Roy didn’t pass his GCSEs by the skin of his teeth and a set of scribbled, sweaty notes in his pocket.

“. . . a mutualism! Yeah.” Jamie’s expression somehow gets more fucking excited at remembering the word. “We drive traffic to the gossip sites, they drive traffic to our socials, and advertisers like that. Got the Hugo Boss deal by getting naked on a yacht with Troye Sivan.”

Roy hums contemplatively like he knows who Troye Sivan is and his hand isn’t itching to grab his phone and google those photos now.

It’s fucking embarrassing. Wanking to Jamie’s Instagram was a mistake. Roy doesn’t get fucking moony, especially not over his partner in a ridiculous business deal that was made in a scrambled attempt to not be benched. Fucking hell.

“It really works like that?” Roy manages to ask instead, hoping he sounds half as casual as he wants to be. Roy thinks of Keeley and her endless supply of anti-aging creams and facial treatments and diets and tummy teas. For some reason, thinking of Jamie worrying about all that has Roy twitching inside. “Like sex work? All trying to sell your body?”

“Yeah, guess so.” Jamie frowns, and Roy kicks himself mentally. “Or our personalities, or our families, or our social lives, or whatever. I get just as many clicks from showing off my bum as I do from going to drinks with Saorise Ronan. It’s a form of wish fulfilment, I guess.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah.” Jamie brightens again. “Shit’s fun. Get to party with the lads and, as long as I’m wearing a certain watch, get fucking paid for it. You should try it. Plenty of opportunities once this whole thing is done.” Jamie gestures between them with a flick of his finger, and Roy feels his guts twist.

“Fuck, no. Sounds fucking meaningless.” 

“More meaningless than kicking a ball around?” Jamie says, one eyebrow arched.

Roy opens his mouth to respond, but Jamie’s pursed lips make him shut it again. “Point taken,” Roy finally mutters.

Jamie goes to grab Roy’s elbow where it’s leaning on the table and squeezes gently, like an apology. Even with his leather jacket dulling the feeling of Jamie’s firm fingers on his skin, it almost burns with warmth.

“Hey. Not saying my job is any more substantive or nothing,” Jamie says, keeping his hand on Roy’s arm. “Just . . . pot and kettle and all, yeah? We alright?”

Roy clears his throat and pulls his arm back, hoping he doesn’t look as much like a fucking idiot as he knows he does. Maybe Jamie will chalk up the colour on his ears to acting like a twat rather than the contact. He hopes so.

“Yeah, you’re fine,” he grits out.

“Good,” Jamie says proudly. “So, if kicking a ball is so meaningless, what do you do outside of football? Charity? Pet adoption? Quilting? You look like a quilting kind of guy to me.”

“The fuck that’s supposed to mean?”

Jamie holds up his hands innocently. “Nothing, nothing. Just- any hobbies?”

Roy’s mind goes fucking blank. Of fucking course it does. It’s been ages since Roy has done so much as gone out to a fucking club to pull, much less had a hobby or something. For as long as he can remember, he was just getting slower and stupider on the pitch, and trying desperately not to.

Yelling at idiots in the dressing room isn’t exactly a hobby, nor is staying at the club until fucking midnight in the ice bath. Getting his fucking quad massaged isn’t either, and neither is watching Sky Sports excoriate him night after night, over and over until he feels like his brain is bleeding out his ears.

If there was any doubt, it’s gone now. Roy is officially fucking pitiful.

“I have a niece. Phoebe,” Roy finally says.

“Exciting! How old is she?” Jamie leans in again, ankle hooking around Roy’s calf. “New photographer,” he mutters in explanation, almost as an aside. Roy is tempted to go look, but then Jamie puts his arm on Roy’s shoulder, and Roy has absolutely no power to look anywhere else but Jamie.

“Seven,” Roy manages to say. Despite the tea, his throat’s gone dry again. Fucking hell.

“Cute,” Jamie smiles. “She a terror yet?”

“Yeah. Keeps trying to order books about demonic possession on my Amazon account.”

Jamie snorts a laugh, clapping Roy’s bicep and squeezing it. Roy knows he’s no slouch in the weight-lifting department, but Jamie seems like he barely even notices, just keeps his hand loosely wrapped around Roy’s upper arm. He must have a fucking disease or something, his hand is so warm.

“Clearly yours, then,” Jamie teases, tongue poking out between his teeth.

“Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Oi,” Roy complains, twisting his leg further into Jamie’s in a poor imitation of a kick.

“Hey, don’t kick me. I’m not a football.”

Roy should be offended, but he finds himself fucking smiling, can’t fucking help it. “Sorry. You smell like a dressing room. Just instinct.”

“What, just because I wear Lynx?”

“No, because you smell like fucking feet.” It’s a stupid insult, one Roy would tease even Phoebe for levelling at someone, but Jamie fucking cackles at it, leaning back and holding his belly, looking genuinely fucking chuffed.

One of his hands stays on Roy’s arm, warm and tight.

“I see where your niece gets it,” Jamie says once he’s calmed down. “You’re a fucking twat when you want to be, huh?”

Roy shrugs noncommittally, and Jamie’s expression shifts to one less mischievous, but decidedly no less mirthful, his smile shrinking just a bit. “You’re cute when you smile,” Jamie says after a moment, his hand leaving Roy’s arm and drifting up to his jaw.

Roy feels himself go stiff, not even daring to breathe as Jamie’s palm gently brushes his cheek. It isn’t a romantic gesture necessarily, is one Roy would do to his teammates to fuck with them, but between the compliment and the way Jamie’s wrist smells like fucking lavender has Roy’s heart beating a furious tattoo against his ribs.

The tips of Jamie’s fingers brush Roy’s earlobe as he pulls his hand back, and Roy feels his insides fucking melting together, going liquid, like candlewax burning too hot. The tiny table is suddenly far too large, the coffee shop way too exposed, the fucking sun way too bright.

“Good call blushing just then,” Jamie says after a moment, taking a sip of his coffee like it’s fucking casual, like Roy isn’t fucking spinning. “Daily Mail just got here. That’s going to be the headline photo for fucking sure.”

Roy’s insides solidify again, too quick for everything to settle in the right place. His stomach’s in his feet and his heart’s in his skull, and his brain is just fucking gone, lost in the process.

“Oh,” Roy manages to choke out. He has nothing to add to that eloquent statement, so he doesn’t. The wood grain of the table is suddenly very interesting.

“Anyway, you wanna get out of here? I’ll give you a ride home. If we hold hands, I bet I’ll get three thousand new followers by the end of the week.”

Roy doesn’t reply, just lets Jamie grab his wrist in those painfully soft, warm, sweet-smelling hands, and tug him to his Aston Martin.

Jamie’s car is fucking cramped.

Roy isn’t the tallest man on the planet by a long shot, but his knees are hitting the dash, his feet nearly tucked under the seat.

Jamie isn’t faring much better, but he seems comfortable in it, one muscled arm leaning on the centre console, the other resting on the wheel lazily, like it's a chore to so much as back out of a spot. He blasts the air con and turns his Spotify to ‘90s Pop Hits. It’s not Roy’s first choice, but at least it’s not fucking Sky Sports Radio, calling Roy a slow twat for the fiftieth time that day.

Not that Roy listens to that every day. Just most.

“You need an address?” Roy asks as Jamie peels out of the carpark.

“No. Taking you to mine. I have an idea,” Jamie says without looking. “I live close, don’t worry. Be five minutes, max.”

“What’s your idea?”

A light smile plays at Jamie’s lips. “You’ll see,” he says in a sing-song voice.

Roy maybe ought to be a bit scared. Keeley may have vouched for him, but for all Roy knows, prick’s an obsessed fan with a kidnapping streak. He should maybe try to get out at the next red light, rather than watch the way Jamie’s humming along to the Spice Girls and find it kind of endearing.

But it’s not like Roy has anywhere to fucking be, exactly. Back from Australia, Phoebe’s with her dad and Rachel’s at work. Roy already worked out this morning, and the season doesn’t pick up again until tomorrow. Plus, if he’s well-rested, he might well impress Ted. Which is a sad fucking thought, but it nevertheless means that Roy has no reason not to let Jamie take him to his house.

Keeley said he had an instinct for paps, anyway. Maybe this’ll be good.

“Come with me,” Jamie directs a few minutes later, once they park in front of a decent-looking house, tucked in the back of a quiet, tree-lined neighbourhood. It’s certainly posh, but not enough to make Roy want to scratch his eyes out the way he does in his own some nights.

“Not gonna kill me, right? Or imprison me or something?” Roy snipes.

Jamie just rolls his eyes and flicks Roy’s forearm. “Grumpy old twat. Trust me.”

Roy feels a bit of heat flare in his chest at the idea that this prick has known him for maybe two hours, and is already utterly uncowed by him. Roy would yell at him, get the idiot to figure out who the fuck he’s talking to, but Keeley’s voice echoes in the back of his mind, reminding him to be “marginally pleasant.”

“Prick,” Roy grits out instead, even as he gets out of the car, anyway.

Jamie smiles crookedly. He looks like such a shit, Roy can’t tell if he wants to headbutt him or steal the car and drive off entirely, maybe kicking up some mud over Jamie’s velvet fucking shirt on the way. Both would probably be inappropriate, though, so Roy settles for just glaring instead.

“Trust me, you’ll like the idea.”

Roy can’t even respond to that before Jamie is flinging his car door closed and half-running to his front stoop like an overeager puppy. Fucking exhausting, he is.

Roy sighs and follows him, noting the manicured lawn, the hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives into neat, little cones, definitely the work of a landscaper. There’s a few garden boxes near the door, filled with half-dead flowers in a rainbow of colours. Maybe a shitty landscaper, then.

“Shoes off, please,” Jamie says as he unlocks the door and holds it open for Roy.

The house itself is nice, bright with natural light from windows, dark wood floors, solid crown mouldings and the like. Standard posh bullshit. The furniture, though, is awful, gun-shaped lamps and ceramic casts of forest animals thrown with extreme care over every possible shelf and table. For some reason, Roy's sure all the shit decor is Jamie's doing.

“Nice place,” Roy says to be polite, toeing off his combat boots.

“Thanks. Nice socks.”

Roy looks down at the bright-pink platypuses on his feet, vomiting twin rainbows. He feels his fucking ears go hot at the unexpected show of vulnerability to Jamie. He always wears plain black socks to the club, but didn’t think he’d need to worry about it here, not between the combat boots and the jeans. He wasn’t supposed to end up here at all.

“My niece gave them to me,” Roy mutters. He stares Jamie dead in the eyes when he does, puffing out his chest in the way he hasn’t had to do since he was made captain of the U16s at Sunderland, daring someone to tease him, to land a punch.

Of course, though, Jamie’s just an influencer twat and not a homophobic, pimply fifteen-year-old with something to prove, so he just shrugs and says, “Mint. This way,” before brushing past Roy and climbing the stairs in his entryway.

“If you’re kidnapping me, the paps just got a thousand photos of us. You’ll be the first suspect,” Roy grumbles as he follows Jamie.

Jamie just fucking cackles gleefully.

The upstairs is similar to the down, but there’s thick rugs over all the hardwood here. Roy is momentarily glad he shed his shoes with how plush they feel.

Jamie leads him to a door a few down the hall. It’s clearly his bedroom, judging from the mussed sheets and the leopard-print headboard. The bed’s obscene, an Alaska King, but the room’s large enough that there’s still room for a vanity, two nightstands, and a telly that takes up nearly half the fucking wall. It’s almost as nice as Roy’s room, and certainly more lived-in. There are pictures lining the walls of a young, gap-toothed Jamie with a woman that should be too young to be his mother, but must be, judging from the sheer quantity of photos.

There are dozens of baby pictures, some of Jamie as a kid, including one of him in a Man City kit that would be adorable if Roy was here voluntarily, and many photos of Jamie as an adult, but none of him as a teenager. Makes sense; if you make your living looking inhumanly pretty at all times, why hold up reminders of your awkward phase?

“Take off your shirt,” Jamie tells Roy.

Roy jerks his gaze back to Jamie, startled, but Jamie’s not paying any attention, already flinging his own shirt over his head and throwing it in the direction of a massive walk-in closet.

“The fuck?” Roy chokes out.

If Roy thought Jamie’s Instagram or stint on LCA was over-fucking-whelming, seeing him shirtless in the flesh is nearly too fucking much, making Roy feel like he’s burning and shivering all at once.

Jamie’s fucking muscular, more than some of the people Roy’s seen on the pitch. His chest is completely smooth, his nipples pink and pert on pecs so large they could be fucking tits. There’s a tiny hint of a happy trail above his trousers, but Roy can’t focus on it with his Adonis lines so prominent that Roy distantly thinks he understands now why Keeley calls them cum gutters.

And Roy’s spent the vast majority of his life in locker rooms with men more naked than Jamie, has spent nearly as long figuring out how to control himself there, keep his head down, not look too long, but Jamie has Roy fucking frozen, heat trapped in his cheeks and his belly and coiled around the base of his spine.

“Like what you see?” Jamie teases, flexing his biceps and giving one of them a fucking kiss. It’s ridiculous and showy, and Roy ought to laugh, if anything, but instead he finds himself staring at the fucking tattoo on the inside of Jamie’s bicep, wondering how much it hurt, with it being so close to his armpit.

“Fuck are you doing?” Roy asks instead, taking half a step backward into the doorway.

“Saving your career,” Jamie scoffs. “Now, take off your shirt.”

“I’m not making a sex tape.”

Jamie grins wickedly, tongue lolling out of his mouth. “Last one was enough, then?”

Roy feels heat flash in the back of his throat. “That wasn’t a fucking sex tape, and you know it.”

“Oh, so the female orgasm doesn’t count as sex? Wow, Roy,” Jamie says with mock disappointment.

“Fuck you. She just humped my thigh. Nothing was shown.” It had been on the beach somewhere in Greece during the off-season. She was an Icelandic model with a tangle of red hair that reached her tiny waist. She had been a little pixie of a thing, laying over him on his towel and kissing him lazily. One thing had led to another, and someone had happened to be filming.

But it was fifteen fucking years ago, and the only lesson to be learned was that Roy will never go to any sort of public beach ever again.

Still, Roy shouldn’t be letting himself get this riled up, shouldn’t let the tight coil in his belly twist until it’s near bursting, but he can’t help it. Jamie’s under his skin, scratching at his muscles, his organs, the most sensitive parts of him.

“You’re a fucking pervert,” Roy finally adds, as if that settles it.

Jamie smiles again, all teeth. “Keep your wig on, yeah? I’m not going to make you recreate it or whatever the fuck. I just wanna take a picture of me in your shirt.”

Roy swallows air greedily. “Why?”

“It’s called a soft launch, innit? Post a picture to my Instagram story of me in your shirt. People will lose their shit.”

Roy glances down at the plain black cotton of his shirt. “How will they know it’s mine? It’s just AllSaints.”

Jamie sighs like Roy’s a particularly stupid child. “Believe me, they’ll know. I posted a bowl of raspberries once, and the next time I went to the shops, there were fifty people waiting for me.”

“Bullshit.”

“I know what I’m doing, Roy-o. This kind of shit is my way of kicking a ball around, yeah?” Roy’s nostrils flare at the reminder of his “silly” career, but Jamie doesn’t seem to give a shit. “So. Your shirt?”

“Why? This isn’t part of the contract,” Roy grits out.

Jamie sighs like he’s truly put upon, swiping a hand through his hair so it looks somehow more perfectly tousled. The movement makes the muscles in his shoulder and pec pop.

Roy refuses to study them.

“People can spot a P.R. relationship a mile away. This makes it look real, makes it look accidental that we got papped.”

Roy wants to refuse, but he can’t. He remembers the way the crowd fucking roared for him after the sort of-sex tape. Sure, this is something much tamer, but if it works the same way, if it gets him fucking minutes, what the fuck else is he supposed to do?

Roy reaches for the hem of his shirt with hands he refuses to let tremble, and shucks it off in one clumsy movement. It’s not as sexy as Roy would do if he was trying to get laid, but that’s not the point anymore. It’s how it looks to everyone else, not Jamie.

Besides, Jamie seems pleased, anyway, scanning down Roy’s naked torso with a wicked smirk. “Fuck me, man. I knew this was a good idea.”

The comment doesn’t make Roy’s stomach twist, nor does it make heat pool over his tailbone. That would be ridiculous.

“I play fucking footy for a living. What did you expect?” Roy tosses him the shirt without any grace. It hits him square in the chest, and he catches it easily, eyes still not breaking contact with Roy’s chest. “Have to look like this, don’t I?”

Jamie shrugs. “Don’t mean I can’t appreciate it,” he says evenly.

Roy wants to mock him for the open staring, the plain hunger in his expression, one much more akin to that of a new lover than a business partner who wants to “soft-launch” their fake fucking relationship, but Roy holds himself back, lets himself just watch as Jamie tugs Roy’s shirt over his head.

It fits differently on him than it does on Roy, tighter in the shoulders and looser in the waist, and maybe an inch too long on the torso, but Jamie makes it fucking work. Maybe it’s just because he’s a model, or just that he’s full of supremely unearned confidence, but when Jamie turns toward the full-length mirror on the wall behind him, Roy feels like his shirt was fucking made for Jamie.

“I look fucking mint,” Jamie says gleefully, grabbing his phone from his pocket and pouting prettily while he takes a few photos in the vanity mirror from different angles.

The way Jamie carries himself when he does it is a shift. He’s been somewhat poised the whole afternoon, but here he’s tensing every muscle he has very carefully, in complete control of his body. Roy feels the ghost of that sensation in his own body, the control over the exact angle of his laces on the ball, the way his boot hits when he tackles.

Roy hasn’t felt like that in fucking ages, so cool and controlled.

“Thanks for that,” Jamie says, turning back around and tossing his phone on the bed.

Just like that, the spell is broken, Jamie’s concentration easing back into playful boredom as he peels himself out of Roy’s shirt and tosses it back. Roy can hardly even fathom how to move, but Jamie’s unaffected. He throws his own, abandoned shirt back on and adjusts his hair with careful hands, as if nothing had happened at all.

Roy goes stiffly, robotically, and puts his own shirt on, standing there like a fucking monument to awkwardness until Jamie turns back around.

“Right, well, you need a ride home, then?”

“Yeah,” Roy manages to say with a quick nod. “Thanks.”

The drive to Roy’s place is silent except for the radio and quiet directions from Siri. Jamie’s not humming along this time, and by the time they pull up to Roy’s own house and Jamie flicks the engine off, Roy finds himself almost missing the sound. 

“Have a good night, yeah?” Jamie says, twisting to look at Roy.

Roy just sits there for a long fucking minute, though, one hand slightly flexed, the other gripping the door handle loosely. Do they hug? Handshake? Kiss? What’s appropriate for a fake boyfriend who nearly made you pop a stiffy from trying on your shirt for Instagram likes?

Jamie saves Roy, though, leaning in for a quick, tight hug. It should be awkward with the centre console between them and Jamie still in his seatbelt, but Jamie somehow makes it feel almost normal.

Normal except for the fact that the lines of Jamie’s muscles against Roy’s torso fucking burns through their clothes, like they’re not there at all. It’s certainly his imagination, but Roy feels like he can smell himself on Jamie, just from the few seconds of him wearing Roy’s shirt twenty minutes ago.

It doesn’t stoke a possessive fire deep in Roy’s chest. He’s not that pathetic.

“You need help finding the door?” Jamie asks, pulling back from a hug that Roy absently realises was certainly a beat and a half too long.

“No,” Roy mutters, shoving the door open and stumbling out, cheeks fucking burning in the afternoon sunshine.

Roy’s phone starts vibrating like it’s about to explode that evening. He’s in the middle of making himself a cuppa (herbal – he has to limit his tannins, according to the dietician. Can’t be getting any fucking slower), and he almost drops the fucking mug on his foot, which would just be fucking perfect.

As it is, he splashes some on the ankle of his trackies, and spits a curse as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. It’s his sister.

“What?” Roy growls, setting his La Creuset mug down a bit too hard on the granite. He thinks some chips off the bottom, but it doesn’t fucking matter.

“Nice to talk to you, too,” Rachel mutters over the line. The sound is crackly, like she’s using the hands-free in her car, and a honk in the background confirms it.

“Fuck off. What do you need?”

“No ‘I love you, Rachel?’ No ‘Thanks for being the best baby sister on the planet?’”

“No,” Roy confirms. “I’m having a shit day.”

“Clearly,” Rachel says through a huff. “Seriously, though, anything you want to tell me?”

Roy surreptitiously checks the calendar over the stove. Phoebe’s still with her dad, so it’s not like Roy forgot to pick her up. Rachel’s birthday isn’t for another month. She broke up with that arsehole Todd three months ago, so it’s not like Roy missed an anniversary.

“No,” Roy finally settles on replying.

“Okay, then I guess I’ll just ask. Why the fuck is Jamie Tartt posting a picture of himself in your shirt in his fucking bedroom on his Instagram story?”

Roy feels the blood drain into his stomach, turning it over like a rotisserie chicken.

“What?” Roy asks stupidly.

“That’s your shirt, and I can see his duvet in the background. What the fuck?”

“It’s just a black shirt,” Roy mutters lamely.

Rachel actually screams, and Roy has to hold the phone a bit away from his ear. “So you were trying to lie to me!”

“Why the fuck are you checking Jamie fucking Tartt’s socials, anyway?” Roy spits. His blood has made its way back to his face, burning his cheeks a glowing fucking red.

“He’s fit as fuck, isn’t he? Think he’s Phee’s first crush to be honest. Shit, I don’t blame her. Have you seen his arse? Well, of course you have, I guess-”

“What the fuck?” Roy interrupts, pinching the bridge of his nose like that’ll release the migraine steadily building behind his eyes.

“Well, you have, obviously. He was in your shirt in his bedroom. And that bed was fucking messy, Roy-o.”

Roy opens his mouth to argue, but snaps it shut just as quickly. The image of him telling Jamie not to tell fucking anyone burns behind his eyelids. The idea of this leaking and him sitting on the fucking bench for yet another match burns worse.

Luckily, he doesn’t have to respond, because Rachel’s still talking. “You have to tell me about his cock, Roy. They blurred it out on TV. Is he big? I feel like he must be, fucker’s so built.”

“Fucking hell, Rachel, I’m not talking about Jamie’s cock with you!”

“So you have seen it!” Rachel crows triumphantly.

Roy valiantly resists the urge to crack his skull on the granite countertop. “What do you want, Rachel?” he sighs, resigned.

“My brother to tell me about his love life, obviously. Especially if it’s with Jamie fucking Tartt.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit, Roy!” There’s a distinct smacking sound like she’s slapping the steering wheel the way she does when she’s feeling particularly tetchy. “How did you meet? What’s he like? How’s the sex? When can I meet him?”

“I’m not telling you about my sex life.”

Rachel groans theatrically. “Fine, then just the other three.”

“We met through a mutual friend,” Roy grits out. That much is true, at least. “And you can’t fucking meet him.”

“I’ll wear you down eventually, Roy-o. And you never answered: what’s he like?”

Fucking hell, what the fuck is he supposed to say about a bloke he met fucking today, with whom he had one fucking conversation, and whose Instagram you’ve stalked an inappropriate number of times? 

Roy clenches his fist and exhales sharply through his nose. “He’s, erm, nice.”

“Nice? Seriously, Roy? I will come over there and kick you in the testicles, I promise.”

“Don’t say testicles.”

“I’ll say whatever the fuck I want. Now tell me.”

Roy knows he’s actively cringing, but he hopes he’s able to keep it out of his voice when he replies, “He is nice, though. Charming. Confident.” Roy trails off.

“You’re describing a greeting card, mate.”

Fucking fuck. “He likes to make fun of me,” Roy finally manages to say.

“Good,” Rachel replies. Roy can hear the smile in her voice. “You need someone to take you down a peg. Dated entirely too many idol-worshippers for me.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome. Now, look, I just got to the pub, so I’ll have to interrogate you later. Love you, bye.”

Rachel hangs up before Roy can say anything back, and Roy’s back, alone, in his massive fucking kitchen.

Chapter Text

How Roy’s day goes somehow further downhill from its beginning with a protein shake made of whey powder, kale, oat milk, turmeric, and a single fucking drop of vanilla is a fucking mystery. It ought to be impossible, really, since Roy has to hold his nose and chug to keep the nutritionist-suggested joint-protection formula down.

But, before Roy can even fucking rinse out the container, Keeley is emailing him a a link to a fucking Daily Mail article, the accompanying message replete with enough sparkle emojis to make Roy feel vaguely sick.

He clicks it hesitantly, absently wiping a smear of protein shake from his upper lip. Fucking hell. Roy knew what he was getting into, but fucking hell.

His eyes go first to the photo of them at the top of the article, clearly taken through the window of the coffee shop judging by the angle and glare. But Roy can’t even give the paps any semblance of shit for the photography skills, because the content of the picture is making his stomach, already fucked from the fucking concoction he’s forced down, flip ominously.

Picture Roy’s hand is brushing Picture Jamie’s ear, a soft smile painting Picture Jamie’s full lips. Picture Roy’s expression isn’t a grin, thank god, but rather a look of intense concentration, like he’s mapping Jamie’s features exactly in his mind. Real Roy knows it’s bullshit, that he was more focused on not spilling Jamie’s drink and making a fucking fool of himself than anything else, but the picture looks serious.

Like, two-people-dating-each-other type of serious.

Because it looks like a typical date at a posh coffee shop: a bit awkward, but in a sweet way, the way that being shy and fumbling the first time you give a handjob is adorable. It looks like two people who are in the early days of fucking love. 

Roy inhales sharply and wills his eyes to focus anywhere except the picture, adrenaline-induced bile rising in his throat. His gaze eventually drifts to the headline. It isn’t a fucking pun at least, reading simply LCA Alum Jamie Tartt and Chelsea Legend Roy Kent Step Out for Coffee Date.

Roy feels his eyes start to twitch at that, too, so he scrolls down, as if it would help. It’s just loads of pictures after fucking pictures, the angle of each of them barely fucking different. There’s one of Jamie laughing. One of Roy brushing Jamie’s ankle with his own. One of Jamie grabbing Roy’s hand.

The last one, though, makes Roy feel like he’s well and truly spinning out: Jamie’s palm brushing Roy’s cheek, and Roy glowing fucking crimson.

Fucking hell. Roy gets enough fucking shit in the dressing room about being a fucking second-teamer, albeit murmured behind closed doors and cupped hands. He knew he was going to get more fucking shit for flashing a fucking boytoy anywhere and everywhere Keeley could get a hold of. But the idea of people seeing Roy fucking shy, fucking blushing, makes Roy feel fucking ill.

Maybe it’s a mercy that the fucking G-Wagon is still in the shop; Roy wouldn’t trust himself to drive right now, anyway, would likely run down a fucking group of schoolchildren in a fit of rage as soon as he’d turned out of his drive.

Of course, this Uber is somehow even fucking worse than the last one.

It’s an Uber Black, for fuck’s sake, should be posh and silent, maybe with a soda water or two for Roy to sip. The exterior looks that way, a half-decent midnight blue Mercedes, and there’s two bottles of San Pelligrino tucked into the cupholders. It’s nice for an instant as they pull away from Roy’s house, the radio turned firmly off, sparing Roy from any sports or celebrity bullshit, leaving just the gentle hum of the engine.

It doesn’t last long, though, before the fucking driver starts talking.

“Roy Kent, eh?” he asks in a thick Essex accent.

Roy grunts in affirmation. That’s usually enough to shut celebrity-hungry fuckers up.

“Shame about the relegation, mate. My wife was in pieces about it, frankly.”

Roy swallows, the muscle in his jaw jumping in the way it gets when he’s pissed off. Rachel always fucking teases him for it, but that doesn’t mean he can stop through force of will alone. If he could do that, he wouldn’t need to do this shit with Jamie, since he could force his leg to not be shit, his body to be less fucking decrepit.

The driver is, of course, oblivious to Roy’s pain.

“Been a Richmond fan since she were barely two,” he drones. “Wouldn’t dream of moving anywhere else. Had to be near Nelson Road, she said.”

Another driver cuts them off, and Roy momentarily wishes behind closed eyes that the few metres between the cars were reduced and Roy was sent to fucking hospital. Would at least have an excuse for being benched, then.

“Me? I’ve always been a West Ham man. Had a streak for Chelsea, though, innit?”

“You want an autograph, then?” Roy growls, barely restrained. It wouldn’t fucking do to get a headline about him nutting the driver dominating the news cycle instead of the fucking photos of him and Jamie, after all.

Though the fact that Roy is even bothering to think like that at all has him feeling faintly ill.

“If you’re offering,” the driver muses. It would be nonchalant if not for the way he glances at Roy in the rearview mirror beneath grey, bushy eyebrows, so imminently hopeful that Roy feels vaguely sick.

The rest of the drive is silent, at least, leaving Roy to nurse his San Pelligrino and wish desperately that it was a fucking beer. Hasn’t had a single fucking drink since three weeks before the preseason. It hurts almost as much as the benching, almost as much as the relegation. Almost.

When they pull into the carpark, the driver pulls out a fucking bus ticket and a pen, and Roy scribbles his signature down before trying to shove it back.

“Don’t suppose you could do a selfie, too, mate?”

Roy resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose to stave off the fucking headache this is causing, but it’s a near thing.

“Fine,” Roy mutters.

The driver opens his phone, the background a photo of a lovely older woman in a Richmond scarf. The wife, then. It makes a weird sensation ping behind Roy’s solar plexus, the idea that this random fucking man has a fucking wife he loves enough to make his background.

Roy manages to focus just enough to glare at the camera for the selfie and fumble for the door handle.

As he pushes it, though, the driver adds, “Also, good job with that Tartt fellow. My wife’s celebrity crush, innit? Right looker.”

Roy stumbles out of the car, willing the heat in his cheeks to go the fuck away. Hopefully, between the time it takes to leave the driver a one-star rating and avoid Laughing Liam’s attempt to fill Roy in on whatever the fuck was last on the BBC Comedy Podcast, it does.

Of course, as soon as he gets to the dressing room, though, his fucking phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number.

Pics look fucking mint

Roy’s confused for a bare half second before the image is followed by a screenshot of the pic of Roy fucking blushing with the accompanying message Cutie pie and a fucking peach emoji.

Keeley did good

Jamie, then.

How’d you get this number, Roy replies simply.

Keeley, Jamie says after barely a second of lag. Need to have my bf’s number innit

It’s almost a relief for Roy to ignore the texts and thumb on Do Not Disturb. He’s not avoiding anything – he has to fucking focus at training. Only way he can hope to get minutes at this fucking rate. Plus, at least in the dressing room, he can nut anyone who brings up Jamie fucking Tartt.

The knowledge of that feels good, helps Roy breathe a bit easier as he slips out of his shirt and shakes out his kit. And, if he pretends not to see the bright yellow second-teamer pinny neatly folded in his cubby next to the photo of him, Phoebe, and Rachel on holiday last summer that he has tacked up, no one has to know.

Of course, the temporary reprieve from attention doesn’t last long with the half-rate twats Richmond calls a squad. Half-rate twats playing more fucking minutes than him, sure, but twats all the fucking same.

It starts with a tap on Roy’s bare shoulder, hesitant enough that Roy just growls instead of heabutting whoever the fuck did it. It’s fucking Colin, looking at Roy sheepishly, hands shoved in the pockets of neon green trackies.

“Fuck you want?” Roy grunts, yanking his training kit over his head. For a brief, blissful moment, he can pretend that he’s done changing his shirt, that he won’t have to pull on the ugly fucking bright yellow pinny that signifies how fucking old he is, how fucking slow, how fucking useless.

This fucking shit with Jamie better fucking work, if only to save Roy from a headache from the piss-yellow eyesore.

“Nothing,” Colin says too quickly, shaking his head. His stupidly coiffed curls bounce with it. “Sorry, skip.”

“You confuse me for someone else, then? Fuck is it?”

Colin swallows, his hands making obvious fists in his pockets. “No, erm. . .” He pauses and swallows. “Saw the article this morning, is all.”

Roy inhales stiffly, drawing himself up to his full height. He doesn’t have too much height on Colin, an inch or two at most, but Colin fucking shrinks anyway. Good.

“Yeah?” Roy asks. “Fucking say something.”

Colin’s cheeks go pink even as his lips go pale. “Just, erm, really loved his season of LCA, is all.”

“Fucking tell him, then, not me.”

“And, uh. . .”

“And what, Hughes?”

“Nothing. Just glad to see you happy, skip.”

Fucking hell. If that’s the first fucking comment he gets from the team, Ted’s bullshit must be penetrating deeper than Roy fucking thought. No razzing, no fucking towel flicks or anything. Not even a whisper as Roy walks away. It’s better than Roy could have hoped for as a knobby-kneed twelve year old at Sunderland, discovering his cock and David Bowie at the same fucking time.

Still, it makes something churn in Roy’s stomach, not quite uneasily, but not quite pleasantly.

Roy ignores it in favour of clapping Colin on the shoulder. The action surprises Roy as much as it does Colin, who actually jumps. “Cheers, mate.”

Colin smiles a weird, crooked grin and walks away, head angled at the floor.

If Roy still commanded a modicum of respect, he would be positively fuming at the idea that any fucking person would find it their business to comment on his fucking love life, let alone say they’re glad to see him happy. He would call them a condescending fucker and balltap them, at the least.

As it is, though, with Roy too fucking old and weak to compete against players not even a third of his skill at his prime, with Roy a bench player on a fucking Championship side, Roy just shoves on the fucking second-team pinny. The bile that usually rises in his throat at the action doesn’t seem to burn as bad today.

If even a twat like Colin cares enough to say something about the fucking pap photos, maybe Keeley’s fucking plan actually stands a chance in fucking hell of working.

That brief bright spot of hope, though, is quickly scrubbed out once training starts. Roy misses three fucking passes in a row because he’s that fucking slow, and fucks his knee trying to sprint on the last run-through of the drill.

After, Gail runs him through a few range of motion exercises that have Roy cursing a blue streak so fucking wide, even he’s a bit fucking impressed, though Gail still couldn’t care less. After an hour of that, throat fucking hoarse from yelling, dying for a drink or a cigarette or, better yet, a fucking joint, Roy dumps himself in the ice bath, curling up in a ball in his pants.

It’s fucking uncomfortable, but at least here he can sit in the dark and let his skin tingle and then go numb. There’s still noise from the laundry machine running and someone running through more exercises with the physio, but it’s muffled in here, like Roy’s whole being has been plugged with cotton.

Of course, the door bangs open as soon as Roy relaxes enough to hear anything over the thrum of his heartbeat in his ears.

“Roy! What a happy coincidence!”

Roy squints up at Higgins, his own head fucking blazing in the sudden bright light of the motion-triggered fluorescents.

“Fuck you mean?” Roy grunts, adjusting slightly so he looks less like the miserable, wet cat Rachel constantly compares him to. Higgins is the one most directly in charge of his fucking contract, after all, the one who actually arranges the fucking thing; Roy has to at least look like he can still fucking play.

“We were just talking about you, babe!” a thick Manc accent chirps behind Higgins. Jamie steps around him to smile brightly at Roy, eyes crinkling like this isn’t a fucking joke, like Jamie isn’t dating him for the fucking exposure in the hopes of landing some sort of modeling deal, like he’s actually excited to see Roy. It’s a hell of a performance, at least.

Jamie looks nice today as fucking always, lavender canvas jacket over a white vest, black jeans hugging his thighs in a way that should be obscene, but he somehow carries off as casual, bright white trainers, and a black hat reading fucking ICON pulled low over his eyes.

“What were you saying?” Roy asks, suddenly conscious of the way his hair is sopping into his eyes and his skin is deathly fucking pale, made worse by the icy water.

“Higgins here was securing me tickets to your next match,” Jamie says with a friendly bump to Higgins’s shoulder. Higgins looks positively fucking chuffed at the contact, like he’s itching to text his wife about it at the next spare moment. It would be kind of sweet, if Jamie’s enthusiasm was honest.

“Please, Jamie, call me Leslie,” Higgins demurs.

“Sorry. Leslie said he can get me in the owner’s box with Keeley. Now the only question is if I should order a long-sleeved or short-sleeved kit.”

“Don’t even worry about it.” Higgins winks at Roy in a manner that Roy supposes is meant to be subtle, but is far from it. “I’ll have a whole package sent over so you can pick. You’ll need lots of options for the rest of the season.”

“Oh, Leslie, you’re a fucking gem.”

Higgins genuinely beams, like flattery from a too-pretty twat is the highest compliment he’s ever gotten. “I’ll go sort it right away. Leave you two to it.” He nudges Jamie on the shoulder as he leaves like the implication isn’t obvious.

Roy just sinks deeper into his ice bath until he’s completely covered by the water, hoping Jamie will take that as his cue to leave. Of course, he doesn’t.

Roy feels a gentle hand pat his head, and he twitches at the contact, gasping in water in surprise. He splutters and raises back above the water level, and Jamie is fucking laughing.

“You okay, man?” he says through a snorting giggle.

“Fuck off,” Roy grunts.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Jamie says too sweetly, scraping a chair over the linoleum to sit next to Roy. Christ.

“No one’s here, Jamie. You can drop it.” Roy crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt to look more dismissive, but he’s pretty sure he just succeeds at looking fucking cold.

“Okay.” Jamie frowns and leans his chin in his hands. “Then, as your friend, what’s up?”

“You're not my friend.”

Jamie sighs through his nose. “As your colleague, what’s wrong?”

“Fucking nothing.”

Jamie reaches out a hand again before seeming to think better of it and dropping it awkwardly. “You sure? You’re doing a pretty good imitation of a beer at a shitty party, mate.”

Jamie thankfully doesn’t say the rest of it, the way that that one beer is probably pathetic and should have been binned half a decade ago.

“I need to ice my knee,” Roy mutters by way of explanation.

“Forgive me,” Jamie says, his smile a gentle shadow of the showy one on his Instagram posts. “I’m no doctor, but ain’t this a lot more than your knee?”

Roy declines to answer, just says, “I have ten more minutes in here, so you can piss off, thank you.”

“It’s alright,” Jamie says, forcefully polite. “Got nowhere to be, do I?”

“Don’t have an endorsement to film for flat tummy tea or something?”

Jamie’s full lips quirk up into something not quite expressing amusement, but not far from it. “First of all, those stopped being a thing in, like, 2018. Second, I already did an advert for slimming lollipops this morning, so I’ve got the whole rest of the day.”

Roy doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he just stares steadily dead ahead instead, focusing on the contours of the plastic ice bath. It’s a glorified bin, and it makes a coil of shame curdle in Roy’s chest, as if Jamie would even notice or care.

“Silent treatment, eh?” Jamie muses almost to himself. “Fine with me. I like talking enough for the both of us.”

Jamie pauses there, like he expects Roy to fill the silence, but Roy stays mute.

“Just came from a meeting with Keeley, actually. She gave me the details for Richmond’s charity gala this weekend. Should I go with chicken or steak, you think?”

Roy stays carefully silent.

“Normally for these kinds of things, I like to get one and have my date get the other, so we can split. Which do you want?”

“Chicken,” Roy mutters.

Jamie looks incredibly fucking chuffed at that, like duping Roy into having a normal conversation is an accomplishment, like Roy isn’t a fucking stubborn idiot who would be better served playing footie on a fucking ice floe somewhere near the Arctic Circle against fucking penguins.

“Perfect,” Jamie says smoothly. “I’ll text Keeley in a mo’. I have a suit picked out, already.”

“I’m sure.”

“I was thinking blue, to match me eyes.” Roy catches Jamie blinking theatrically at him, and he ignores it. He’s seen enough of Jamie’s obscenely long eyelashes when he was going down on Amy in LCA. “Or maybe black, if you want, so we match.”

“You look better in blue,” Roy blurts without thinking.

Jamie’s smile cracks even fucking wider, like the cat who got the canary. Roy’s just grateful the ice bath is too cold to allow him to blush yet again.

“Duly noted. Now, what’s got you in a strop? Someone you don’t like kick the ball or something?”

Roy feels his nostrils flare. “Fuck off,” he says icily. “I’ve got enough fucking bullshit to deal with without you adding to the list.”

Jamie’s expression fades into a pout, considering. In the dim light of the treatment room, his five o’clock shadow makes him look more Old Hollywood-handsome than the stupid playboy thing he tries to have going.

Once again, Roy dutifully ignores it.

“What are you up to tonight?” Jamie asks, like changing tacts to different small talk would mollify Roy rather than setting his fucking teeth on edge.

“Eating dinner. Alone.”

“Shame,” Jamie says, examining his nails with faux-nonchalance. They’re painted purple, matching his jacket. Not that Roy notices. “I have an extra ticket to an art museum tonight.”

“I’m not fucking going to an art museum.”

“Why? Do you hate beauty that much?”

It’s an oddly sharp thing to say in a tone so casual, and Roy tries to pretend that the ice bath has numbed him to the sting of it. “Fucking busy, is all,” he mutters, a shade more cowed than before.

“Eating dinner alone and all?”

“Yes.”

“It’s . . .” Jamie pauses to dig out his phone, adorned in a bright orange case. “. . . five o’clock, mate. You can’t spare an hour for an art museum?”

“I have to sleep early.” Roy doesn’t say the rest of it, that he needs the fucking sleep so he can run drills without puking, that when he stays up too late he gets even more fucking morose than usual, and Phoebe can always read it on his face the next day, that sleeping is practically the only time his knee doesn’t fucking ache.

Jamie, of course, being the arsehole he is, just snorts. “What are you, eighty? C’mon, granddad, it’ll be fun. Promise to have you in bed by nine.”

“Don’t the paps need some sort of warning before we go out?”

Jamie’s face twitches minutely, but it’s smoothed over before Roy can interpret it. “Nah, this’ll make it more real. If a couple blokes take a sneaky pic or ask for selfies and leak them, it’ll make it seem less like it’s P.R. Add a sense of realism, you know?”

And Roy would disagree, but he’s starting to get fucking cold, and he doesn’t know fucking shit about this anyway. His only experience with relationships in the press was trying to fucking separate the two as well as possible.

“Fine. Give me ten minutes to shower and change.”

“Ooh!” Jamie actually fucking claps his hands together, the child. Roy doesn’t smile, because that would be ridiculous, and rewarding bullshit nagging behaviour. “I’ll go wait in the carpark, then. Don’t want you to have to worry about shrinkage, innit?”

Jamie swans out of the treatment room before Roy can even bother to scold him for whatever the fuck that was, and Roy just sighs. Art museums aren’t awful, he supposes.

This art museum is particularly not awful. It’s a short drive in Jamie’s Aston Martin, the soundsystem of which he has blessedly elected to use for instrumental jazz instead of something bubblegummy and annoying.

The entrance is nice, modern without being overly posh, all polished marble and steel. Jamie scans a card from his bright white leather wallet on a small reader at the door, and then the security guard is waiving them through. He hardly spares a second glance at Jamie, but his eyes linger on Roy, silent and focused.

“The guard recognized me,” Roy whispers.

Jamie rolls his eyes. “Of course he did. You’re Roy fucking Kent, you numpty.”

Roy doesn’t know what to even say to that, so he just lets Jamie quite literally grab him by the wrist and tug him up a wide set of marble stairs.

There’s vases on this level, some that remind Roy of cabbages, others of coral, another one markedly reminiscent of what he really hopes isn’t a dildo made sculpture. Jamie ignores them all, though, breezing behind a wall and past a bunch of fabrics that are, judging from Roy’s inexpert half-glance, dyed to look like water.

“Isn’t the point of an art museum to look at the fucking art?” Roy mumbles.

“Fuck off, granddad. There’s a specific piece I want you to see, okay?”

Roy wants to spout something about how Jamie has met him fucking twice, and has no fucking idea what art he likes. He wants to say something about how his knee fucking aches. How the careful lighting of the exhibit has Jamie’s hair glowing gold. 

None of it comes out, though, because Jamie yanks him around another corner, and Roy suddenly fucking gets it.

“Whoa,” Roy breathes, looking up at the ceiling.

The lights have been replaced with silk flower sorts of things in a rainbow of colours, all encasing a lightbulb glowing a soft, muted version of whatever shade their petals are. The flowers are moving slow and steady, like the breathing of a baby in deep, restful sleep. It washes the white walls in different hues, a splotch of dark blue here, a patch of magenta there, a wash of yellow over Roy’s shoes.

“‘S called ‘Soft Fascination,’” Jamie says in a stage whisper.

The lights are bathing Jamie’s face in a delicate lavender, the shadows under his cheekbones and the brim of his hat cobalt. Then, after a bare moment, one flower closes and another opens, and it’s all greens, jade on the bow of his lips, sage for the bridge of nose.

“Fuck,” Roy replies simply. He’s not sure if he’s talking about the exhibit or the way a wash of oranges have just rendered the hollow of Jamie’s throat a delicious shade of peach. Or maybe, more realistically, it’s about the fact that he should not be fucking having these thoughts about a colleague, a business partner, someone barely more than a contracted prostitute for Roy.

Jamie seems oblivious to Roy, though, adding, “It means when you can focus on a task, but it doesn’t require full focus, innit? You can just relax, but you’re present and conscious.”

“Fuck,” Roy repeats stupidly, tongue too big for his mouth.

“Thought it would be nice with you in a strop and all.” Jamie looks almost sheepish at that, glancing down at his white trainers, now awash in a deep burgundy.

“Like box breathing. In yoga,” Roy contributes. He knows he sounds like a fucking twat, and a pretentious one at that, but Jamie just grins toothily and nods.

“Exactly. C’mere, let’s get a bench, yeah?”

It’s then Roy becomes conscious of the fact that Jamie hasn’t let go of his wrist this whole time, and that his hand is very warm and very soft. If it were a real date, if Roy had no knowledge that he’s this thin bit of contact between having minutes and sitting alone in his house with nothing but televised golf to keep him company, it would feel nice. As it is, it just sort of prickles, not entirely uncomfortably, as Jamie tugs him over to a large, square black leather cushion in the middle of the display.

Roy begins to perch awkwardly on the edge, but Jamie scoffs at him, aqua lights making him look even haughtier. “Lie down, you knobhead. Don’t need you cricking your knee and your neck.”

Roy wants to protest, but something about the way Jamie flops down without releasing his wrist, eyes focused on the steady movement of a teal flower overhead, keeps him from doing so. He winds up lying next to Jamie, an awkward few inches of space keeping them separate.

Roy’s breath catches as he waits for Jamie to close that gap, just to make whatever pictures leak more appealing, but Jamie keeps his distance, only violating it to gently tap the side of his trainer against Roy’s combat boot.

“Relax,” Jamie commands him. There’s something reminiscent of a lover soothing their partner before pushing inside, but Roy wills that thought away. He’s not popping a stiffy in art museum where a school group could wander in at any moment, much less pop one about Jamie fucking Tartt.

“This is . . . nice,” Roy manages to get out after a minute.

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” The smile is evident in Jamie’s voice. Roy half expects him to keep talking, given how he clearly fucking hates silence, but Jamie keeps quiet.

And it is nice. Quite fucking nice, if Roy’s to be honest. As soon as one flower closes, Roy can shift his focus to another one. Mint green to pale pink to dark, searing red. Chelsea blue to Man City blue to Richmond blue and back again.

Roy feels his breathing coming slower, the knot of tension in the base of his spine, the one that he hasn’t managed to rid himself of for fucking years despite doses of muscle relaxants, hot baths, and Gail’s best fucking efforts, slowly coming loose. Jamie is surprisingly unobtrusive, too, hardly even shifting in any perceptible way.

It’s almost how yoga used to be, before Roy was worrying about how he could better hold downward dog to put more heat in his core, before Janice started giving him those knowing fucking looks after she went to Richmond match with a friend from uni.

For a second, Roy doesn’t give a shit one way or another if this gets photographed. He doesn’t care if Keeley approves of the pictures, or if the Sun is going to publish a fucking story with some godawful headline about them being gay lovers under a rainbow or whatever the fuck. He almost stops caring about the match that weekend, probably would entirely if not for the tugging behind his sternum that hasn’t gone away since he was old enough to kick a fucking football.

Really, Roy’s almost sleepy, but he has no will to actually close his eyes, to stop the slow, gentle movement of the flowers from being obvious.

Time melts until Jamie gently, ever-so-fucking gently, like he’s waking a slumbering giant, taps Roy’s shoe with his own again.

“Roy-o?” Jamie says softly. “Museum closes in a few minutes. You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Roy says, voice unexpectedly rough. He coughs a few times and sits up. The room sways slightly, but not enough to keep Roy from standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. Wiping away any softness he may have shown Jamie.

Jamie’s slower to get up, blinking and stretching his arms out like a lazy cat. It makes his pecs press against his shirt. Roy’s not sure if it’s his imagination or the lighting or what, but he’s pretty sure he can make out the shadow of Jamie’s nipples through the vest. And, yeah, Roy’s seen Jamie shirtless before, both in real life and on TV and on social media, but he still looks down at his shoes to give Jamie privacy or something.

It’s stupid, and Roy knows it is. For fuck’s sake, he spends most of his fucking days around naked pricks in the dressing room. But it feels appropriate.

When Jamie gives Roy a light bump on the shoulder with his own, Roy’s so loose it almost sends him stumbling.

“Need a ride home?” Jamie asks. The cast of peach light over his eyebrows makes him look almost hopeful.

“Yeah,” Roy grunts. “Besides, it’d look good for any paps, to see us leaving together and all.”

Jamie’s lips quirk. “The student has become the master, I see. Now, c’mon, granddad, have to get you in bed by nine or else I’m gonna get a right bollocking.”

Roy opens his mouth to make a quip about it being deserved or something, but he shuts it in favour of letting Jamie walk him back out into the rest of the museum and the harsh, painful lights of the fluorescents in the parking garage.

Something about that and the way Jamie is carefully avoiding touching Roy as they walk has Roy feeling like he’s sobering up, like whatever temporary high the flowers and leather cushion gave him is slowly starting to fade from his bloodstream.

That sensation is helped along when Jamie turns on his fucking stereo again, blaring Stormzy as he exits the garage and heads for Roy’s house.

“How’d you find that?” Roy mumbles after a moment.

“Huh?” Jamie asks, turning the volume down with one hand and steering with the other. It should make Roy anxious, but he’s still too relaxed to even care.

“The . . . flowers. How’d you know about it?”

Jamie shrugs, the yellow cast of the streetlights showing an almost sheepish expression dancing across his features. “I like museums, don’t I? Especially art museums. Gives me inspo for the kits, eh?”

It’s said like a joke, but Roy doesn’t laugh.

“I meant, erm, how’d you know it would help? Me, I mean.” Roy fucking Kent doesn’t stutter, but here he fucking is, being toted around in Jamie’s Aston Martin like an invalid, mumbling questions like a blushing virgin on prom night. Christ.

“You were spinning out. Thought you needed something slow and repetitive.”

Roy swallows, throat dry, but stays quiet. A muscle in Jamie’s jaw has started clenching, and he has no interest in getting in the way of whatever he’s thinking.

Of course, because it’s Jamie, he’s silent for only a few bare moments before he tacks on, “Shit like that used to help me mum when my dad was being a prick. Keep her from shattering the good china, didn’t it?” Jamie’s tone is light, his touch on the steering wheel painfully gentle, like he’s handling those very shards of shattered porcelain. “She was so fucking scared of the bastard. Couldn’t sleep for weeks at a time.”

Jamie’s jaw goes tight, but he keeps the car at a steady pace, smooth and even. If Roy had his eyes closed, he wouldn’t have even noticed a difference.

“Used to watch time-lapse videos of flowers blooming and shit to get her to calm down," he adds.

“Did it work?” Roy asks without really meaning to.

“Sometimes,” Jamie muses. “Dad wrapping his drop top around a pole worked a lot better.”

“Shit,” Roy winces.

Jamie shrugs. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, granddad. He fucking deserved it, didn’t he?”

Roy doesn’t push the point any further, and Jamie doesn’t add anything either, just driving in silence that’s only punctuated by Stormzy’s flow and the occasional guidance from the GPS. It’s like a perverted version of the peace in the gallery, quiet without being restful.

By the time Jamie pulls up to Roy’s front walk, he’s relaxed a bit, making fun of Roy’s neighbours topiaries and birdbaths and the like. It soothes a startled knot in Roy’s stomach that he hadn’t been aware of until it melted.

“See you tomorrow, then? For the match?” Jamie asks once Roy opens the door, chill March air wafting into the car.

Roy grunts an affirmation and steps out of the car, barely avoiding fucking his knee with how low the stupid thing is.

“Jamie,” he says before shutting the door. “Thank you for that. Really.”

This is a new smile for Jamie, one Roy hasn’t seen before. This one quirks his eyebrows up and makes his eyes go liquid, his cheeks fucking dimpling. If this were a real date, if Jamie weren’t here by contractual obligation and nothing else, Roy would be kissing him. As it is, he just gives his own version of a smile – terse, formal, and awkward – and shuts the door behind him before fumbling with his keys to unlock his door.

He tries not to let that warm feeling trickle down his spine at the fact that Jamie waits until he’s gotten inside before driving off. Instead, he heaves a deep, tired sigh, and turns his attention to the chicken breasts he’s set to marinate in his fridge.

Tonight, he barely even misses his nightly beer.

Chapter Text

The morning of the first match after the international break dawns crisp and cold, a rare bit of sunshine sparkling on Roy’s counter as he eats his usual pre-match breakfast: egg whites with spinach, four pieces of multigrain toast, and a protein shake. It’s not a bad breakfast by a long shot, particularly in comparison to the shitty overnight oats or whatever he usually chokes down since he’s too proud to take home the nutritionist-prepared meals.

He slept decently for once, thinking more about the slow, rhythmic movement of the flowers than the match, more about the wash of colour on Jamie’s cheeks than whatever abuse the fans would hurl at him. He feels more peaceful today, too, sitting in what would normally feel like unnerving quiet.

He’s relaxed enough that when his phone rings, he nearly drops his fork, laden with a bite of egg.

The screen is lit up by Keeley’s contact photo, one she set after some event or another, her hair swept back neatly, lips painted a deep shade of purple. Normally, seeing it is enough to make Roy ache a bit, but the twinge doesn’t feel nearly as sharp this time.

Wonders what a good night’s fucking sleep can do.

“What?” Roy asks instead of saying “good morning,” or “hi,” or even, “I can’t talk right now, since I’m eating breakfast, but thanks for calling and see you at the match.” He’s in a good mood, but he’s still fucking himself, isn’t he?

“Roy!” Keeley chirps brightly. “Have you checked the Daily Mail today?”

Roy scoffs into his protein shake. “Fuck, no.”

“The Sun? Page Six? Any social media at fucking all?”

“No.”

“Fucking hell,” Keeley groans, even as her voice doesn’t lose an ounce of pep. “It’s a miracle you ever survived being famous.”

Roy doesn’t grace that with a response.

“Whatever, I’ll send you a link.”

There’s the distinct sound of manicured nails tapping on a phone screen, and then Roy’s phone lights up with a link to a headline from the Sun: Kent goes Bent for Tartt’s Heart.

“Isn’t that a little homophobic?” Roy mutters, even as he clicks the story.

“Fuck off, it’s catchy,” Keeley miffs as it loads. “Besides, that’s what happens when you don’t run your PR through me.”

Roy neglects to argue that point, since he’s pretty sure she’s right. Besides, when the page finally loads, Roy can focus on that, instead. Under the headline, the site is splashed with a huge photo of him and Jamie, lying on their backs in the art museum. Jamie’s trainer is nudging Roy’s foot, and Roy is fucking smiling. It’s maybe the first photo in years, other than the insipid one of his fucking blush at the coffee shop, that doesn’t have him glowering.

Christ. Jamie fucking Tartt isn’t fucking restoring Roy’s image so much as he’s fucking attempting to destroy it. Legendary Chelsea hardman gone gooey for a reality star. He really is pathetic.

“Huh,” Roy manages to say, scrolling down. “I guess Jamie was right.”

There’s more pictures, but they’re all pretty much the same. Just them, lying there and taking in the art, their faces painted with the coloured light. It ought to make Roy feel proud, know that his plan is working, but instead there’s a curl of uneasiness there, like someone walked in on him snogging a boy in his fifth year English classroom.

Probably just lingering hatred of the press, Roy reasons.

The last photo makes the curl go tighter. He’d been focused on the fucking flowers the whole time, but Jamie must not have been. He’d angled his head to the side in the last photo, watching Roy with big, careful eyes.

He’s a fucking good actor; if Roy didn’t know that the entire fucking thing was fake, he’d think the naked adoration writ in each of Jamie’s features was just that: honest, wanting, and real.

As it is, it just makes Roy swallow, eyes darting down to the caption like he’s avoiding eye contact with a pretty girl. The text there sobers him up a bit, at least: The loved-up LCA alum couldn’t keep his eyes off his beau enough to focus on the art.

“Are you reading it?” Keeley asks. Roy nearly fucking jumps.

“Christ,” he grunts, setting the phone down with perhaps too much force. Whatever; he’ll just buy a fucking new one. “Yes.”

“It’s fucking perfect, Roy,” Keeley burbles, as if Roy couldn’t come to that judgement himself. (Well, maybe he couldn’t. He’s a fucking knobhead about fame, at least according to Keeley.) “It’s fucking real, and all the photos are from fans’ socials, so it looks even more fucking real. Not a PR relationship,” she tacks on at the end, as if Roy doesn’t even understand the differences there.

“No one even stopped us,” Roy mutters, half to himself and half to Keeley. If he’s honest, he was up in his own head high enough that he wasn’t sure anyone else was even in the fucking exhibit at all.

“Of course they didn’t. Would you want to interrupt a couple who was looking at each other like that?” As if her point wasn’t made, she texts a fucking screenshot of that last photo again.

Roy wants to argue that he’s been asked for a selfie leaving his nan’s fucking funeral, but he doesn’t push the point. Whether it was luck or fate or Jamie fucking Tartt’s ability to pretend remarkably well to be a lovesick idiot, he’d gotten to relax and bolster his image more. He’ll take it.

The light feeling carries him through the rest of breakfast, the Uber to the club (he should just buy a new fucking car at this point. Christ), and a pre-match warmup. Even seeing Isaac slide on the captain’s band while they’re throwing on their kits doesn’t hurt too badly.

Roy’s lacing up his boots when his phone chimes. It’s from Jamie’s number, which Roy still hasn’t saved. The message is a captionless selfie of him and Keeley in the owner’s box. He can see Rebecca in the background, looking posh and respectable, even as he and Keeley are sticking out their tongues and crossing their eyes.

It must be cold out there – Jamie’s cheeks are dusted with pink, and he has a Richmond scarf wound tightly around his neck. Roy can’t see much below that, just a vague hint of silver from a jacket, and he wonders if it’s shiny enough for Roy to spot him in the stands. Shouldn’t be too hard, really, if he’s in the twatty fucking owner’s box.

Maybe he’ll be waiting in the tunnel after the match, win or lose. It’s not normally allowed, but he’s seen Isaac’s girl do it a few times, and Cockburn’s a few more than that.

Maybe if Roy gets any fucking minutes, it’ll even be justified. He has to celebrate baby steps, and whatever the fuck else the physio told him the first time he fucked his knee.

“Good motivation, huh?”

Roy fucking Kent doesn’t startle. Some dumbfuck called Roy, however, drops his phone and cringes at Ted fucking Lasso leaning over Roy with all the casualness of an insipid Yankee undertaker.

“Fucking hell,” Roy grunts, picking up his phone from the floor and sliding it into his cubby like he could hide the picture from Ted. It’s definitely too late for that, given that Ted’s already fucking seen the thing, but Roy wouldn’t be fucking Roy if he didn’t have a bit too much misplaced pride.

“Don’t gotta be embarrassed, Roy-o,” Ted says far too happily to be the coach of a barely-above-the-middle-of-the-table Championship fucking side. “Love is just dandy, isn’t it? Like a billion daisies wearing overalls.”

Roy doesn’t want to even fucking know what the fuck that means, so he just grunts and nods. He must be going soft. If it were this time last year, he’d be pushing the fucker away. But, at the end of the day, Ted controls his fucking career, innit? Which is fucking depressing enough to make Roy want to shit out of his own fucking mouth.

“Heard he’s gonna be up in the stands today,” Ted adds when Roy stays silent.

Roy swallows and nods. Ted’s a fucking softie, after all. Maybe this can work. “Sent me a selfie of it,” Roy mutters, gesturing toward his phone like an awkward marionette puppet of himself. It makes his teeth feel fucking sticky, like he’s eaten too many sweets.

“Well, isn’t that just sweeter than Augustus Gloop’s fondest memories?”

Roy has zero fucking clue what to say to that, so he just shrugs.

“Young love,” Ted sighs, standing up and clapping Roy on the shoulder. “Nothing better.”

Roy wants to say what would be better is getting any fucking minutes, fucking hell, you fucking soft-dicked wanker, but the yoga breathing exercises must have been doing him well because he’s able to just take a deep breath through his nose and crowd in the center of the dressing room for whatever pre-match ritual Isaac wants to do.

He’d let Roy take the lead the first few weeks of the season, but Roy’d given up after two shitty matches where he played exactly zero minutes. Isaac was on the pitch, so Isaac was captain. Simple as that. The brass in their trophy rooms don't mean shit if Roy can’t score a fucking goal to save his life.

He’s old and he’s expensive and, most of all, he’s fucking tired, enough that even standing through the national anthem feels like an unnecessary chore. Besides, the queen can suck his left fucking testicle if he doesn’t fucking play today, anyway.

Of course, God or Satan or whatever fucking deity has it out for Roy decides just then to intervene. Because the sun is peeking out from behind a cloud, and shining directly on the owner’s box, reflecting off of Jamie’s bedazzled jacket and making him glow like a fucking disco ball.

It’s an eyesore, really, but Roy could swear half the fucking stadium gasps when the fucking cameras fixate on it and show Jamie fucking Tartt, smiling in a knit Richmond cap pulled low over his ears.

He looks good, of course, hair poking out of the hat and smile splitting his pink cheeks. The silver of his jacket really is quite appealing, bright and cool in contrast to the bright colours of the Richmond hat and scarf.

Jamie gives a fucking wave to the camera, one that would seem shy to the inexpert eye, but Roy is pretty fucking sure is practiced and intentional. Of course, that’s nothing compared to what he does fucking next, which is very fucking clearly mouth to the camera, I love you, Roy.

Roy’s no fucking professional lip reader or anything, but Jamie fucking enunciates it like he’s doing lip-reading practice for the deaf, clear and slow and fucking obvious. Despite the cold, despite the fact that Roy’s stomach is clenching in disgust and anger at warming the fucking bench yet a-fucking-gain, he feels the tips of his ears go hot.

“Damn, bruv!” Isaac says from next to him. “Fucker’s down bad for you, eh?”

“Guess so,” Roy mutters.

The crowd is fucking cheering at the camera still pointed at Jamie, volume akin to someone popping in a sitter. It’s fucking ridiculous. Maybe Keeley was right that, at this point, the fans are just coming out to see him, for nostalgia or whatever the fuck.

Roy’s half surprised he doesn’t see her already tapping out a press release in the background of the shot of Jamie’s continuing coy little wave.

“Gonna see this tomorrow in the Sun, boy-o,” Colin says from Roy’s other side, like he’s actually invested in Roy’s love life.

The headline would read Jamie Tartt Shines Like Star in Message to Star Player, or something. It’s not fucking smooth, but headlines never been Roy’s strong suit any-fucking-way. Besides, for that one to work, Roy would actually still need to be a fucking star player, wouldn’t he?

But fucking hell, there’s no chance that the tabloids will report out anything fucking close to that, because now the camera is showing fucking Roy and the way his brows are fucking furrowed and his mouth fucking pinched with anxiety.

He practically hears Keeley’s frantic words in his ear to relax, to smile, to do whatever the fuck other hundred things she wanted him to do when they were papped as they were dating.

Roy just fucking covers his face with his palm to hide the fucking frown on his face. It’s fucking stupid, and he knows he looks fucking stupid, but what the fuck else is he supposed to do? He’s never been able to school his expressions into anything other than a fucking scowl, and that’s the only fucking thing he can’t do here.

Fucking hell.

He’s fucking panicking before a fucking match. He hasn’t done that since his fucking debut for England.

And yeah, he’s supposed to just be on the bench, and they’re playing fucking Sheffield Wednesday, so who gives a fucking shit if Roy’s freaking out? But fucking Christ, part of the contract is that nothing will interfere with football.

Roy has to be able to fucking focus before a match. Get rid of the jitters. No worries about his fucked love life, Phoebe’s fucking grades, his sister’s string of shit boyfriends. Just football.

Almost subconsciously, Roy turns back toward the fucking owner’s box as if to complain. Keeley and Jamie are barely more than faint fucking blobs from down here, but he can recognize them from the way Jamie’s fucking glowing and Keeley’s dressed like she skinned a goddamn pink muppet.

It almost feels like a gladiator’s fucking arena, like they’re here to watch him fail. Won’t that be a fucking story: Jamie Tartt’s first match supporting his boyfriend or whatever the fuck, and the fucker shatters his femur.

Roy’s breath is coming too hot and too hard against his palm, and he has to drop his hand, or he’ll pass the fuck out here and now. Fucking hell, that would make an even better headline.

For some fucking reason, though, exposing his scowl back to the world has the crowd going fucking insane. Loud like Roy’s just barely scraped in a goal in the last minute of injury time in a World Cup final. It’s fucking disorienting, and Roy’s head fucking whips around. Did someone propose? Did a fucking pegasus wander onto the pitch?

But the cameras are still fixed on him, on his grim, slightly wild expression.

Which is when it hits. The entire fucking stadium, maybe the whole fucking world thinks he, notorious hardman Roy Kent, who once called a child a bellend for asking for an autograph, just blew a kiss to his fucking boyfriend.

Roy’s almost grateful to be on the bench now. It’ll keep him from fucking keeling over.

The match, of course, is fucking miserable.

There’s five minutes left in regulation, and they’re down fucking three. Colin’s missed so many sitters that Roy, even from the bench, is fucking yelling. Jan Maas and Isaac are playing like Tweedle-Dumb and Tweedle-fucking-Dumber. The only bright spot is Sam getting a half-decent shot on goal at the end of the forty-seventh minute.

And Roy is just sitting on the edge of the fucking bench, tearing holes in the grass with his fucking boot, and watching. For fuck’s sake, they should at least charge him for a fucking ticket if he’s not going to play.

Maybe that could help their fucked finances a bit, at least.

There’s a sudden collective inhale from the crowd, and Roy lifts his gaze up from the fucked grass just in time to see one of Wednesday’s defenders make a shit stop that has the ball fucking flying past the goal line. Corner, then.

Roy shifts in his seat, ready to watch the Greyhounds cock this one up, too. 

Which is when Ted claps his fucking shoulder with an a half-smile.

“Head on out there, son,” he says brightly. “Give your beau a chance to see you play.”

Roy knows instinctively that this is pity, plain and simple. Any rational fucking manager would put someone fucking fast, someone strong, in for a corner, so they have a better chance of jockeying the ball where they want it. But, fuck, they’re down three, so who the fuck cares?

So Roy grunts a thanks, yanks off his warm-up jacket, and jogs down the pitch. It doesn’t feel significant in any way, not really. He ought to have been doing this from the start.

But the crowd fucking lights up as he does, loud enough that Roy’s half-concerned he’s fucking slow enough that he missed the fucking corner entirely.

He glances up at Jumbotron just in case and sees fucking why.

Jamie is being shown, clapping and fucking screaming Roy’s name. If Roy weren’t in on the joke, he’d think Jamie was a die-hard football hooligan with a particular penchant for geriatric midfielders far past their prime.

Roy ignores it in favour of heading into the thick of the knot of players and waiting for the corner. Isaac is taking it, which is smart, since he’s almost as fucking slow as Roy.

“Hey, skip,” Winchester says as Roy jockeys into position. “Cute guy.”

What the fuck is Roy supposed to say to that? Don’t objectify him? Focus on the game? Both would be hypo-fucking-critical, because Roy is doing absolutely fucking neither.

So Roy just shrugs. “Watch the ball. Isaac’s gonna whip it high,” he mutters.

The stadium goes silent as Isaac launches the ball, the arc passing almost in slo-mo above the heads of Sheffield Wednesday, heading on a fucking beeline for Roy. It is high, just like Roy said it would be.

In the end, it’s hardly more than muscle memory for Roy to leap as high as his fucked knee will allow and nut the ball with all he has. He knows, just from the way it nudges his forehead, that his aim is true. The roar of the stadium, so loud Roy’s fucking feet feel like they’re vibrating as he comes back down, confirms it.

It’s a meaningless pity fucking goal. Puts them down only two with no time left. There’s no reason to be happy at all.

But Sam screams, “Yes, Captain!!!” and, for some fucking reason, Roy can’t keep the grin off his face. His first fucking goal of the entire fucking season, and it’s when Jamie is watching from the owner box, looking like a Richmond-loving fucking disco ball.

It feels like they’ve won the fucking Treble in the tunnel by the way so many people are slapping his hands, his bum, his back. Almost feels that good, too

Jamie’s waiting for him in front of the locker room after the match. He’s holding his jacket over one arm, a Kent jersey stretching tight over his shoulders. Higgins came through, then.

“Hi, baby,” Jamie says happily, nose crinkling when someone, probably Kukoč, wolf whistles as they walk past.

“Hey,” Roy mutters, ever gruff and awkward. It’s the first time he’s seen Jamie since the fucking art museum, and he isn’t sure what to say. Thanks doesn’t feel quite appropriate, nor does The tabloids are having a fucking field day or even the ever-reliable That goal was all for you, baby. Now go down on me as a token of your appreciation.

Thankfully, Keeley saves Roy from having to figure out anything to say by running up and clapping both of them on the shoulder.

“Roy!” she squeals, literally hopping up and down in her sky-high heeled boots. She comes up almost to his nose now. “That was fucking incredible!” She swallows him a puffy pink hug, whispering, “Rebecca mentioned the story. Proud of you.”

She pulls back before Roy can ask for any clarification, but the damage has been done, heat dusting his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. Fucking hell. If Roy knew he blushed this fucking easily, he would have never fucking agreed to Keeley’s fucking plan in the first place.

“You looked fit as fuck, too,” Jamie says through a wry smile, squeezing Roy’s bicep.

Roy feels his face going hot yet a-fucking again, and he stares down at his boots instead. There’s no proper way to respond to that. Can’t say thanks, you too. Can’t just kiss him, the way Roy would if they were really dating. Can’t scoff and ignore it.

Keeley, thank fuck, interrupts again with a loud, very impressive burp, especially for someone of her frame. Jamie cackles at it, and Roy’s pretty sure he hears someone wolf whistle from the dressing room.

“Well, I ought to get this one home,” Jamie says swiftly, patting Keeley’s arm. “She’s had about six too many Vodka Redbulls and has work in the morning, doesn’t she?”

Roy hates the way he feels almost disappointed at Jamie leaving. It’s not like them fucking around by the dressing room is going to make any news, anyway.

“Yeah,” Roy says, his voice sounding weirdly high. “See you later?”

“‘Course, babe. Get home safe.”

Roy shivers a bit after Jamie says that. Must be a draft in here.

Chapter Text

Roy’s never been one for limos, with the driver and the chilled champagne in the back or whatever. Even for red carpets, like this bullshit one for Richmond’s Feed the Children Gala, he’d usually just get a private SUV instead of wasting his time and money on a thinly-veiled dick measuring metaphor.

He'd wanted to avoid it entirely, had begged to for the entire week since his meaningless consolation goal, but it was in his fucking contract for the club, and Keeley's already fucking invited Jamie. 

Of course, Jamie has no such compunctions about any of it, legs spread comfortably  in the back of the limo he’d ordered, champagne flute dangling delicately from azure-painted fingernails. He’s fulfilling every inch of the platonic ideal of a fake boyfriend tonight, in a soft-looking blue suit with barely-visible stripes in a deeper shade of blue. It makes his eyes look inviting, which’ll be good for the cameras.

Roy feels his palms start to sweat at the mere idea of all the photographers. He hasn’t cared since he was fucking twenty, usually just gives them the finger and continues with his business, but this is different. The whole point of this is making sure the paps care.

Care more than they do about whatever garish monstrosity that Isaac dons. More than they do about whatever twenty-five year old boy toy Ms. Welton has on her arm that evening. More than they do about the children this is supposed to help, for fuck’s sake.

It goes against every instinct Roy’s ever had: to keep his private life private, to nut paps in the forehead if they so much as approach him when he’s with a partner or his sister or Phoebe. He’s meant to play football, not swan the fuck around like his fake boyfriend.

Or colleague. Partner-in-crime? Whatever.

“Want a drink?” Jamie asks, leaning over to bump the back of his knuckles against Roy’s knee. “You look like you’re going to faint.”

“Fuck off,” Roy grunts, even as he eyes a Darsteiner tucked atop the mini-bar.

“It’s just paps,” Jamie murmurs, taking a sip of his own drink, a fruity canned cocktail that would probably give Roy heartburn. “Give ‘em a show, and you’ll be getting more minutes than you know what to do with, yeah?”

Roy just grunts.

“Roy,” Jamie sighs, scooting forward in his seat across from Roy and putting a warm hand on Roy’s thigh. Roy can feel the heat of it through his black trousers, and the limo seems to lurch slightly. “Talk to me.”

“I hate this shit,” Roy mutters. “Strutting about like a fucking peacock for no fucking reason. Not even getting paid.”

Jamie’s smile slips into a smirk. “Well, it’s supposed to be for charity, innit? Kind of shitty to want to get paid.”

Roy does his best to make Jamie immolate on the spot with his glare, but Jamie ignores it blithely.

“Look, man, you’re going to be fine. You’re dressed like a hot priest-” Jamie pauses to tug at the end of Roy’s blazer. “-your aftershave smells incredible, and, best of all, you have perhaps the world’s sexiest date on your arm.”

“Smell doesn’t carry in pictures,” Roy mutters like a child.

Jamie rolls his eyes. “What’s got you so fucking scared, mate?”

“I’m not fucking scared,” Roy spits. “I just hate this shit.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Why do you hate it?” Jamie asks doggedly, finishing his drink and putting the empty can back down on the mini-bar.

“It’s demeaning,” Roy says. “I’m meant to play, not be a little show pony. I have actual skills, you know.”

Jamie’s lips twitch minutely. “Yeah, of course. Kicking a ball around, for one. Glaring, for two. Lots of skills.”

“Fucking prick.”

Jamie grins toothily, tongue pressing between his incisors. “It’s going to be fine. We’re both fit as fuck, and I put on peach chapstick this morning. I’m a great kisser, and you’re probably decent. We’re going to have a great time.”

Something hot flares in Roy’s gut, uncontrolled. A flash of Jamie studying his lips before he lifts his eyes back up makes it worse.

“Fuck you mean?”

“What?”

“About the fucking- fucking kissing.” Roy feels his cheeks and ears burning, like he’s a fucking twelve-year-old telling the older boys at Sunderland that he’s never seen a tit in real life, much less touched one.

“It’s a red carpet, and we’re supposedly dating, babe. ‘Physical affection, as appropriate,’ and all,” Jamie says like Roy’s slow.

Roy tries to stutter out a response, but Jamie ignores him and ploughs on. “We don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable. Should have you know you’re missing out, though. People go fucking wild for red carpet kisses. You’ll be trending on Twitter before we even get inside. Plus, I’m a dead good kisser.”

“Why didn’t you do it after the match, then?”

Jamie swallows, a twist to his eyebrows like he’s surprised Roy remembers seeing him at all afterward, like he assumes Roy really is the senile geriatric the pundits paint him as. “‘As appropriate,’ innit? Your teammates weren’t gonna run off to a gossip rag or nothing, so there weren’t a point.”

Roy nods for probably too long before saying, a little too quietly, throat dry, “Will it really help? Tonight, I mean.”

“Probably,” Jamie shrugs. “But if it’s a no-go for you, that’s fine. We can get by with a bit of cheeky arse-grabbing.” He grins that toothy little smile again, and Roy feels his grip tighten on the buttery leather of the car interior.

“Okay, fine,” Roy mutters. “Fine.” Roy feels his cheeks burn, and he worries at the inside of his lip to try and quell it.

“Roy, hey,” Jamie says, a little softer, leaning across the car and putting a warm hand on Roy’s good knee. The contact burns, and Roy wants to shift away, but he steels himself. He’s not a fucking teenage girl, scared of getting felt up by some boy. He’s a grown fucking man. “It’s just a red carpet. Just gotta take a few pics. You do this shit all the time – I saw the presser for ‘Winner, Winner, Football Dinner.’ Had a cheeky wank to it, too.”

Roy grimaces even as he snorts a laugh. “I fucking hate this shit,” he finally repeats, hoping he sounds less like the miserable, spoiled child than he knows he’s being. “Fucking embarrassing.”

“No more embarrassing than being the slowest one on the pitch, is it, babe?” Jamie wraps his hand around Roy’s as he says it. Somehow, it softens the sting of the insult.

Jamie’s skin is so fucking warm, and it makes Roy feel like some evil sort of deity is turning the temperature up on his internal organs, making sweat drip down the back of his neck.

“Fuck off,” Roy grunts.

“No,” Jamie says, far too cheerily. “We’re here.”

Sure enough, the limo is rolling to a stop, and Roy’s stomach with it. He feels like he’s turning green, or maybe red, or fucking purple the way he does when he’s really, truly losing his head at someone, but he can’t even ask the driver to get him to the nearest hospital because Jamie’s hand is already on the door handle.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Jamie's still gripping his hand, so Roy doesn’t even have a chance to try to get away. It’s fucking bright out, even through the limo’s tinted windows, made worse by pops of light from photographers. Shouts of his name and Sam’s and fucking Ted’s make Roy’s palm sweat somehow worse, but Jamie doesn’t seem to mind, uses his vanity muscles to yank their joined hands closer to his chest.

“Deep breaths, okay? Clench your abs, one foot in front of the other, head up.”

“I’m going to look like a fucking twat.”

“I’m not going to let you look anything except perfect. Come here.”

Jamie adjusts his grip to lace his fingers with Roy, and despite the sweat and the noise and the fucking lights, it’s almost nice. The evil deity from earlier has turned up the hob again, making Roy feel like his organs are melting, but not necessarily in a bad way. Kind of like the burn from a good gulp of vodka – painful and sweet all at the same time.

“Ready?” Jamie asks, already moving to open the door.

Roy swallows drily and nods.

It’s worse outside of the little enclave of the limo. The sound crescendos, the blood drains from Roy’s face, and, worst of all, Jamie is beaming a million-watt smile, waving at the cameras with the hand that’s not clutching Roy’s.

Roy just does what he does best when he’s not either on the pitch or close to losing his mind in a haze of red: what he’s told. He puts one foot in front of the other, stomach clenched, eyes fixed forward at the back of Jamie’s head. The roots are just beginning to grow in, the honey blond ending in a bare millimetre of deep, chestnut brown. There’s a slight curl to Jamie’s hair that Roy hasn’t noticed before, a tiny little cowlick swooping over the tanned skin of his neck.

If they were really dating, Roy would find it gorgeous, would twine it around his fingers every time they kissed. As it is, Roy stares at it as it bobs with each of Jamie’s steps, like when a carsick child is told to stare at the horizon to avoid getting sick in the middle of a long drive.

Jamie, of course, has no stiffness at all in his performance, has started swanning as soon as they exit the limo, acknowledging the photographers by fucking name. “Lucius! You look amazing, babe!” Jamie calls to one of them. “Katie, sweetheart,” to another one. “Ty, you shaved!” to a third.

The worst part is that he seems to be genuinely excited to see them.

Roy, for his part, resists the urge to stare at his shoes or even the more powerful one to flip the paps the fucking bird. Instead, he just grips Jamie’s hand and stumbles after him. Roy’s palm is still sweating, but Jamie is pretending not to notice, thankfully.

Everything almost reaches an equilibrium until about halfway through the mere twenty feet of red carpet, since Richmond are fucking cheapskates. There, Jamie stops in the exact dead centre of the lunacy and plants his feet dramatically. Roy would fucking bump into him if it weren’t for Jamie’s bullshit advice to keep his head up. Fucking twat.

“Grab my waist,” Jamie directs as he spins around, letting go of Roy’s hand.

Roy’s half-worried he’s going to fall over before Jamie’s own arms are steadying him, one wrapped around Roy’s waist, shoving his jacket aside to grope at the meat of his oblique. Roy feels the burn of Jamie’s forearm against his back, even through Jamie’s suit jacket and Roy’s dress shirt. The grip of Jamie’s fingers is sure around Roy’s side, too gentle to hurt and too firm to tickle.

But that’s nothing compared to the other hand.

Jamie’s right hand, the one that had been tugging Roy along, plants itself now on Roy’s chest. Solid, steady. Jamie’s palm is broad, branding into Roy’s skin, the fucking button Jamie’s thumb is resting on threatening to burn Roy with how hot it’s getting.

His insides are near liquefied now with the heat of everything, even in the March air, and it would be scary or sickening if not for Jamie’s gentle, firm arms, holding Roy up.

“Roy, my waist,” Jamie bites out in a whisper.

Roy responds like a drunk marionette doll, throwing his right arm around Jamie’s back, the left making a demonic claw around Jamie’s hipbone.

It’s too rough and awkward, and Jamie should be recoiling, but instead the fucker grins up at Roy. There’s barely a scant inch of height between them, yet like this, Roy feels like he’s fucking towering over Jamie.

Jamie gently rubs his thumb over Roy’s sternum, and Roy shudders like he’s dying.

“Sorry,” Jamie says hurriedly. “Didn’t know you were ticklish. Now smile.”

And Jamie fixes him with that megawatt fucking grin before turning it to the cameras.

Roy feels Jamie’s body shift under his hands, the way his stomach clenches and his hips pop out to one side. He truly is a peacock, preening this way and that. The cameras fucking love it.

For his part, Roy just stares out at them, solid and unblinking. He thinks vaguely he’s not even remembering to glare.

“Roy!” one of the photographers yell from the crowd. “Does this mean you and Jamie are official?”

Roy can’t even comprehend what to say that before more of the fucking paps start to yell.

“Are you gay?”

“What’s it like being a closeted footballer?”

“Does the team know?”

“Who’s the girl in the bedroom?”

Roy wants to tell them off for being fucking ignorant, for being fucking twats, but Jamie’s hand around his waist squeezes tightly. Be patient, it seems to whisper, as clear as if Jamie said it aloud. I’ve got this.

And Jamie does seem to, the palm pressed to Roy’s chest leaving to hold a placating hand out to the paps.

“Does this answer your questions?” Jamie yells like a madman.

Roy has no idea where Jamie is going with that, is half-tempted to shove Jamie away and try to hail a cab to fucking Cornwall or something, before Jamie snaps back into place, his fingers delicately wrapping around the side of Roy’s neck.

Roy can’t quite catch his breath, but then Jamie is yanking him down that bare little inch, and pressing their lips together in quite possibly the best-acted kiss of desperation Roy has ever seen.

It’s a searching thing, the kiss, Jamie’s mouth parting gently for Roy’s, Roy’s already open in something that could be shock or fear or anger. Jamie’s tongue slips into Roy’s mouth unbidden, like it’s an accident. Roy almost jerks away, but Jamie’s hand on his waist keeps him steady, the fingers on his neck scratching gently into the short hairs on the back of Roy’s head.

The heat inside him has been turned up to boiling, sparks of excess warmth zapping down his spine and into the pads of his fucking toes.

Jamie tastes like the cocktail in the limo, but also something warmer, deeper, something that Roy can’t even focus enough to place, what with Jamie’s plush, soft lips pressed to his own. They’re gentle, even as they coax Roy’s tongue to slide into Jamie’s mouth.

Roy can’t help the way he lets the arm around Jamie’s back drift up to his neck, the pad of his index finger brushing over that damn cowlick he noticed earlier. The hair there is fucking soft, softer than Roy thought it would be. Roy wants to wrap it around his finger, is in the process of it, when Jamie pulls back, his cheeks dusted pink.

“You’re a fucking natural,” Jamie tells him through spit-soaked lips.

The paps ruin it, of course, their cacophony breaking through whatever bubble of calm Jamie’s lips had cast over them.

Roy flushes, feels fucking bashful, as if he’s a teenager walked in on by his mum, not a nearly-forty professional fucking athlete making out with some idiot reality star with a million Instagram followers in front of two dozen paid photographers for a chance at ekeing out just one more season with the starters. 

Thankfully, though, Jamie gives him no time to sit with . . . any of it before relinquishing his grip on Roy’s waist and tugging him by the hand into the fucking gala.

“Shit. This is fucking delicious,” Jamie muses an hour later, once everyone has found their seat and the dinner has been served. He’s slurping at his dessert spoon a hair too loudly for comfort, a tad obscenely, really.

Roy just focuses on the mound of raspberry mousse in front of him, untouched except for a tiny bite scooped out of the top.

His lips are still buzzing from their kiss. He’s pretty sure he hasn’t managed to speak more than three words in a row since then.

“It better be good, with the fucking money Rebecca’s shelling out,” Keeley comments from Roy’s other side.

Roy’s lips must be swollen. Sure, it was only a few second kiss, but they must be. He wouldn’t still be feeling them if they weren’t. He should duck into a toilet and check, but the auction could start any fucking minute, and the only thing more humiliating than being paraded around like a showhorse would be having to run on stage from the loo, bog roll stuck on his heel.

“Fucking worth every cent,” Jamie fucking groans, continuing to fellate his spoon. “You gonna finish that?”

Roy passes it over wordlessly, and Jamie attacks it without mercy. He seems completely normal (albeit far too horny over raspberry mousse with a honeycomb tuile), as if they hadn’t kissed at all, much less that intensely.

“Fucking lush,” Jamie moans. Roy feels his knee jerk and hit the table unintentionally.

“Much better than last year,” Isaac grunts from across the table, scraping the last bit of his own dessert up from his plate. “Were these nasty cinnamon biscuit things. Tasted like my nan’s house, innit?”

Jamie smiles crookedly. There’s a dot of mousse on his nose. “Hate cinnamon,” he agrees conspiratorially. “Feels like Christmas is being shoved down your throat.”

Isaac nods, every movement serious. “Up your sinuses, too.”

Roy sighs at the tablecloth, grateful the conversation is inane and not involving him. Since they’ve gotten in the door, Jamie’s just been effectively holding court, introducing himself to Roy’s teammates, waving to a couple of the WAGs, holding down conversation at their table.

It’s like he doesn’t even give a shit that they kissed at all.

He probably doesn’t, Roy forces himself to think as he downs a sip of water. He didn’t care in the limo.

And, for Jamie, it’s a job, after all. Roy’s the weird one for caring. He’s kissed plenty of people, and never really cared about it, not the way he is now, like how a thirteen year old girl would diary about her first kiss from a twat she fancies.

Not that Roy fancies Jamie, of course.

He’s just not used to kissing people anymore, is all. Roy hasn’t kissed anyone since Keeley, hasn’t had a stable, year-plus relationship since before that, and that one ended with his Rolex and pants stolen and sold on fucking eBay, anyway.

Jamie, though, is certainly used to it. Coming from LCA, where he was kissing and blowing anyone who came within arm’s length, this is probably nothing. Definitely nothing, given how Jamie has been entirely unaffected.

Roy needs to work on this shit, as soon as he can date again and the contract is up. Can’t be going around like a lovesick puppy after some fan who flashes her tits. Which, really, is what Roy is doing here.

Fucking depressing.

Roy can’t linger on that, though, before Keeley is landing a swift kick to his shin with her gold high heel.

“Fucking hell, Keels, I need that leg.”

“Roy, do you want to get another round?” she asks, too loudly, berry lipstick smile strained so slightly that even Roy can barely tell. She grabs his wrist and squeezes, fucking hard. It’s not an offer, but a request.

“Er- yeah, fine.” Roy stands awkwardly, too fast, nearly knocking his fucking chair over.

“Babe?” Jamie asks when he does, craning his neck to look up at Roy. This angle is fucking overwhelming; his eyelashes look even fucking longer, the highlight on his cheeks glittering brighter.

The fucking babe, too, has Roy’s throat going fucking dry. How the fuck is Jamie able to do this so casually? Doesn’t it make him feel prickly and hot and sick the way it makes Roy? All the fucking lying, awkward small talk, and awful choreography of pretend dating seems like it means fucking nothing to him. It would be impressive if Roy didn’t feel so woefully out of his depth. No one would ever fucking believe him that he’s madly in love with Jamie. He’s fucked.

“We’re going to get another round,” Keeley supplies helpfully over Roy’s shoulder.

Jamie quirks a half smile and grabs Roy’s hand, squeezing it. His grip is just as warm and soft as earlier, and Roy hates that it still feels so . . . much.

“Grab me a fizzy water?” Jamie asks, rubbing Roy’s thumb with his own. His eyes look fucking soft, like they’re melting, and Roy really, really fucking needs that drink now, even if it’s just going to be a tonic water that he chugs in an attempt to stave off a bout of nausea.

“‘Course,” Roy grunts, squeezing Jamie’s fingers and retracting his hand before Jamie can do anything else that makes him feel as buzzy as his fucking lips.

He doesn’t quite have a chance to do much else, anyway, with how Keeley has grabbed his wrist and is tugging him firmly toward the bar.

She’s in a gown made of something shiny, silk or satin, maybe, in a deep teal, with gold detailing all across it. It’s tight across her tits and hips before flowing loose around her legs, covering what must be incredibly tall heels if the way she comes all the way up to Roy’s eyebrows is any indication. Her hands and neck and ears are laden with gold jewellery, her hair tumbling around her shoulders in soft curls, her lips brushed with a berry-coloured lipstick.

If this were a year ago, shit, even six months ago, Roy’s throat would be dry, his palms sweating, his dick half-hard. As is, though, Roy finds his nervous system far more under control than it’s been for the rest of the evening, even with the none-too-gentle grip on his wrist. Maybe it’s a factor of time since his and Keeley's breakup, or maybe it’s just that Roy has far more important shit to be worried about than Keeley’s looks. Namely, being bet on like a show pony.

Either way, Roy doesn’t even pause to inhale the sweet vanilla of her perfume before asking, “Fuck is it?”

Keeley rolls her eyes and continues dragging him until they reach the bar. There’s a few other people hanging around, but one glare from Keeley, and everyone except the bartender goes back to their seats. Roy would be impressed if he wasn’t slightly terrified.

“One Ramos Gin Fizz, a fizzy water, and a tonic water, please,” Keeley says to the bartender. Roy is just beginning to think about the implications of that fact that Keeley still remembers he likes tonic water when she turns her attention to him.

“What the fuck are you doing, Roy?” she says tartly, tapping teal nails on the rich wood of the bar.

“Getting dragged to the bar by my ex,” Roy replies, just as sharp.

She rolls unimpressed eyes. “With Jamie, you idiot.”

“What? You want us to fuck in public now?”

Keeley lifts a hand to her forehead like she’s going to rub at her temples, but she must remember her carefully styled hair and lets it fall. “I want you to act like a couple. You know, given that I’m sticking out my neck, credibility-wise, for this, if anyone finds out.”

“We did the carpet together. We sat together. He fucking ate my dessert. What more do you want?”

“You haven’t said three fucking words to him all evening.”

Roy swallows and watches the bartender start to shake Keeley’s drink. “He’s been chatting people up.” It’s true – he and Isaac had a good twenty minute conversation about Isaac’s Rolo ad, for fuck’s sake. Apparently, Jamie’s mum thinks it’s “wank-worthy,” which is something Roy never, ever wanted to know.

“Because you’re staring at the fucking tablecloth the whole night. Jamie can’t do this all by himself, you know.”

“He’s going to buy me at the auction. Isn’t that enough?”

Keeley shakes her head, earrings shaking with a soft jangle. “You’re going to be all over Richmond’s socials tonight. Or in the background of everyone else’s. You can’t be looking like you’re on a shitty blind date at a funeral, Roy-o.”

Roy wants to argue the ridiculousness of that situation, but Keeley’s expression brooks no argument.

“Fuck you want, then? Me to braid his hair or some shit?”

“To start. Put your arm on the back of the chair. Tell him he looks pretty. Shit, Roy, I don’t know, give him a cheeky little bum pat or something. Make it look less like you’re waiting to be executed.”

“Isn’t that sexual assault?”

The bartender chooses then to put their drinks down, and Roy cringes at whatever the fuck he overheard and plans to run to the press with.

“‘Physical contact as appropriate,’ babe. This is more than appropriate. Now carry your boyfriend’s drink and kiss him when you hand it to him, or we’ll find out just how far I can jam the heel of this Louboutin into your arse.”

Roy doesn’t kiss him when he puts Jamie’s drink down, but he does squeeze the back of Jamie’s neck when he does. It could be a simple, friendly gesture, one he’d do for a teammate in a past life, but Jamie, of course, reacts perfectly and scooches his chair closer to Roy when he sits down, close enough that the outsides of their thighs are brushing.

It’s through two layers of trousers, of course, but Roy swears he can feel the heat and muscle of Jamie’s leg, anyway.

“Isaac here was just telling me about the auction,” Jamie informs Roy, smirking. “So? What do you have planned for our romantic evening?”

Roy carefully resists the urge to glance at Keeley, who wrote the blurb for him. How the fuck is he supposed to be fucked to remember that when he’s having to spend every spare second of his life that he isn’t sleeping or being shit at training or faffing about with Jamie? When Keeley’s forcing him to remember what and where and how to touch him?

Thank fuck, though, because Keeley chimes in. “They’re not allowed to say until the auction starts. Two years ago, Cockburn said he was going to take the winner on an all expenses paid BDSM holiday to Mallorca. He was near the end, and no one bid on anyone else the entire time.”

Jamie snorts. “That sounds fucking bril. Well, Roy? A nice little sex holiday for us, then?”

Jamie turns to face Roy, one hand planting on Roy’s thigh. It’s nowhere near his crotch, but Roy swallows drily anyway. Jamie’s far too close for comfort, and Roy’s lips still haven’t fucking stopped buzzing. He should’ve just gotten a water instead of something fizzy. Shit.

“Why make you pay for something we already have planned?” Roy replies in a tone he hopes is casual and flirty.

From the way Jamie’s eyes widen just a hair, it’s neither.

Still, he doesn’t keep up the game of chicken, just turning back to the table as a whole. “No one take that as permission to bid on my boyfriend, please.”

Boyfriend. Fucking hell.

It’s all Roy can do to just keep up appearances the rest of the meal. He doesn’t say much more than he has been, but he slings an arm around the back of Jamie’s chair, squeezing his shoulder when he says something funny, tugging at the tiny, soft cowlick at the back of Jamie’s head when he nods.

Roy’s insides feel fucking soupy, like the godforsaken time he took a holiday to Miami and nearly sweated all his fucking chest hair off. But Jamie’s hand stays on Roy’s thigh, solid and static. Roy thinks it might be the only thing keeping him from sinking to the fucking floor.

It only gets worse when the auction starts. Ms. Welton is giving the same boring, bullshit platitudes and thanks, which is when Jamie shifts. His back was to the stage at the round tables, and he swings his legs to the side of his chair to see.

Which would be fine, except then he leans back against Roy’s side, pressing his whole weight into Roy. Roy can feel the entire line of him, hot and cologned and far, far too close for comfort.

“This okay?” Jamie asks, craning his neck back to look up at Roy.

He’s so fucking close. Roy can feel his every fucking breath, can smell the strawberry scent of his hair products. Roy can count every individual one of Jamie’s overlong, mascara-ed eyelashes.

Roy wants to tell him to sit up. Tell him he’s going to wrinkle Roy’s suit or some bullshit. But Keeley’s words (and the idea of her heel in his bunghole) have him just nodding stiffly.

Jamie smiles, content, and turns his attention back to the stage, relaxing against Roy’s side. Roy’s so fucking tense, jaw clenched, hardly daring to breathe, that he’s sure his fucking back is going to hurt tomorrow.

It’s almost a relief when Ms. Welton calls him up for his turn at the auction. Fucking hell.

Roy feels his palms sweating as he walks up to the stage, even as he’s done this before, even as much as he doesn’t give a shit. In past years, he’d take some rich widow for ice cream, maybe a drink, before heading home and taking a boiling shower, scrubbing himself pink in an attempt to feel more like a footballer and less like an asset on a tax form.

This should be nothing. At least he knows who he’s going home with tonight.

“Can we get a round of applause for our incredible captain?” Ms. Welton asks once Roy gets up there.

Roy almost wants to correct her under the light clapping, say that he’s not the captain, not really, but Jamie chooses then to fucking whoop. His wide fucking grin makes his eyes crinkle, his sharp teeth glint. Even from fifty feet away, he’s making Roy’s cheeks colour, his jaw clench. Fuck. It’s a wonder he didn’t win his season of LCA.

Roy swallows and shifts. Keeley'd picked his date or whatever the fuck this year -- she said he didn't have the brain for it. It was nice to not worry about it, but standing here with no idea what Ms. Welton will say is making his head pound.

“Roy will be treating the lucky lady - or gentleman-” Ms. Welton says this with a purposeful wink at Jamie. Fucking hell. “-to a family holiday to Marbella, complete with a private beach.”

Roy feels his breath catch. He doesn’t do that shit. He doesn’t let fans into his life, or his “family.” He certainly doesn’t fucking go on holiday with them. That type of date is for fucking partners and partners only. Keeley should know that. Keeley must know that.

Roy sets his jaw, set to glare daggers at her, but she’s just fucking smiling demurely, sipping her drink.

Because, Roy realises, she did this on fucking purpose. To make it fucking real. Because Roy wasn’t selling it well enough. Because she knows he actually enjoys holidays with his partner, when they’re someone he enjoys. Because it’s almost certainly going to make at least an offhand mention in a press release for the gala, wherein most players auction off awkward picnics and half-arsed winery tours.

This is far more intimate. 

“Let’s start the bidding at two thousand, shall we?”

A few people, including the old bird Cheryl, this year in a pink slip gown, raise their paddle. Fucking hell.

“Alright,” Ms. Welton says with a pleased smile, like she figured Roy wouldn’t sell at all. She’s probably not wrong. The reserves rarely garner more than two thousand apiece, and Roy being a living relic doesn’t matter too much for the fame-hopping divorcees who bid on this thing.

“Do I hear two thousand five hundred?”

Jamie raises his paddle this time, eyes skimming over Roy, index finger tapping on his dimpled chin in a poor imitation of a bidder appraising a prize antique. It would be funny if it weren’t making Roy a bit sick.

“Three thousand?”

One paddle drops out, even as half a dozen more stay up.

“Four?”

“Five thousand!” Cheryl cries, eyeing Jamie with a murderous glare. A few more people sheepishly put down their paddle.

“Six,” Jamie calls out with a fucking wink for Roy. Another two drop out.

“Alright, six,” Ms. Welton says happily, even as her smile strains.

“Eight,” Cheryl declares before Ms. Welton can continue. The last paddle not held by Cheryl or Jamie is slowly lowered.

Jamie swallows, working his jaw like he's considering if it's worth it. Milking Roy’s misery, the fucking prick.

“Eight thousand going once,” Rebecca says, eyes darting between Roy and Jamie. “Twice. Th-”

“Ten thousand pounds!” Jamie’s standing now, one hand holding the paddle, the other on his hip, like an ex objecting at someone’s wedding. It’s fucking embarrassing, and Roy almost wants to cover his face, a child scared of a shadow.

“Twelve,” Cheryl says, toddling to her feet as well.

“Fifteen.” Jamie levels a wink at Roy, and Roy resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Sixteen,” Cheryl counters, albeit slowly.

“Twenty five.” Jamie says it sternly, setting his jaw, almost like he’s suddenly pissed Cheryl is even bothering standing between him and his man.

“Fuck,” Ms. Welton breathes to Roy, carefully angled away from the mic.

Roy nods in agreement. It’s more than most anyone has gone for; even Isaac only got twenty three. It’s fucking stupid. Roy’s supposedly dating the bastard, anyway. There’s no reason to blow a fucking shit car’s worth of Jamie’s own fucking money on this.

For the Children, indeed.

“Twenty five going once, twice, sold to Jamie Tartt. Congratulations,” Ms. Welton says in one breath, patting Roy on the shoulder in a dual signal of thanks for doing this bullshit and dismissal.

Roy stalks off the stage with stiff legs. His heart is pounding, and he doesn’t know why. It’s almost like he’s drifting through cement with how much effort it takes to get back to his seat.

Jamie’s still fucking standing, paddle in one hand, the other wrapping around Roy’s waist without preamble as soon as Roy gets back to his seat.

“You looked gorgeous up there,” Jamie tells him, stepping into his space, even as he’s speaking loud enough for the photographers peppered around the event to hear him. His breath fans over Roy’s nose, smelling of the fucking raspberry mousse. “Could fucking kiss you right now.”

Then Roy does something probably a bit stupid.

Maybe it’s the relief of not having to worry about the auction anymore, or the sick dread from watching Jamie shell out twenty five thousand quid for no fucking reason, or Keeley’s words, still ringing in Roy’s ears.

Whatever the fuck it is, Roy plants his own hands on Jamie’s thick waist and bends down the barest inch to push their lips together.

Jamie’s mouth is just as lush and pliant as it was on the red carpet, albeit tasting more of raspberry now. Jamie is less aggressive this time, too, more just parting his lips and letting Roy gently pull the bottom one between his teeth. Even through his beard, Roy can feel the scrape of Jamie’s five o’clock shadow, the way the dimple of his chin brushes Roy’s jaw.

Roy almost wants to notch his thumb there, just rest it there, feeling Jamie close and strong and warm. So fucking insufferably warm. He’d probably do it if they were really together, if Jamie was more than a hot model doing Keeley a favour and hoping to raise his profile.

As it is, Roy carefully pulls back, pretending he isn’t breathing hard, hands still clutching Jamie’s waist. Despite the lines of the suit and carefully pressed shirt, Roy can feel the muscle there, the power writ through every line of Jamie’s being. Vanity muscles, sure, but muscles all the same.

“Fucking finally,” Jamie says quietly, so quietly that Roy knows it’s private, Jamie the colleague and not Jamie the fake boyfriend. It’s meant for Roy, not for the media.

Roy wants to ask for clarification, but Jamie’s pulling away already, smug smile tugging over his features.

The rest of the night, through awkward dances Roy sits out while claiming knee pain, the quiet ride back to his house in the back of an Uber, the silent shower Roy takes, he thinks about it. 

Finally. Finally.

Chapter Text

“The fuck do you mean?” Roy asks through gritted teeth, squeezing his phone hard enough that he can hear it creaking a bit.

“Sorry, sir,” the man on the other end says. Roy can tell just from his voice that he’s sweating. Good. “The brake system is just completely bollocked. Replacing it would cost more than the car’s worth.”

“I brought it in because it wouldn’t start. How the fuck does that mean the brakes are fucked?” Roy growls. He’s alone in the dressing room, long after training’s finished. He’s showered and put on pants, but that’s all he could manage before this fucking twat called him.

Roy’d been ready to leave, had stayed for an extra two fucking hours for a physio appointment, but apparently has no fucking way to get home without another fucking Uber.

“Sorry, sir,” the man repeats.

“How the fuck am I supposed to babysit my niece today?” Roy won’t take an Uber to Rachel’s house – too much risk of the driver snapping a cheeky selfie or using a dashcam and selling it to the paps.

“We have a rental service we could offer-”

“So you can shove me in a fucking Toyota and call it done. Fuck, no.”

“Mr. Kent, ple-”

Roy jabs the End Call button, barely resisting the urge to chuck his phone across the fucking dressing room, just to watch it shatter. Fucking idiot knobheads. The fucking brake pads are probably just worn out, and they just want to stiff him.

“Fuck!” Roy grunts, punching the wall next to his cubby.

“Alright?”

Roy whirls around, phone aimed like a fucking projectile, but it’s just fucking Jamie yet again. It’s the first time Roy’s seen him since the gala, but Roy’s far too pissed to even care, especially when Jamie looks like a walking advert for fucked male fashion in a mint green poncho-looking thing over white jeans and matching mint trainers, hair brushed carefully away from his face. Fucking twat.

“Fuck you want?” Roy asks, not lowering his phone just yet.

“Was just having a cuppa with Higgins. Heard yelling.” Jamie shrugs innocently and sits on the bench across from Roy, crossing one thick thigh over the other.

“Fuck you having a cuppa with Higgins for?”

Jamie’s mouth quirks a little before he schools it away. “Cat-sitting for him next week, aren’t I? For the away in Bournemouth. He was just telling me how to give Catti LaBelle her medicine.”

“Catti LaBelle?”

“She’s a little tabby. Rescue. Cutest thing on three legs, to be honest. Now, are you going to brain me with your mobile, or do you want to put that away?”

Roy, not quite sheepishly, glances up at his phone that he’s still holding up like a projectile before placing it on the bench beside him.

“So,” Jamie asks, blowing a stray piece of hair out of his face. “Why’re you having a strop in your pants? Love the colour, by the way.”

Roy resists the urge to cover his burgundy-clothed crotch, and instead just crosses his arms over his bare chest, doing his best to look intimidating and serious, rather than a man having a screaming match with a mechanic’s teenage office scut in his fucking underwear. Jamie is grinning beatifically, so he’s pretty sure he’s failing.

“Look, I don’t have fucking time to be your fake fucking boyfriend right now. No one’s here to see-” Roy sweeps his arm around the dressing room like it isn’t obvious “-my car is fucking totaled, and I’m running late to babysit my fucking niece.”

“Who’s driving you?” Jamie asks, shifting so he’s sitting cross-legged, absolutely swamped by the ridiculous fucking poncho. It makes him look small, non-threatening, which just makes Roy’s jaw clench tighter.

“The fuck?”

“To babysit your niece, I mean. If your car is totaled.”

“Fucking Uber,” Roy spits, grabbing a T-shirt from his cubby and yanking it over his head. It fucking smells, but Roy can’t bring himself to care.

Jamie screws his face up, pouting.

“Fuck are you doing?”

“Empathizing. You seem stressed.”

Roy barely resists the powerful urge to pick his phone back up and launch it at Jamie’s fucking eye. He settles for buttoning his trousers as ragefully as possible.

“I could drive you, if you’d like,” Jamie muses, looking at his nails in an idiotic display of nonchalance. They’re orange today. “Not doing anything after this.”

Roy scoffs and shakes out a pair of jeans. “Jamie Tartt doesn’t have evening plans? World must be coming to a fucking end.”

Jamie’s eyebrows narrow a bit. “No, I don’t have plans on a fucking Thursday night in March. Now do you want a ride or not?”

“I’m not getting papped with my fucking niece.”

Jamie crosses his arms over his chest. With the poncho, he looks like a peeved Andes explorer.

“We’re not gonna get papped. I’m trying to do you a fucking favour, man. As your fr- colleague.”

“What do you want in return?”

Jamie scoffs. “Has no one ever done you a favour, Roy? That’s fucking sad.” He stands up and cuffs Roy gently on the shoulder. “C’mon, man, I’ll even stop at a drive-thru if you’re good.”

Roy ought to say no. He’s not about to lie to Phoebe and Rachel more than he has no. In fact, the refusal on the tip of his tongue before his phone buzzes with a text from Rachel.

Traffic is utter fucking shit, FYI

Fucking fuck.

“Fine,” Roy grunts. “But no fucking Stormzy in the car.”

Jamie fucking beams, the twat. “Only Aitch, then?”

“No,” Roy grunts, shrugging on his leather jacket.

“Spice Girls?”

“Fuck, no. What are you, thirteen?”

“You don’t like the Spice Girls? Are you fucking deaf, mate?”

“I just have taste. Now go, before my sister calls the authorities for child abandonment.”

“Sound.” Jamie pushes the door open behind him and starts walking backwards down the hall at a fast enough clip that Roy, walking forward, can barely keep up. Roy half-hopes Jamie bangs his head into a bulletin or something, just to teach him to fucking shut it once in a while.

“So, what do you listen to?” Jamie asks as he walks. “Death metal? Tuvan throat singing?”

“Throat?”

“If you ask nicely.” Jamie sticks his tongue out like the child he is. Roy wants to pinch it, just to get him to keep his fucking mouth shut, but even taking half a step forward into Jamie’s space has the smell of his fucking shampoo washing over Roy again, and he’s suddenly back at the gala.

Jamie pressed to his chest, lips on his. Soft and sweet and searching. Hands gripping his waist.

It’s all Roy can do to brush past Jamie’s shoulder and shove open the door to the carpark.

“Don’t worry. I won’t make no inappropriate jokes around Phoebe. I’ll be a saint, swear down,” Jamie says, fucking running backwards to catch up with Roy. He has better form than some of the lads running those drills. Probably faster than Roy during them, too.

Christ, he’s pathetic.

“She’s heard worse,” Roy grunts.

“She does have you for an uncle, I guess.”

Roy raises an unimpressed eyebrow, but Jamie doesn’t even glance at him in favour of unlocking his Aston Martin and sliding into the front seat. There’s a new air freshener wrapped around the rearview mirror: Black Ice. It smells like Lynx mixed with baby urine.

“We’re going to my sister’s. Take a left out of the carpark,” Roy says when he gets in instead of any more small talk.

Jamie nods absently and begins to back out of the spot, craning his neck to look behind him.

An arm comes around to touch the back of Roy’s seat, shoving Jamie’s fucking scent all over him. It’s clean laundry and shampoo and the ever-present Lynx, yeah, but there’s something under it that smells like man. Not in the dressing room sense, but like when you’re being held by a boyfriend late at night, after a shower. All clean skin and warmth.

It nearly sets Roy’s lips buzzing yet a-fucking-gain before Jamie is thankfully pulling his arm back into his own space and heading toward the exit.

“So, what’s Phoebe like?” Jamie asks as he drives. “Other than a terror, I mean.”

Roy feels his stomach clench at the memory of how fucking pink he went during that conversation in the coffee shop. It takes real effort to grit out, “Fucking smart. Loves animals. Hates sprouts.”

Jamie nods contemplatively as if Roy hasn’t given the most generic description of a seven-year old possible. “Animals, huh?” he says amiably.

“Wants to be a veterinarian for wild animals. Make a right up here, by the way.”

Jamie dutifully follows Roy’s instructions before adding, “No future lioness, then?”

“She’s got the skills for it. Just doesn’t care that much. Last match, she started making fucking daisy chains in the middle of the pitch.”

Jamie laughs through his nose. “Used to do that, too. Made a whole crown once.”

“Did you win the match?”

Jamie scoffs. “No. Looked right fucking fit, though.”

Roy rolls his eyes, even though Jamie can’t see. The tension in his sternum feels looser than it did in the dressing room; Jamie must have used that LCA money for decent ergonomic seats. “Left here, by the way.”

Jamie nods and turns on his signal. “Did you always want to be a footballer?”

Roy snorts. “Fuck, no. Wanted to be a marine biologist until I was eight.”

“How’d you wind up here, then?”

Roy feels his mouth pinch closed. When Keeley asked him that, he fucking went to the Dog Track for two hours before dawn on a Sunday. Didn’t even train, just sat on the weight bench and felt vaguely ill. Now, though, like Jamie’s got a gun to his head or something, Roy finds the words sliding off his tongue, easy as anything.

“My mum got laid off right after my sister was born. Couldn’t find another fucking job for the life of her. Granddad had just gotten diagnosed with colon cancer, and Sunderland came calling. Made sense. One less mouth to feed. One less person in a one-bedroom flat with an infant and my grandparents.”

“Shit,” Jamie says quietly, eyes flicking over to Roy as much as driving will allow. Roy braces himself for them to be wet with tears or drippy with sympathy, but they seem carefully neutral. Good. “That’s shit, mate.”

Roy shrugs. “Worked out, innit?”

Jamie shrugs and drives in silence, the only sound whatever shit rapper Jamie has on.

And Roy would be quite fucking content with that, but whatever bullshit manners his mum or Keeley or whomever managed to instill in him niggle at the back of his brain.

“And you? Always wanted to be a reality star?”

Jamie snorts. It should be an ugly sound, but coming from his fucking face, it’s endearing. No fucking wonder he’s been able to become famous just for fucking looking at cameras.

“Wanted to be a footballer, actually,” Jamie says, lips barely quirked up. “Weren’t too bad, either, to be honest.”

“How’d you end up making daisy chains on the pitch, then?”

Jamie’s mouth, ever-moving, goes carefully still, set in a line. “Dad died. Didn’t seem so fun anymore.”

Roy, in quite possibly the worst way to react to that news, nods. “Fuck, Jamie. That’s shit.”

Jamie shakes his head, honey blond curls bouncing. “Were a blessing, mate. Guy was a right fucking twat. Besides, I’m much better with my mouth than my feet.” Jamie sticks his tongue between his teeth, clearly dismissing the conversation. Roy would be worried about that, if Jamie was really his partner, or was here for any reason other than sponsorship deals.

As it is, they’re only about a kilometre away from Rachel’s house, so Roy just stays silent except for directing Jamie into the front drive. It’s a nice enough place; Rachel refuses to take a single fucking pound of Roy’s money, claims that him putting her through medical school was more than enough. Bullshit in Roy’s opinion.

If she let him, he’d hire her a gardener to save her dying rosebushes, since she’s hardly home enough to tend to them herself. Hire Phoebe a proper nanny instead of a decrepit footballer who uses the word “cunt” around Phoebe at least once a day. Buy them both a nicer property than this. A doctor’s income is nothing to sneeze at, of course, has them in fucking Richmond, but Roy would buy her a fucking estate, with a guest house for her shit of an ex-husband and a hundred acres for Phoebe to look at bugs or whatever the fuck she likes to do.

They can’t really take it in, though, since Rachel is running out of the house and over to the car.

Her dark hair, like Roy’s own if he grew it waist length and sprung for a biweekly silk press, is gathered into a French braid. Her scrubs have Winny-the-Pooh on them today.

“Roy,” she complains as Roy climbs from the car. His knee is fucking aching from Jamie’s tiny fucking car. “I can’t keep waiting for you to get here. Lee’s going to skewer my arse with a rusty fork if I’m late again.”

“Sorry,” Roy mutters. “My fucking car is fucked.”

“Fucking finally,” she sighs, pulling him in for a quick hug. “That thing is ugly as sin.”

“I like it, actually. Sort of like a bougie goth dad car, innit?” Jamie chimes in behind them.

Rachel’s face splits into a wide, fascinated grin, her eyes going fucking huge. Roy’s not sure he’s seen her this comically excited since the frog she dissected at the science camp Roy sent her to with his first cheque from his first contract.

“Holy fucking shit. Holy shit.” Rachel fully shoves Roy to the side, hard enough that he fucking stumbles.

“Oi,” Roy grunts. “Have to use those fucking legs, yeah?”

“Fuck off,” Rachel breathes over her shoulder, eyes narrowed venomously. That all melts away instantly, though, as she walks over to Jamie. “Hi. I’m Rachel. Roy’s sister. The better Kent. The only one with a medical degree, by the way.”

“Jamie.” They exchange a vigorous handshake, Jamie’s lips spread into a pleased grin that he makes sure to angle over Rachel’s shoulder at Roy. Christ.

“Don’t you need to get to work?” Roy demands more than asks.

“Big fan. Massive fucking fan,” Rachel says, ignoring him entirely. She’s shaking Jamie’s hand with both of hers now, thin, long fingers wrapped around Jamie’s fist. Annoyed heat blooms behind Roy’s sternum.

“Thanks,” Jamie says brightly as fucking ever.

“Your season of LCA is absolutely perfect. Amy can go fuck herself for voting you off. You and Denise were fucking soulmates.”

Jamie laughs, his fucking nose crinkling. “Tell that to the rest of the world, babe. Was having a wee the other day, and this fucker at the urinal starts chewing me out.”

Jamie’s casual use of “babe” shouldn’t bother Roy. Keeley calls him that all the time, and there’s nothing there anymore. Still, a flare burns inside his chest at the idea that Jamie is trying to come onto his fucking sister. Talk about a fucked way to ruin the contract and, with it, Roy’s career.

“Idiots,” Rachel says. “Absolute fucking dunces, the lot of them.”

They’ve stopped shaking hands, but Rachel still hasn’t relinquished her grip on Jamie’s fingers.

“Rachel, there could be someone dying of a heart attack right now because you’re skiving off work.”

“Ignore him,” Rachel says to Jamie conspiratorially. “He’s been a fucking prick since before the Queen was born. Now, you have to tell me, how did you two meet?”

Fucking hell.

Jamie’s pleased as fucking punch, cheeks a happy pink. If Roy knew how fucking excited parasocial attention made the twat, he would have physically shoved Keeley the first time she suggested his name.

“Mutual friend. Keeley, actually.”

Rachel looks over her shoulder at Roy, eyes comically wide. “As in Roy’s ex? Really?”

Jamie shrugs in a poor imitation of sheepishness. His eyes wander to Roy, too, lit from within with a sweet, gentle longing. Looking like that, it’s no fucking wonder Rachel fancies him so much.

Just the half-second glance Jamie spares him has Roy’s annoyance dripping away from him in lazy rivulets.

“Yeah,” Jamie says, turning his attention back to Rachel. “We’re old friends, and she thought Roy and I would get on well. Nailed it, huh?”

Rachel gives Jamie her winningest smile, the grin she tried to use on their mum to get her a horse for her twelfth birthday. “Seems like it. Shit, if I’d known you were dropping by, I’d have called out. We have to get a cuppa sometime.”

“Please,” Jamie says generously, patting her shoulder. “I need to hear every single story you have about Roy naked in the bath.”

Jamie slips Roy a cheeky wink, and Roy feels like fucking puking. It’s a mercy when Rachel checks a text on her watch and says, “Fucking shit, I really fucking need to go. Have fun with Pheebs, okay? Lovely to meet you.”

She squeezes Jamie in a quick half-hug, plants a wet kiss on Roy’s cheek, and loads into her Range Rover. “Don’t fuck this, Roy,” she calls out the window as she backs down the drive. “I like this one!”

Jamie’s fucking cackling as soon as she’s out of sight, doubled over and hands clutching his belly. “Fucking hell, Roy,” he gasps between giggles. “You l-look like you shat yourself.”

Roy tries to glower at Jamie, but the fucker just laughs harder, slapping his knee like a cartoon character from the 1930s.

“T-the diarrhoea is running down your leg now.” Jamie hiccoughs with laughter at his own fucking joke, and Roy resists the urge to slap him on the back, ostensibly to help him get his breath back.

“You’re a fucking prick, you know that?”

Jamie sobers a bit at that, even though his eyes are fucking shiny with laughter-induced tears. “For making a good impression on your sister?”

“No, you bellend. For fucking flirting with my fucking sister.”

Jamie looses another giggle at that. “I weren’t flirting, mate. That’s just how normal people react to my charm.”

“Fucking arrogant knobhead,” Roy mutters.

Jamie jokingly salutes. “Well, that made my fucking day. See you at the match, then?”

Roy would love to nod and agree, but he can’t. “No. If Rachel’s met you and you haven’t met Phoebe, she’ll know something’s weird.”

Jamie frowns. “Can’t just be a good Samaritan? Driving my boyfriend around?”

Roy feels the tips of his ears going warm, and he wants to smash his forehead into the concrete drive. “Most of my partners would meet Phoebe by this point,” he tries to explain.

“We could just say I were busy or something.”

“She won’t buy it.”

“Why?” Jamie asks, annoyed now, swinging his keys around his index finger.

Fuck, the flush is hitting the back of Roy’s neck now. “She just won’t,” he repeats.

“We could say I had, like, a urologist appointment. Wouldn’t put that shit on my story. It’ll be fine.”

“Fuck,” Roy groans, pinching the bridge of his nose like that’ll abate his sudden fucking headache. He shouldn’t have to fucking say this to Jamie, he fucking would rather run into traffic, but the fuck is he supposed to do?

“Mate?”

“Look,” Roy sighs, “I tend to be fucking clingy, okay? So if Rachel meets you and Phoebe doesn’t, she’ll take it as a red flag. Now will you please just go the fuck inside and watch Phoebe with me? You just need to sit there and not make a mess of anything. I’m making spag bol for dinner.”

Jamie goes suddenly still before nodding. “Yeah, mate, sure. Sorry.”

“Fuck off, you’re fucking fine. Now, c’mon, we need to get inside before Phoebe burns down the shed again,” Roy says, going to the front door. It’s painted a soft pink at Phoebe’s request.

“‘Again?’” Jamie says excitedly, chasing after Roy and locking the car over his shoulder. “You have to tell me more.”

“No. She’s embarrassed about it. Fuck off,” Roy mutters, shoving his key in the lock.

“Aw, c’mon, Roy. Please?”

“Fuck, no. Now try to act like a fucking adult, please.”

Jamie mimes zipping his lips shut and throwing the key behind him, as if that makes him seem any more mature.

Roy just fixes him with a glare that once made Richard actually whimper and pushes the door open. The front hall is messy, Phoebe’s toys and half-abandoned art projects and dress-up clothes scattered around in piles. Roy needs to fucking convince Rachel to let him get her a housekeeper. Even part-time would help.

Jamie doesn’t seem bothered by the mess at all, though, just stepping past Roy and toeing off his trainers.

“Pheebs?” Roy calls into the house.

“Just a second, Uncle Roy! I need to put in my vampire teeth!” she yells back from somewhere upstairs.

“Vampire teeth?” Jamie mouths at Roy.

Roy just shrugs, so Jamie heads over to the wall, where several of Phoebe’s latest drawings are Blu-Tacked to the wall at perfect seven-year-old height.

“Your sister a fan of the female form, then?” Jamie asks, gesturing to the collage of tits.

“Nope. Phoebe. Been in a tits phase the last few months.”

Jamie snorts and crouches down to study them properly, as if he’s in a fucking art museum and not staring at a child’s far-too-early exploration of femininity.

“These ain’t half-bad, you know?” Jamie comments. He taps a pair drawn in white crayon on purple construction paper. “Nipples on this one look dead natural.”

“Please don’t comment on my niece’s knowledge of tits. She doesn’t need any more fucking encouragement.”

Jamie stands back up, hands held in front of him like he’s proving he’s unarmed. Fucking twat. Roy can’t ream him out for being an overdramatic prick, though, because Phoebe is tromping downstairs, wearing a bright green swimsuit, scales drawn on her cheeks with either Magic Marker or Rachel’s eyeshadow.

“Uncle Roy, where is your crown?” Phoebe asks when she gets downstairs, slightly by the yellow fangs she’s shoved into her mouth. “You said we’d play Princess and the Dragon today.”

“Yeah, Uncle Roy,” Jamie jumps in, smiling devilishly. “Very irresponsible of you, in my opinion.”

Phoebe whirls around, blonde pigtails whipping behind her.

“Uncle Roy,” Phoebe says seriously, looking Jamie over carefully. For just a moment, Roy’s half worried he’s fucked this, that she’s scared of Jamie between his giant poncho and neon yellow socks, before she adds sagely, “Jamie from Lust Conquers All is here.”

Roy’s throat goes oddly tight when he replies, “Yeah. Say hi.”

Jamie must have a much-younger sibling, an illegitimate child, or just be incredibly used to seven-year-old fans ogling him, because he kneels down to Phoebe’s height and sticks out a hand. His poncho makes him look more like a child playing dress-up than Phoebe does, perhaps for a shitty Jedi costume, but at least he looks approachable.

“Hey,” Jamie says lightly. “You must be Phoebe. Your Uncle Roy’s told me a lot about you.”

Phoebe takes his hand in her own, much smaller one, and gives it a firm pump before dropping it. Much more appropriate than whatever the fuck Rachel was doing in the drive, in Roy’s opinion.

“That makes sense,” Phoebe says confidently. “He doesn’t have much going on besides me and football.”

Jamie’s lips quirk, and Roy can see a quip on the tip of his tongue, but Jamie schools it once he catches Roy glaring at him.

“Good to know,” Jamie just says evenly. “Now, what’s this I hear about Princess and the Dragon?”

Phoebe grins in a manner that, even in her round-cheeked, seven-year-old face, looks fucking devilish. “I have an extra set of teeth you can borrow if you want.”

Jamie looks straight at Roy over Phoebe’s head when he smirks and replies, “Mint.”

Jamie takes to Princess and the Dragon surprisingly well. He turned down the vampire teeth, but agreed to lift Phoebe over his head so they could launch a dual attack on the sofa comprising Princess Uncle Roy's prison. Didn’t even laugh when Phoebe affixed Roy’s plastic crown to his head.

By the time Roy has to excuse himself to go start dinner, Jamie and Phoebe are getting on thicker than thieves. Thicker than fucking high-class armed robbers.

Rachel’s kitchen opens into the den, so Roy has a decent view of them as he methodically chops the onions. Phoebe has a makeup tutorial going on the telly, muted, and Jamie is seated on the floor while Phoebe follows it on him with careful precision. Rachel hardly wears makeup, but Roy’s going to have to get her a Sephora gift card to compensate for the utter havoc Phoebe’s wreaking.

Roy could tell her to stop, to be neater, but who fucking cares? She’s safe, she’s having fun, and there’s something about watching her smear blush over Jamie’s high cheekbones that tickles a warm spot deep in Roy’ belly. If this were real, if Jamie was really Roy’s beautiful, caring boyfriend, taking care of Roy’s niece with an ease and joy that Roy tends to equate with unlikely animal friendships, Roy’s heart would be melting into his shoes.

As it is, any warmth he feels is due solely to the fact that she’s being taken care of and Roy can concentrate on cooking. She’s constantly underfoot when Roy cooks, anyway, so of course it’s nice to have her occupied.

And the careful way he’s watching them is just being a good uncle, too, keeping an eye on his niece while she plays with a virtual stranger and all. It’s basic common sense to watch.

“Do you like purple or pink better?” Phoebe asks, looking over the palette in her lap.

Jamie hums, considering. “Which do you think would make me prettier?”

“Probably purple,” Phoebe muses. “You have a lot of gold in your complexion.”

Jamie smiles proudly, like he’s been personally teaching her colour theory or something. “You’re the boss.”

“Close your eyes,” Phoebe commands, and Jamie follows easily, long eyelashes fluttering over his cheeks. Roy should be impressed that he can see such a thing from here, but it makes sense. Jamie’s eyelashes are obscene even when Roy isn’t paying attention to them.

Phoebe takes a brush and carefully coats it in soft lavender powder before brushing it over Jamie’s eyes. She’s heart-breakingly tender with it, so much so that if Roy was even a hair mushier, his eyes would be stinging from something more than the onion in his hands.

“I’m going to try a cut crease,” Phoebe tells Jamie after a moment and a cursory glance up to the screen.

Jamie’s eyes pop open. The eyeshadow is inexpertly applied, sure, higher on one eye than the other, but it makes his eyes look bluer than ever nonetheless, even in the fading evening light from Rachel’s double-glazed windows.

“Good call,” Jamie says. “What brush do you want to use?”

Phoebe holds up the same one as she used for the purple.

“Hmm.” Jamie taps his fingers on his chin, twisting his full lips to the side. “That could work, but you might have better luck with this one.” He reaches into Rachel’s makeup bag and comes up with a green one that’s a bit more angled. “It’ll help you get a sharper line.”

Phoebe nods and takes the brush from Jamie. “Most important part of a cut crease,” Phoebe adds. Roy’s sure she’s just parodying a YouTube tutorial, but Jamie smiles at her proudly, sweet and slow like fucking caramel.

“Exactly,” he says.

“Close your eyes again,” Phoebe commands.

Jamie dutifully shuts his eyes, and Phoebe dusts more makeup along his eyelids, this time a deep, even purple. With the lavender, it’s vaguely reminiscent of a deep bruise from getting a boot in the thigh. Jamie wears it well, though; when he opens his eyes, Roy’s more reminded of the smoky eyes his exes would wear to red carpets than the aftermath of a shitty fight.

“Eyeliner now,” Phoebe announces, squinting as she asseses her work.

“You ever do a wing before?”

Phoebe shakes her head, and Jamie picks up a pencil.

“Gotta be careful with this, okay?” Jamie directs, as if there isn’t a tutorial explaining it in the background, anyway. Phoebe seems to have forgotten entirely too, watching Jamie raptly. “Lots of birds use a thick line, but you don’t need that. Just-” he pauses and draws a quick line on the inside of his wrist. Even from the counter, Roy can see just how thin and delicate it is. “-that much. Like a single cat’s whisker.”

He hands Phoebe the pencil and obediently closes his eyes. “Light touch, too, okay? Eyelids are sensitive.”

“Like a whisker,” Phoebe adds.

“Exactly.” Jamie grins, clearly proud of his protege, before dutifully letting his face go slack.

Phoebe is certainly gentle, if not careful in the slightest. She leans in, biting her lip in concentration, before touching the tip of the pencil to Jamie’s eye. Roy can tell she’s not even breathing as she paints a thin line across Jamie’s right eye.

“Looks good,” Roy comments.

Phoebe jumps, turning to Roy with an expression of red-cheeked fury marring her face. If Roy ever had any doubts they were related, they’re quickly abated.

“Don’t look, Uncle Roy!” Phoebe scolds. “I need to focus.”

Roy holds his hand up in apology and returns to his onion. By the time it’s fully minced and put in the pan to simmer, a smear of black is extending nearly to Jamie’s temple on one side, the other curving halfway up to his eyebrow. 

“Now mascara,” Phoebe announces. “Open and look up.”

Jamie follows easily, eyes angled to the ceiling, mouth hanging open just a hair. Roy can see a hint of his pink tongue. Jamie almost looks sweet like this, following his niece’s instructions obediently, letting her do whatever she wanted so long as she was having fun.

Roy ignores that thought, though, and sets to work chopping tomatoes.

“There,” Phoebe announces after a moment, drawing back and sitting on her heels. “You look beautiful.”

Roy does glance up at that. Jamie looks . . . well, like a seven-year-old did his makeup. The eyeshadow is too dark and a bit cakey, the eyeliner is uneven and far too thick, and his lashes are clumpy. It’s a testament to Jamie’s experience modelling that he somehow manages to make it look avant-garde rather than unprofessional and messy.

“Let’s see how it turned out, then.” Jamie pulls his phone out of his pocket and flips on the camera, admiring himself.

“Do you like it?” Phoebe asks eagerly, literally bouncing with anticipation.

Jamie’s quiet for a moment, considering, and Roy’s grip tenses on his chef’s knife, ready for Jamie to insult her or criticise her skills or something. It doesn’t look fantastic, sure, but she’s fucking seven. If Jamie says a fucking word to knock Phoebe’s confidence in any fucking way, Roy will fucking nut him.

But Jamie just beams at Phoebe. “Absolutely love it, mate. Reminds me of Estelle Bennett. You know her?”

“No.” Phoebe’s bouncing only increases in intensity with the praise. Good.

“She was an amazing singer in the sixties. Fu- quite fit, too.” Jamie fiddles with his phone for a minute before passing it back to Phoebe.

“Wow, Jamie, she’s beautiful,” Phoebe exclaims, wide grin splitting her face.

“Good makeup, too, eh?”

The warm tickle from earlier comes back with a vengeance, and Roy feels his own expression shift into a smile, unbidden. It’s short-lived, though, because the fucking distraction means Roy sinks the knife into his fucking thumb.

“Fuck,” Roy winces, immediately dropping the knife on the cutting board and shaking out his hand. It’s already bleeding, redder and thicker than the tomato juice. “Fuck.”

“Phoebe,” Jamie says quickly, “could you go grab me some of your mum’s lipsticks? I want to see how they look.”

Roy should scold Jamie, explain that Phoebe can fucking handle a bit of blood, her mum’s a fucking doctor, for fuck’s sake, but Phoebe’s already up and heading for the stairs, and Jamie’s already heading to the kitchen.

“Alright?” Jamie asks warily, watching Roy clutch his hand.

“Fucking fine.” The cut fucking smarts, and, yeah, Roy has certainly dealt with worse, but this is all fucking surface, right on the fingertip, and Roy lets a fucking grimace slip before he’s able to school his expression back to neutral.

“You’re bleeding, mate,” Jamie points out helpfully.

“No fucking shit.”

Jamie cringes slightly, as if embarrassed at himself. “Do you want a plaster?”

Roy rolls his eyes. “I’m fine,” he repeats. “If you really want to help, finish chopping the tomatoes.”

Jamie, of course, ignores him and grabs Roy’s wrist, pulling his hand into Jamie’s chest. His grip is laughably tender, like Roy’s a baby bird with a wounded wing. Roy would protest, but Jamie’s eyes, even smeared with a seven-year-old’s ministrations, look more serious than death.

“Don’t look too deep, I think.” Jamie angles Roy’s thumb back and forth carefully, gentle without being ginger.

“No shit. It’s just a fucking nick.” A nick weeping with blood, sure, but a nick all the same.

“I’m going to put some pressure on it, yeah?” Jamie leans around Roy to grab a piece of kitchen roll, never letting go of Roy’s hand. His shoulders are curved over it protectively, like it’s a kitten he’s rescuing or something.

It should make Roy feel ill, like when Keeley would force him to skip his morning run if he was having a bad knee day, but it doesn’t. It’s probably the fact that Jamie looks so unintimidating, looks patently fucking ridiculous, frankly, in his clown-adjacent makeup and green poncho dotted with biscuit crumbs, but Roy feels strangely sanguine.

Jamie wraps a piece of the kitchen roll around Roy’s finger and presses. It makes the sting bloom, and Roy winces despite himself.

To his credit, Jamie doesn’t comment on it, just keeps his hand around Roy’s thumb, touch horribly tender. His eyes are focused entirely on Roy’s hand, standing with it tucked between their chests. They’re way too fucking close for barely-coworkers, close enough that Roy can feel the soft puffs of Jamie’s exhales on his cheek.

“Thought my sister was the fucking doctor,” Roy mutters roughly to break the tension.

Jamie snorts a short laugh. The way it makes Roy’s chest go tight must be Jamie’s grip tightening on his thumb.

“Nurse Tartt reporting for duty,” Jamie jokes back. He looks up under his eyelashes at Roy. It looks silly with the fucking makeup, but Roy’s fucking breathing quickens. “Here to save any and all damsels in distress.”

“I’m not a fucking damsel,” Roy retorts.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Jamie tilts his chin up a tiny bit. It could be him just having a laugh, pretending to be proud, but then his eyes slip closed, and oh. Oh. Maybe it’s the endorphins from the cut, or the way Jamie was so sweet to Phoebe, but Roy finds himself leaning forward, and they’re so fucking close he barely just has to dip his head down and he can-

“I got you Peppa Pig plasters, Uncle Roy.”

Roy jerks away from Jamie at the sound of Phoebe’s voice, far, far too close for Roy to be doing anything of the fucking sort he was about to. The movement jerks the kitchen towel across the cut, and Roy hisses.

“Fucking hell. Thanks, Phee.”

Roy jerks his hand back from Jamie, wincing as he does, and turns to look at Phoebe, barely a foot away from Roy’s hip. She’s holding out the plasters like a server at a party, and it’d be almost funny if not for the strange tattoo his heart is pounding out.

“That’s a pound,” she declares cheerfully.

“Fuck off. Doesn’t count if I’m in pain.”

Phoebe shakes her head dismissively. “That’s two. I’ll put it on your tab.”

“Fucking miser,” Roy grunts, grabbing the plaster from her and going to wash the cut.

“Three,” Phoebe sing-songs.

Roy just rolls his eyes as he washes the nick off, pats his hands dry on a dish towel, and does the plaster around his finger carefully. He knows it’s just placebo, but it does seem to smart a bit less with Peppa Pig smiling up at him.

The blood seems to have gone to his cheeks, rather than the cut, which helps a bit, too.

“Now,” Roy says, brushing his hands on his jeans, “either help or get out, you lot. Gotta finish dinner.”

Jamie scoffs. “Are you an idiot? Go sit the fuck down. We’re getting Deliveroo, twat.”

“Jamie, you owe me two pounds,” Phoebe contributes helpfully.

“It’s a tiny nick. I can finish dinner,” Roy says, tone thick with contempt. His eyes stay trained on Jamie’s. They do not flick down to Jamie’s full lips, set in a stubborn pout. That would be pathetic, like. Roy’s a fucking footballer. Past his prime, sure, but a footballer all the same. An almost-kiss with a model is barely out of the ordinary for him. Or was at one point, at least.

It must still be typical for Jamie, because he continues in an entirely even, unaffected voice, “Don’t give a shit. We’re getting whatever Phoebe wants. My treat.”

“Three,” Phoebe adds.

“Let me finish cooking.”

“Nope. Go sit down and rest that hand.” Jamie puts his hands on his hips, and Roy is close to wanting to push him out of the way. Or do something else. He’s not quite sure at the moment; his stomach is doing little flips that he’s not quite sure he can explain.

“It’s fucking fine,” Roy grits out.

“That’s four, Uncle Roy. Can we get pizza?”

Jamie’s eyes light up at Phoebe’s suggestion. “I think that sounds delicious, Phoebe. Can we get pizza, Uncle Roy? Please?” Jamie shouldn’t have the balls to make puppy-dog eyes at Roy after almost kissing him, let alone with that fucking makeup on, but he does anyway.

“Phoebe needs nutrition,” Roy argues begrudgingly.

“Easy. We’ll get a side salad, then. Besides, you have a match this weekend. You need the carbs.”

“Please, Uncle Roy?” Phoebe asks behind Roy, tugging on his fucking T-shirt.

“Please?” Jamie repeats.

Roy pinches the bridge of his nose with his undamaged hand and sighs. “Fucking fine. But we’re getting fucking spinach on it, and you two are fucking cleaning the kitchen.”

Jamie and Phoebe yell out twin cries of victory, and Roy sighs. It’s a testament to her excitement that Phoebe doesn’t even demand three additional pounds.

The pizza turns out to be a good choice, in the end. Them cleaning up the aborted dinner while the pizza’s being delivered means Roy doesn’t have to look at Jamie’s face, at the way the gloss Phoebe smeared on his bottom lip shines.

Plus, when the pizza gets there, Roy’s too busy keeping Phoebe from staining the dining room chairs with tomato sauce to worry about anything awkward with Jamie.

In the end, Phoebe downs three pieces and is too full to make any trouble during bathtime, which Roy does dutifully while Jamie clears up.

It’s awfully fucking domestic, the sound of the dishwasher going while Roy reads Phoebe a chapter from Percy Jackson and the Lightning Thief, but it doesn’t make Roy feel weird or sick the way it did the few times this happened with Keeley. He doesn’t feel like he needs to go for a ten-mile run to settle down.

Instead, he feels . . . secure, maybe. Calm.

Phoebe must be able to pick up on it because she’s drooling, fast asleep within five pages even though they’re on the big battle with Ares. Roy plants a quick kiss on her forehead and makes his way to the door as quietly as possible, flicking off the light as he goes.

He’s not sure quite what to expect when he gets down there. He’s not about to snog Jamie like teenagers with Phoebe in the same house. Still, Jamie might ask. Or, knowing Jamie, request to. And it would probably definitely be a mistake, with the contract and the quid pro quo or whatever the fuck, but Roy’s lips are sort of not quite tingling, just like at the gala, and Roy realises he wants to.

He wants to kiss Jamie.

Not the dramatic, perfectly posed, your-hands-here-mine-there of the gala, but a real kiss. Slow, and gentle. Roy would pet Jamie’s silly little cowlick and grip onto his stupid vanity muscles through his idiotic poncho. Roy finds himself actually wanting to, the image making him grow warm.

Which is probably why he feels his heart sink so quickly when he gets downstairs and sees Jamie slipping on his trainers.

“Hey,” Jamie says quietly as he does, smiling at Roy. “This was fun, man. Thanks.”

Roy swallows roughly. “Yeah, yeah, it was.”

Something must be off, because Jamie stands up once he laces up his trainer and cocks his head to the side. “Everything good, mate?”

Roy nods, hoping the movement isn’t as jerky as it feels. Fuck, he needs to get a grip. Jamie putting on his shoes to leave after an evening of unexpected babysitting shouldn’t be making Roy’s insides feel like an icy, mushy slushie.

It’s not like they were going to kiss earlier. Not really. Jamie just had a strangely-timed blink, and Roy misinterpreted, since it’s hard the fuck enough to pretend to be dating when surrounded by adults, and somehow harder when it’s just Phoebe.

But it was nothing.

Because if Jamie actually wanted to kiss Roy, he’d be staying. He’d be smiling and willing and wanting. Roy’s seen Lust Conquers All. He’s seen what Jamie looks like when he wants someone, and it’s not this, the casual, friendly smile and the slipping out before he overstays his welcome.

It shouldn’t make Roy feel so . . . so whatever the fuck is making him smile in such a strange way that it pinches his muscles. 

“Oh, shit, do you need a ride home?” Jamie asks, oblivious. “I can stay-”

“No,” Roy interrupts, holding his hand up. “I’ll stay in the guestroom and Rachel will drive me home in the morning.”

“Are you sure? It’s no big deal, man.”

Jamie looks fucking ridiculous – still painted in Phoebe’s makeup, a tiny bit of basil from the pizza clinging to one cheek, eyes round like he’s genuinely worried that Roy’s okay. It’s a good fucking performance, acting sweet and gentle just in case Phoebe wanders down or something. Roy should be impressed.

Instead, he just waves his hand at Jamie. “No, go home. Need your beauty rest, innit?”

Jamie’s mouth opens like he wants to say something, but he snaps it shut quickly.

“Yeah, okay. See you tomorrow.”

Roy grunts in acknowledgement. His guts twist as the front door opens and shuts, but Roy resolutely ignores it. Nerves for the match this weekend, if anything.

Chapter Text

“Do you want to talk about it or should I?” Rachel asks from the other end of Roy’s couch.

“No,” Roy huffs.

There’s a pillow tucked under his knee, an ice pack laid over it. Rachel’s given him two times the recommended dose of paracetamol, but his fucking knee still hurts like a fucking bitch, his head is pounding to match, and Rachel wants to fucking talk about it.

It had been a nasty fucking tackle by fucking Nottingham Forest. Had earned Figueiredo a red, sure, but had fucked Roy’s knee worse. He couldn’t go back to the bench, though, or retreat to the treatment room.

It was an away, for one. No Jamie in the stands cheering or looking pensive or whatever to get the crowd chanting his name and convince Ted to give him more minutes.

For two, Roy can’t give the fucking team doctors an excuse to bench him. They care, sure, but about Roy’s longevity, about him being able to run marathons into his fucking seventies or whatever. But Roy’d rather be carted off the pitch in a wheelchair and dumped straight into a coffin at age forty-fucking-five than be benched for any more fucking time.

Hence, enjoying the perks of having an A&E doctor sister.

“Okay,” Rachel muses, grabbing the remote from Roy and turning off the TV. If there’s a way to press a button with malice, she does it.

“Oi,” Roy complains. “I was fucking watching that.”

“Junior Bake-Off? Really?”

“Fuck off. Julian was about to perfect his marzipan.”

Rachel groans, covering her face with her hands. “Roy, why am I here? You have team doctors who are paid to deal with this shit.” She moves her hands from her face to gesture hurriedly at his left knee, already blooming with black and blue around the kneecap, swelling gently despite the ice.

Thank fuck there’s an off-day tomorrow and tape review the next.

“I told you, I wanted your help.”

“I’m an emergency doctor. I don’t do orthopaedics.”

“You’re doing just fine.”

Rachel grabs a throw pillow from the couch and squeezes it, her eyebrows drawn in a way that makes it clear she wishes it was Roy’s neck she was wringing. If she was ten years younger, Roy bets she’d be screaming and kicking her feet, the way she did when she got a C on her Chinese A-level despite Roy hiring her the best tutor in London.

She exhales slowly before continuing, “The team doctors could give you real meds. I can just do ice and paracetamol.”

“I don’t need real meds.”

“For fuck’s sake, you need a Celebrex, Roy.” 

“Then give me one.”

“I can’t without losing my licence, knobhead.” She switches to hugging the pillow instead of choking it, and she draws in a slow breath. Roy recognises the technique from yoga. “Are you doping or something? Is that why you can’t go to them?”

“What? Fuck, no,” Roy spits.

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t fucking want to,” he bites, spelling out every word like she’s hard of hearing or just particularly stupid.

“This needed to be treated hours ago,” Rachel says in one rushed breath. “They should’ve given you decent painkillers and iced it right after it happened.”

“I iced it on the bus,” Roy mutters.

Roy isn’t quite fucking sure why that incites violence, but Rachel grabs the pillow and thwacks Roy’s good leg with it. It doesn’t really hurt, especially compared to his left knee, but he winces anyway.

“You’re a fucking knobhead,” Rachel sighs, rubbing her temples. “A fucking knobhead who’s giving me a migraine.”

“My knee is getting treated. Who gives a shit?”

For whatever reason, Rachel stands up at that and sighs, brushing her palms off on her purple scrubs like she’s wiping Roy off of her hands. “Look, Roy, I love you, but I can’t fucking handle being asked to call out of work to take care of you if you can’t tell me why.”

“Fucking hell,” Roy groans. He wants to stand, too, just so she’s not leering over him like this, but he doubts it would be a good idea with how his knee is already throbbing. Can’t fuck it worse, just in case. “I don’t wanna get benched. If they knew how much it hurts, they’d bench me. You can tell me nothing’s torn or broken, and that’s all I fucking need to know, okay?”

Rachel pinches the bridge of her nose. “Roy, if they bench you, it’s for your own best fucking interest. They want to win as bad as you do.”

Roy scoffs. “It’s not about that. This could be my last season. I’m not spending it on the fucking bench.”

For whatever reason, that is the last straw for Rachel, and she sets her jaw like she’s readying to restrain an unruly patient.

“Give me your phone,” she says, holding out her hand like a demanding parent.

Roy slides it over mutely. For all he’s being a prick, he can’t say he’s eager to incite more of Rachel’s wrath than he already has.

“What? Gonna tell on me to Ted or something?” Roy says anyway.

“No. I’m calling Jamie. I can’t handle this right now, and he chooses to fucking be with you, so he gets to.”

Roy’s chest suddenly clenches, his mouth going dry.

He hasn’t seen Jamie since the almost-kiss last week, what with the away match and all. Roy is not particularly eager to relive the humiliation of walking downstairs, ready for a light snog, at the very least, just to be told to fuck off. Not in so many words, of course, but Jamie leaving as soon as he could is basically the same thing, innit?

Plus which, Roy doesn’t know how the fuck to deal with a near-stranger trying to take care of him when he’s already in enough pain to be close to biting his own sister’s fucking head off. Jamie won’t go to the team or anything about the injury, not if the NDA they both signed has any legal binding, but he’ll still be here, swanning around like the twat he is, and Roy’s not sure he has it in him to tolerate that.

And sure, Jamie was good with Phoebe, but he’s a fucking reality star: loud and overly excitable. Roy needs fucking silence and a morphine drip. He needs Rachel to grow a fucking set of bollocks and let Roy fucking take care of himself.

In all, Roy has to stop this. “Oi-”

But Rachel’s already pressing the phone to her ear and wandering out of arm’s reach. Roy ought to stand up and wrestle it away from her, but he can’t, for fear it would well and truly fuck his knee. Not even to mention that Roy has no idea how the fuck to explain how little he wants her to call Jamie, given that they’re supposedly in love or whatever the fuck.

So he sits, feeling frozen, and watches Rachel pace out of arms’ reach.

“Jamie?” Rachel says into the phone, all anger gone from her tone and replaced with a cloying sweetness. Fucking groupie. “Hey, it’s Rachel. How are you?”

“Rachel, fucking stop,” Roy complains from the couch. She waves a hand at him and sticks her tongue out, to boot.

“I’m good,” she says in that saccharine tone, far too brightly for the daggers she’s glaring at Roy. “I was just wondering if you were busy this evening.”

“I’m fine,” Roy hisses at her, to no avail.

“No, Phoebe’s at her dad’s,” Rachel says with a laugh. “But I do have a babysitting job for you. Did you see the match?”

She pauses, and Roy strains to make out what Jamie is saying on the other end. 

“Yeah, so, the tackle fucked him a bit more than he was willing to admit. I have a date in an hour-”

A date? Roy mouths incredulously. Rachel just rolls her eyes.

“-and I was wondering if you’d be willing to play nurse for the evening.”

Die, Roy mouths, and Rachel fucking smiles at him, wrinkling her nose in a cloying display of kindness.

Rachel laughs into the phone. “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary. Can you be here soon?”

“What’s funny?” Roy stage-whispers at her, just to be ignored.

“Yeah, I’ll send you the gate code. See you in a minute.” Rachel hangs up the phone and smiles smugly down at it as she taps a few buttons.

“The fuck was that?” Roy growls. Rachel hasn’t been scared of Roy since she was four, but he can still fucking try. Has a weight advantage on her, at the very least, even if he really, really shouldn’t try to lunge himself at her fully.

“That was me taking care of you. Now why the fuck doesn’t your boyfriend have your gate code? You that concerned about privacy?”

Fucking hell. Roy fucking hates lying to Rachel. She knows all his fucking tells.

“Yeah,” Roy says simply, forcing himself to make eye contact. “He makes a living on people knowing his every move. Had to be cautious.” He knows he says it too fast, the way he always fucking does when he lies to her, but Rachel just shrugs.

“Fucking weirdo,” she just says, passing Roy’s phone back to him. He shoves it under his arse; it’ll hurt his back later, but at least it’ll make it harder for Rachel to grab his phone and call fucking Ted or something, just to tell him Roy’s hurt and needs to sit for minimum three weeks or whatever the fuck she’d do if given half a chance. “Anyway, do you still have Keeley’s makeup lying around?”

Roy tenses immediately, and it makes his knee fucking spark with pain. “What? You wanna hide it so Jamie doesn’t get jealous?”

“No, twat,” Rachel says, swatting his head. It’s just on this side of gentle, and Roy knows just from that that she’s actually worried about him. “Phoebe ruined my makeup the other day-” She pauses to look at Roy pointedly. “-and I want to look nice for this date.”

“Who’s the date with?” Roy asks as calmly as possible. Rachel’s a grown fucking woman and all, but after her fucking shit of an ex-husband, Roy can’t be too careful.

“A guy from work. Now stay the fuck still and watch your Bake-Off till Jamie gets here. I don’t want to pull a muscle chasing you back to the couch.”

Rachel heads upstairs before Roy can protest anymore, leaving him to wallow in his sheer fuckedness. Because Jamie can’t fucking see him like this.

Even aside from the not-kiss, Roy isn’t about to let anyone not directly related to him or contractually obligated to watch him be a whingy fucking baby. He’d let himself get that way with Keeley, and look how the fuck that turned out. And Jamie might not have the tools to rip Roy’s guts to shreds like Keeley, but he can certainly tease him or mock him or even fucking think about doing so, and that will make the flesh drop off Roy’s fucking bones.

And if he even looks at Roy with pity after Roy’s idiotic, misread almost-kiss, Roy will have no choice but to buy a new coat from YSL and move to Antarctica.

Which is why, not even ten minutes later, when the doorbell sounds, Roy’s fucking sick to his stomach.

“I’ve got it,” Rachel calls from upstairs. He hears her clomp down the stairs and sighs. Fucking hell, Rachel never wears heels unless it’s serious. If Roy has to give another shovel talk, he’ll shoot himself in the fucking face.

“Jamie,” she squeals when the door opens.

“Hiya, Rachel.” Jamie’s voice carries clear and bright down the hall to Roy, and he barely resists the urge to cover his face with his cashmere throw. “You look fucking fit.”

“Thank you!” Roy hears clomping that must equate to Rachel spinning in a little circle, judging by the whistle Jamie lets out.

“Your date’s lucky to have you. Now, where’s the patient?”

Roy would complain about Jamie fucking flirting with his sister again, but then Rachel’s clomping comes closer and Jamie is in view.

“Hi,” Jamie says to him quietly, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly will aggravate Roy’s knee somehow.

Jamie looks like he’s ready for fucking bed, even though it’s barely past seven. He’s in a ratty gray T-shirt with a faded Nando’s logo on it, complete with a hole near the collar, and a pair of pyjama shorts, white and printed with fucking anthropomorphic dancing strawberries, stained with something orange on the hem. If Roy was actually on a morphine drip as he ought to be, the pattern would be terrifying. As it is, it’s just fucking ugly.

Roy grunts at him, bracing for some comment about the almost kiss, the sorry fucking state of his knee, but Jamie says nothing other than, “Alright?”

“I don’t fucking need a babysitter,” Roy tells him frankly, even as he doesn’t get up to shove Jamie away the way he should.

“Our Roy gets a tad cranky when he’s in pain,” Rachel tells Jamie like she’s confiding in him. She does look fucking nice in a tight black dress and red pumps, hair pulled into a ponytail. The date is certainly not worth it, but Roy has enough of a sense of self-preservation not to tell her so.

“Fuck off,” Roy says from the couch.

“He’s in good hands,” Jamie tells Rachel reassuringly, ignoring Roy entirely. “You go have fun.”

Rachel kisses Jamie’s cheek, and that would be fucking gross enough, but then she leans down and pecks Roy’s forehead like he’s fucking bedridden, not just in a bit of pain from a shit tackle.

Roy waits until the door’s closed behind her before speaking again.

“I don’t need your fucking help,” Roy tells Jamie icily. “Don’t fucking talk to me, don’t fucking look at me, don’t fucking touch me. You can’t leave because I won’t fucking lie to Rachel more than I fucking have to, but I don’t fucking need your help.”

It’s mean, certainly, but at least circumvents any and all discussion of their not-kiss, which is fucking necessary. Roy can’t fucking handle that. Not that he even thinks Jamie would bring it up after the way he left the other night, like he couldn’t get out fast enough.

Tonight, though, Jamie’s face is carefully still, perfectly unreadable.

“You’re just lucky Phoebe ain’t here,” Jamie says easily. “She’d have you selling your house just to pay off your swearing balance. Nice place, by the way. Never been inside before.” Jamie sweeps his hands as if he’s a shitty realtor showing off the blonde wood and open floor plan.

“Fuck off,” Roy hisses. “I meant it when I said don’t fucking talk to me.”

Jamie holds his hands up in front of him, the picture of innocence. “Okay, mate. I’ll just sit here quietly.” He flops down onto the spot of the couch where Rachel was sitting before. “Just tell me if you want your ice changed. Have you eaten yet, by the way?”

“You’re still fucking talking.”

“Sorry, man, sorry. You sit, and I’ll just keep my genius plan all to myself.”

Jamie dutifully grabs his phone and starts scrolling through his socials. He’s absolutely mute, true to his word.

“What’s your genius plan?” Roy mutters after thirty annoying fucking seconds.

“Can post a picture of us-” Roy raises an eyebrow at him, so Jamie quickly tacks on, “-no knee or anything, just us, having a little cuddle. Caption it about having a quiet night in with the boyfriend or something. People would lose their shit.”

“I’m not fucking cuddling you.”

“It would just be for the photo, mate. Never mind,” Jamie says like he’s hushing a scared horse. Roy’s pretty sure he’s gotten under Jamie’s skin, judging by the hint of pink under his cheeks, but he just goes back to his phone after a moment, tucking one hand under his already stretched-out shirt and ignoring Roy entirely.

It’s quiet for a minute, and Roy allows himself to shut the fuck up himself and just stare at the ceiling. The whole fucking point of calling Rachel instead of using the team doctors was to avoid this, the whole sitting in fucking agony and waiting for the other shoe to drop, whether that be the proverbial shoe of being benched or the proverbial shoe of whatever the fuck Jamie has to say about their almost-not-quite-not-really kiss.

Roy stews on that second shoe for a while until he starts to feel wet from the ice pack run down his leg and pool uncomfortably on the pillow he’s leaning on. He tries to adjust it, but the fucking pack is just cool water now, and every way he moves it has more dripping down his leg.

Roy can see Jamie glancing over at him from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“Jamie,” Roy grunts eventually, eyes still trained on the ceiling instead of on Jamie’s face. He can feel from Jamie’s shifting, though, that the prick is putting away his phone to focus fully on Roy. Fucking embarrassing. Roy’s ears go hot.

“Jamie,” Roy repeats when there’s no reply. He waits another thirty seconds and then lifts his head up, just in case Jamie died or some shit. Of course, though, Jamie’s alive and well, looking at Roy with upturned eyebrows, head cocked to the side like a fucking confused puppy. 

“Can I speak now?” Jamie says, a lilt of a smile on his face. Twat.

Roy nods begrudgingly, rolling his eyes.

“What can I help you with, Roy?” he says, all fucking treacly. Roy would kick him out if he felt even half a shade less shit.

“Can you get me a new ice pack?”

Jamie pauses and taps his fingers on his chin. His shirt is too tight around the arms, his biceps bulging. A ratty fucking T-shirt shouldn’t be hot, but it’s Jamie fucking Tartt, international sex symbol, so it is.

It makes Roy’s mouth feel sour.

“Please?” Roy eventually adds through gritted teeth.

Jamie pops up immediately. His shorts have ridden up, emphasising his fucking bulge which is now right at eye-level, albeit covered in dancing strawberries, so Roy resolutely stares at his face instead.

One fucking not-kiss, and Roy is ogling Jamie like a fucking fanboy. He ought to drown himself in the bathtub, save himself a bit of embarrassment.

Jamie doesn’t even seem to notice, though. “Shit, man, you must be in more pain than I thought you were. I were just gonna make you suffer for a minute. Didn’t think you’d use the p-word or nothing.”

Roy shuts his eyes, inhaling stiffly through his nose.

“Do you want more paracetamol, too?” Jamie asks, oblivious to Roy’s struggle with self-control. “Maybe a cuppa?”

“I’m fucking fine.”

“I’ll get you both,” Jamie says smugly, sauntering away. Roy swears the prick would be skipping if he didn’t think Roy would punch him for it.

Roy hears the kettle going on, rattling in his freezer. It makes his face go fucking hot, ashamed and pissed and regretful all at once. He’s a fucking Prem League footballer. He’s fucked Gina Gershon, for fuck’s sake.

He doesn’t need to be fucking babied, and he doesn’t need to be freaking out over a misread not-kiss, yet here the fuck he is.

Not even three minutes later, Jamie comes back with a fresh ice pack and a full cuppa in his hands, a bottle of paracetamol and a water bottle tucked under an arm.

“Here you go,” Jamie says lightly, passing Roy the mug. It’s a yellow one, from his Le Creuset set. It’s his favourite, not that he’d tell anyone under penalty of death.

For all Roy’s pride, though, the tea does smell good, and Roy takes a small sip. It’s echinacea with a drop of honey. Not the best cuppa anyone’s ever made him, but it’s more than decent. Better than Rachel would make if she was still here, to be honest.

“Thanks,” Roy grunts, setting the tea on his end table and trading it for the paracetamol, swallowing two with a glug of the water bottle. “Sorry for ruining your fucking Saturday night or whatever.”

Jamie snorts and takes the drugs and water back, putting them down neatly on Roy’s coffee table. 

“You didn’t. I were just having a quiet night in, weren’t I?” Jamie gestures down at his outfit, and understanding slowly dawns on Roy.

It’s not some bold fashion statement that Roy’s a decade and a half too geriatric to understand. These are Jamie’s pyjamas. They fit him weird because they’re old and comfy.

As if enough coworker boundaries weren’t broken by the almost-kiss.

“Still,” Roy says, like he isn’t embarrassed by the fact that Jamie’s here in his PJs. “Didn’t mean to fuck that.”

Jamie rolls his eyes and plops back down on the end of the couch. “Stop being a martyr, you twat. It’s reasonable to call someone’s boyfriend if they need help, and your sister don’t know . . . the situation or summat. I weren’t doing nothing, and I’m happy to help. Now, how’s your knee?”

“Fucking hurts,” Roy replies curtly.

Jamie nods, mouth screwing up into a thoughtful scowl. “Saw that tackle. Looked rough.”

“Was.”

Jamie pauses for a minute, drumming his fingers on his thigh. It’s lined with peach fuzz, unlike his obnoxiously waxed chest. Roy thinks for a moment that he likes it before he gives himself the mental equivalent of a smack upside the head. This is Jamie fucking Tartt, someone to whom he’s contractually obligated.

In that way, he’s practically Coach Beard to Roy’s Ted: firmly off-limits. Maybe even a bit off-putting.

“Was it fun, at least?” Jamie says when Roy doesn’t elaborate on the tackle.

“Getting fucking tackled?”

“No,” Jamie scoffs, raising his arm as if to elbow Roy before seemingly thinking better of it. “Before. Getting to play.”

Roy shrugs. “Got some decent touches.”

Jamie shakes his head. “Were it fun, though?”

“Fucking hell, Jamie, I don’t know,” Roy spits a tad more intensely than he meant.

He almost apologises, ready for Jamie to flinch or something, but Jamie just shrugs and says, “Fair play. Anyway, Rachel tells me you were watching Bake-Off?”

Roy’s eyes narrow at the sudden shift in topic, but Jamie doesn’t seem to even notice, tilting his head at Roy like he’s actually curious in whatever bullshit television Roy has used to distract himself.

So Roy just says, “Yeah,” and leaves it at that.

Jamie, of course, does not. “Good shit, that. Used to watch it when me parents were fighting. Nothing like scones and bread, you know? I don’t even like scones, to be honest,” Jamie says blithely. “But something about the tent makes me want one, you know? My Simon makes ‘em sometimes, and they’re plain rubbish, only bad thing he makes. Mummy likes them, though.”

Roy wants to ask what in the fuck a Simon is, but Jamie’s already ploughing on.

“Anyway, do you wanna watch some? Distract you or whatever?”

Jamie’s acting way too fucking sweet for a virtual stranger. For fuck’s sake, he’s been so caring that he hasn’t even mentioned the not-kiss, whether to ask Roy to apologise or to tell Roy he’s a knobhead for not understanding their relationship, the fakeness of it. It’s like it never even happened.

And, really, it probably didn’t. Probably Roy reading too much into close contact with an unreasonably attractive and kind man, who basically babysat Phoebe for free. Who took Roy to an art museum when he was in a strop.

No fucking wonder Roy misread it as a kiss. He was operating on hot, sweet man autopilot.

Well, fine. Admitting it is the first step or whatever.

The realisation must happen far too slowly, because Jamie grabs the remote from the coffee table and unpauses Junior Bake-Off without another word, without Roy even telling him to turn it on.

Julian resumes his trials with his marzipan, and Jamie seems fully absorbed, as if Roy weren’t even on the other end of the couch. Well, of course he’s absorbed. Roy’s a job to him, same as if he were to make an Instagram post about rejuvenating LED face-masks or something, and he’s taking a break. No one’s around, so he doesn’t have to be on, doesn’t have to be sweet and funny and flirty.

It’s idiotic of Roy to assume that Jamie would act anything else. They’re not teenagers having a bout of “Netflix and Chill” or whatever the fuck. Roy’s being fucking stupid, to the point that he’s about on the verge of smacking himself in the face when Jamie’s phone rings.

“Shit,” Jamie mutters, sliding it out of his pocket. “Forgot to cancel that.”

Roy waves his hand dismissively. “Go ahead.” Least he could do, really.

Jamie shrugs and pauses Bake-Off before answering the Facetime.

“Jamie!” a woman on the other end says through a thick Manc accent. “How are you, my sexy little baby?”

Fucking hell. A girlfriend, then, from up North. Roy really, really wishes the overly expensive, plush couch would swallow him up now. Of fucking course Jamie has a girlfriend. Roy’s a twat.

“Hi, Mummy!” Jamie burbles back.

Roy’s cheeks go even hotter at that. Jealous of an imaginary girlfriend. Christ. Roy desperately wishes their relationship weren’t so necessarily public – Roy needs to fuck someone else, get whatever . . . this is out of his system.

“You doing okay?” Jamie’s mum asks. “Did you get my package?”

Jamie smiles, a happy, toothy thing that makes him look ten years old. “Yeah, yeah. Looked dead good in it, too. It’ll be perfect for the last match of the season. Tell Ms. Bennett thank you.”

“And you liked the sourdough? Simon’s been taking care of that starter like it’s his child, I’m telling you.”

“It were good.” Jamie adjusts, tucking a foot under his bum and leaning on the arm of the couch. “Made a dead nice chip butty with it.”

Jamie’s mum squeals on the other end, the sound distorted by the connection. “Simon’ll be so excited, baby!”

“He there?”

“He’s flambeing something, but he should be in soon. Go put on your new jumper, baby, I want to see it.”

Jamie’s cheeks colour ever-so-slightly. “I can’t, Mummy, I’m not home right now.”

“Wait.” Jamie’s mum’s voice goes serious and quiet, a stage whisper. “Are you at his house right now?”

Jamie’s cheeks go fully pink and nods.

“Can I meet him yet? Finally?” she urges.

“Mummy, I told you, he’s shy.”

“Too shy to meet his boyfriend’s mummy?”

Roy’s eyes narrow, staring at Jamie in profile, silently willing to him look over, but Jamie’s focus stays trained on his phone.

Jamie covers his face with the hand not holding his phone. “Mum,” he complains. “Please.”

“Fine. I guess I’ll die having never met my grandbabies or son-in-law.”

“It’s new,” Jamie says, rubbing his toe into Roy’s carpet. He’s so flushed he’s practically glowing, and Roy tries not to enjoy it, now that the shoe’s on the other foot.

“Old enough that you’re snogging him on the red carpet,” Jamie’s mum retorts. 

Roy is truly not sure what the fuck comes over him, but he sits up, attempts to fix his mussed hair, and taps Jamie’s elbow, the only part of him Roy’s sure is out of frame.

It’s okay, Roy mouths when Jamie glances at him from the corner of his eye.

Jamie shakes his head minutely, but his mum suddenly crows, “Are you talking to him right now?! Is he in the room with you, baby? You better introduce us, or you’re out of the will, hand to God.”

“Who’ll you leave everything to, then? Ms. Bennett?”

“If I have to,” she says gravely. “If you don’t let me say hello to him.”

“Mum,” Jamie pleads, but Roy is sitting up and budging into the frame before he can protest more. The new position hurts his knee, sure, and usually Roy would rather die before meeting a partner’s parents, much less his not-partner’s, but Roy’s half-worried Jamie’s blush is going to break the skin if he doesn’t intervene.

Besides, Jamie dealt with Rachel and Phoebe. Least Roy could do, really.

At first, Roy’s sure he was mistaken when he heard Jamie call this woman “mummy.” She can’t be more than five years older than Roy, and, yeah, there’s teen mums and all that, but she looks youthful, too, dark hair clipped back messily, mouth lined with bright-pink lipstick, massive turtle-shaped earrings in her ears. Her orange top is low-cut, her tits prominent and fucking lush.

Christ, if Roy saw her at a club, he’d be trying to pick her up. He nearly wants to apologise for dating her son, even if they’re not really dating at all. It just feels appropriate.

“Hi, Ms. Tartt,” Roy says stiffly.

She scoffs, rolling blue eyes. “Oh, fuck off with that, call me Georgie.”

“Hi, Georgie,” Roy corrects. “I’m Roy.”

“Hi, Roy. You’re dead handsome.”

“Mum,” Jamie complains, burying his face in the hand not holding the phone. The movement makes Roy acutely aware that their arms are pressed together, warm and tight, and Roy ought to scoot away, but that might raise questions from Jamie’s mum, so he stays pressed there. Jamie smells less like Lynx today, more just like soap and detergent. It’s nice.

“You want me to lie to your boyfriend, Jamie?” Georgie retorts. “I’m just telling the truth.”

“Well, thank you, Georgie,” Roy says as casually as possible. “You’re lovely, too. I see where your son gets it from.”

Jamie makes an honest-to-God gagging sound beside him.

Georgie laughs. “He is just gorgeous, isn’t he? Just wait till you see his baby pictures. There’s one of him in the bath, and his little willy was so tiny-”

“Mummy!” Jamie scolds.

“Sorry, sorry,” Georgie says, holding one hand up in apology. “Can’t I gush over my sexy little baby?”

“Not about me dick.”

“It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, baby,” she sighs before turning her attention back to Roy. Jamie looks like he’s about to choke. “He was dead fit as a baby, though, really. All the mums in our Mummy-and-Me class were spitting jealous.”

“I’m sure.” He is; Jamie’s eyes are round as an adult, his lips full and sweet. He must have been even cuter as an infant.

“Oh, Jamie!” Georgie says suddenly. “I just finished that new scrapbook of our trip to Croatia. Do you want to pick it up next weekend?”

“Yeah, Mummy,” Jamie says, clearly relieved by the change in subject.

“Roy, sweetheart, you should come, too. I checked Richmond’s schedule – have to know when my baby’s on the telly, don’t I – and you should be free, right?”

“Mummy,” Jamie interrupts again. “You can’t just tell Roy he’s free and he has to go to Manchester.”

“What? It’s not like he plays for Liverpool or something. He’ll have a great time.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Roy says quickly, because even though he spent most of his formative years in a shit billet in Sunderland, he knows his fucking manners.

“Don’t be silly, sweetheat,” Georgie chides. “If you’re dating Jamie, you’re basically family.”

“Roy’s busy,” Jamie interrupts. “You can’t just insist he has to go.”

“Roy, love, are you busy next weekend?”

“No, but-”

“Then it’s settled!” Georgie declares. If she wasn’t holding a phone, Roy thinks she’d clap her hands together. “You can drive up Saturday if that works for you, baby.”

Jamie looks over at Roy, an expression somewhere between apology and anxiety. “‘Course,” Jamie says after a minute, swallowing hesitantly.

“Perfect! I’ll tell Simon. He’ll be so excited – his dad was a Chelsea man, you know-”

“Georgie? Can you get the fire extinguisher?” a man’s voice suddenly shouts from the background.

“Shit,” Georgie says. “I’ll call you tomorrow to talk details, baby. I love you, and good to meet you, Roy.” The view goes quickly to a white-washed ceiling, Georgie yelling, “Did you light the kitchen on fire again?” before the feed quickly cuts off.

“So,” Jamie says hesitantly, still flushed. “That’s me mum.” He must realise they’re still pressed together, and he awkwardly scoots himself back into the arm of the couch despite not having any room to really move. Roy shoves himself back, too, suddenly awkward. His left side feels cold where it’s no longer pressed to Jamie.

“Seems nice,” Roy hedges.

“You really don’t have to go with me. It’ll be a lot of baking and watching telly, and me mum’s going to want me to repaint the shed, so-”

“It’s fine,” Roy says quickly. “Besides, if we post something about me meeting your mum, I’ll probably be starting for the rest of the season. Ted’s a fucking softie for mums, innit?”

Roy doesn’t know why the fuck he’s agreeing to go to Manchester of all fucking places. When he has aways there, he usually stays in the fucking hotel the entire time since there’s nothing to do in the entire fucking city. No decent clubs, few to no hot birds, and shit food all around. If he never sees a pie barm again, it’ll be too soon.

Really, Roy ought to tell Jamie to fuck off. Meeting Georgie’s not in the contract, Phoebe has a school play Roy’s supposed to attend, and he doesn’t need to tangle any more family into this after having to lie to Rachel and Phoebe. He should be telling Jamie to keep his parents out of it, that it was just an unfortunate coincidence Jamie was here instead of at home when his mum called.

But the idea of going with Jamie has Roy’s gut tugging at him. Maybe he really is getting an instinct for this PR stuff. After all, the few photos his team posts of Phoebe on his socials (face covered, always) nets him more interactions than anything else. Maybe, once Roy has to really retire, he can get a job as Keeley’s assistant or something.

“Are you sure?” Jamie asks.

No is on the tip of Roy’s tongue, but he finds himself nodding instead. “You’ve already had to deal with my family. I can deal with yours.”

Jamie’s eyes pinch shut. “Fucking hell, I hate lying to her,” he sighs.

Roy finds himself putting a comforting hand on Jamie’s thigh, unbidden. He’s so fucking warm, always, and this is no exception, his muscles obvious even through Roy’s light touch. “Would you rather I stay home? I can say there’s an emergency or something.”

Jamie snorts, even as stress is still writ between his eyebrows. “Footy emergency. All the balls got deflated or something.”

“Do you want me to?”

Jamie exhales slowly, blowing a strand of hair off his forehead. “Nah,” he says after a moment. “I don’t want to have to lie to her about that, too.”

“Alright,” Roy says, suddenly aware his hand is still on Jamie’s thigh. He draws it back a little too quick to be natural, but Jamie doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Okay, yeah,” he says after a moment, expression smoother than before. Roy hates how that makes his own heart twist happily, like a cat settling in for a nap. “Hope you like baked goods, though. Simon always makes new people try his experiments.”

For some fucking reason, Roy smiles at that. “Can’t wait.”

Chapter Text

“Hi,” Jamie says brightly from Roy’s doorstep. He’s five minutes early for their drive to Manchester, of course, because he’s a twat. He’s wearing pale yellow parachute trousers and a white cotton crop top, like a ridiculous banana with a six-pack. If not for the highlighter glittering on his cheeks and the gold hoop in his nose, he might fit right in with the horrifyingly loud outfits the rest of Richmond seem to favour.

“You knock like someone’s dying,” Roy says in lieu of greeting. It’s true; Roy was up in his en suite, in the middle of trimming his beard, and nearly stabbed himself in the fucking nose at the rapid, urgent pounding on the door.

“Well, I’m dying to see you,” Jamie replies cheerfully, sticking his tongue between his teeth.

“You’re a twat.”

“Yep,” Jamie says happily. He leans in conspiratorially before whispering, “Wanna kiss? Paps across the street. Keels called them when I told her about our trip.”

Roy goes stiff. It makes fucking sense, of course it does. The point of this, of them, is for pictures to be taken. Still, it makes Roy’s fucking idiocy from the other night sting worse. Of course the only time Jamie really wants to kiss him is when there’s paps around. No fucking shit.

Physical affection as appropriate and fucking all.

Roy nods jerkily, and Jamie wastes no further preamble in getting his warm, firm hands on Roy’s jaw, cupping ever-so-gently, angling Roy’s mouth down for a slow, easy kiss.

It’s the third fucking time they’ve done this, yet this time feels new. It feels like Roy’s heart is about to burst out of his mouth, really, right into Jamie’s soft lips and smooth tongue, all over his big hands holding Roy exactly where he wants him. He smells like sun cream and Lynx and coconut oil, and Roy can hardly breathe, like Jamie’s overwhelming him, choking him.

Even after he pulls back, he’s still so fucking close to Roy, close enough that Roy can feel the heat of the flush across the bridge of Jamie’s nose, close enough that he has to bend his arms to keep his grip on Roy’s jaw.

“They better fucking not publish my address,” Roy growls, even as he slings an arm around Jamie’s waist. It’s a good shot for the paps, the casual intimacy, but Roy’d forgotten Jamie’s fucking outfit, how his skin is bare and hot against Roy’s arm.

He can feel the muscle in Jamie’s obliques, feel how they fucking tense and relax as he breathes. It’s fucking overwhelming, especially for someone whose acting ability is barely past that of a shitty school play, and Roy drops it awkwardly before he gets a boner or blushes or passes out or something similarly embarrassing.

“It’ll be okay,” Jamie says with a reassuring smile. “Keeley’s got final approval on all pictures, don’t she?”

“Will the paps be in Manchester, too?”

Jamie drops his hands to Roy’s shoulders. His hands leave a warm outline of themselves behind.

“Shouldn’t be. Least, she didn’t call ‘em. ‘Course, they might follow us just to get some snaps of my arse in these trousers. Look fucking incredible, don’t I?”

Roy doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Seriously,” Jamie murmurs, ducking his head to whisper in Roy’s ear like he’s afraid someone stuck a fucking boom mic in Roy’s azaleas. His breath tickles. “Give it a squeeze. They won’t give a shit where we’re going if they have that photo to sell.”

Roy swallows, throat suddenly tight. “My niece could see that, you know.”

“Fair play, fair play. Your loss, though, mate. I have a dead good squat routine.”

“I’m sure.”

It’s the wrong fucking thing to say. Jamie’s eyes light up, and he tugs Roy in by the neck for a sloppy peck on the cheek. It’s nothing more than friendly, something Richard might do if Roy gave him a good enough assist, but Roy’s cheek fucking burns after. 

Jamie, of course, is utterly oblivious. “I knew you noticed,” he crows. “Would have to be blind not to, to be fair.”

Roy can’t say of fucking course he noticed, he’s an idiot twat with weird, awkward, inappropriate feelings for Jamie fucking Tartt, so he just grunts and turns to grab his suitcase. It’s the one he uses for vacations instead of aways, a small red roller bag someone bought him as a gift ten years ago or more.

Maybe it’s stupid to bring it; this is nothing more than a work trip, really, at the end of the day. Roy doesn’t need to bother making good impressions with a fancy suitcase on someone who will never see again, and will probably hate him for hurting her son if she ever knows the truth.

“Do you wanna pop by Tesco’s, by the way? For road trip snacks?” Jamie asks as Roy shuts and locks the door behind him.

“No,” Roy says, because it’s easier to say that than to say that Roy’s already tense about meeting Jamie’s fucking parents, and he doesn’t want to prolong it. Which is bullshit in and of itself, because there’s no fucking reason to be scared. It doesn’t matter if Jamie’s parents like him; he’s here as something between a favour and a contractual obligation.

Jamie seems to be utterly oblivious to Roy’s surliness, though, as he skips down Roy’s front steps. “I made a playlist, by the way. Hope you like Madonna.”

It’s a testament to the breath work Roy’s doing in yoga that he just heaves a sigh, tosses his suitcase in the boot of Jamie’s ridiculous car, and doesn’t kick Jamie in the fucking bollocks. 

“We’re really driving up to Manchester in this?” Roy asks as he slides into the passenger seat.

Jamie nods from his own seat as he fiddles with his phone. “Carla’s made the trip more times than you can count. Practically self-driving to Manchester at this point.”

“You named your car Carla?”

“Yeah, mate. It’s perfect, innit? Car la?”

Roy ignores that. “Don’t you want something more comfortable for long drives?” he asks instead, trying to avoid smacking his shoulder in the tiny car as he pulls on his safety belt.

“Hey, Carla’s got leather seats and fucking butt-warmers. She’s plenty comfortable.” Jamie pats the dash fondly. “‘Sides, I don’t see you with a different option, do I?”

Point taken, so Roy just shrugs and lets the dulcet tones of “Like a Prayer” fill the car as Jamie backs down Roy’s drive.

“So,” Jamie hums as he turns off of Roy’s street. “Team Edward or Jacob?”

Fucking hell, this is going to be a long drive.

Though the endless barrage of Madonna alternated with Aitch, Britney Spears, and “Mummy’s rock” makes Roy want to die, he’s actually in a decent mood by the time they pull into a neatly lined drive on a council estate in north Manchester.

Something about not being in London, not having to look at his fucking face, ten years younger and fifteen times faster, plastered in every bar, shop, and bus station has Roy’s breathing coming easier, his hands feeling lighter. Sure, it means he has to look at Haaland’s fucking mug instead, but Roy can handle that.

Part of it has to be Jamie, too. Even though the lad is constantly, terrifyingly chipper, he reaches a new level of giddiness once they merge onto A5063. He’s practically thrumming. It only increases in intensity as he parks the car, literally sprinting out as soon as the engine’s off.

“Mummy!” he shouts up at the window of the row house instead of knocking, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a puppy.

“Fucking muppet,” Roy mutters without any malice, stepping out of the car and going to grab his suitcase.

He hears a door bang open, and then a dark-haired woman is sprinting out the door, jumping into Jamie’s arms as he picks her up and spins her around. It’s cute, and Roy finds himself grinning at it. He would school his face back to neutral, but he’s supposed to be dating Jamie. Of course he’d find this cute.

Really, the fact that Roy thought it was cute before even remembering what he’s supposed to be doing here is a testament to how used to the contact he is, rather than anything fucking else.

“You look stunning, baby,” Georgie says when Jamie puts her down, brushing her fingers through Jamie’s hair. “Christ, look at those abs. Carved out of fucking marble, aren’t they?” She places a manicured hand on Jamie’s stomach, and the only word for the sound Jamie produces is a giggle.

Jamie shifts as she does it, which means Georgie’s eyes lock onto Roy’s. They immediately go wide, and she walks over to the boot of Jamie’s car, manicured hand extended.

“You must be Roy,” she says, much more tamped down than she was while hugging Jamie, but seeming no less excited.

“Hi,” Roy replies, taking her hand and shaking it firmly. Jamie must get his warmth from her; her palm is nearly boiling in Roy’s grip.

Georgie gives him a smooth look up and down, eyebrows drawn together. Roy knows when he’s being appraised, so he just stands up straight and hopes she doesn’t mind the old leather jacket, the black jeans he’s probably worn a few too many times without washing.

“Jamie’s told me a lot about you,” she finally says, patting Roy’s forearm. “He didn’t lie about the handsomeness. You’re even cuter in person.”

“Mummy,” Jamie complains from the front of the car, where he’s reaching in to grab his phone.

Roy quirks a smug eyebrow at him. Sure, they’re meant to be dating, but that’s no reason to call him handsome. It’s nice to feel like Jamie's the one on the back foot for once, rather than Roy scrambling.

Jamie must pick up on that, though, because he’s quickly coming around and winding an arm around Roy’s waist, tilting his head up to kiss Roy’s cheek, like some perverted game of contractual-dating chicken.

“Let’s get you settled, okay?”

Roy follows Jamie and Georgie up the few stairs to their front door and into the house. The home is modest but clearly well-loved. The narrow hall is dominated by a staircase with warped stairs, but it’s been polished until it gleams. The paint on the walls is old and chipped, but it’s cleared of spiderwebs in all the corners and lined with yellowing family photos. The smell, though, is far fucking nicer than the house itself. It smells fucking insane, like baking bread and garlic and cheese, and Roy can’t keep himself from groaning involuntarily.

Roy’s almost surprised that Jamie, the epitome of form over function, from his car to the complicated-looking trainers on his feet, grew up here. Still, Jamie’s clearly comfortable here, slinging his blue duffel bag off near the stairs and toeing off his shoes.

“Jamie,” a man yells from the back of the house before running in. He’s in a strawberry-printed apron, greying hair mussed and beard dusted with flour. He smushes Jamie in a tight hug, and Roy can see more than hear Jamie laughing, peaceful and relaxed.

“Simon, love,” Georgie says gently, twining her fingers through his hair. It’s the picture of a happy family when the prodigal son returns, and Roy feels wrong-footed for a bare moment before Georgie adds, “Come meet Roy.”

Simon kisses the top of Jamie’s head before turning to Roy and sticking out a flour-coated hand.

“I’m Simon,” he says, awkwardly formal. He pulls his hand back after a moment and wipes it on his apron. “Don’t shake that, maybe. Sorry; been making brioche for our Jamie, here. His favourite.”

Simon whispers the last part like it’s a secret, like he expects Roy to remember and care about Jamie’s favourite bread.

It makes Roy’s chest a bit tight at the fact that Simon’s right; Roy finds himself mentally jotting that bit of info down, right next to Phoebe’s hatred of beets and Keeley’s love of kimchi.

“Good to know,” Roy grunts simply. “Roy.”

Simon beams at him as if muttering his name was all Roy needed to do to win him over.

“Simon, Roy’s a dead good cook if you want an assistant,” Jamie chimes in from over Simon’s shoulder.

“Is that so?” Simon grins and bonks Roy’s bicep with his elbow, careful not to touch him with his floury hands. “Well, dinner’s ready, but maybe tomorrow. Hope you like artichokes, boys.”

Jamie grabs Roy’s bag from him and places it at the foot of the stairs before following Simon and Georgie into the kitchen.

The kitchen’s much like the rest of the house: well-loved, but shabby. The walls are painted a cheery yellow and covered in decorative plates and the sort of Home is Where the Wine is signs that Roy associates with his yoga group, and the beige Formica countertops are crowded with different kitchen gadgets that not even Roy knows all the names of, but there’s a hint of water damage in some of the corners and scuffs on the cream linoleum on the floor. There’s a small, circle table smushed into the corner, its blonde wood scraped in some places and gouged out in others, but it’s topped with a vase of violets and floral placemats, set with green porcelain plates and stemless wine glasses filled with white.

Roy knows Jamie has the money to remodel the entire place, and Roy would assume that Jamie would want to, judging by the way he’s so fucking cosy with his parents, but all of it seems like original council estate, down to the millimetre gap between the floor and the baseboards. Roy recognises that sort of cheap building from his own childhood flat, and it tweaks something weird in his gut.

Just like the rest of the house, though, the smell makes it fucking lush. The scents from the entryway of garlic and cheese are even more intense here, steaming out of the oven that Simon is opening with practised ease.

“It’s a new recipe, so go easy on me,” Simon says as he removes a ceramic dish from the oven and places it on a trivet on the table. It smells fucking ridiculous, and Roy finds his mouth literally watering. He’d be embarrassed about it, but then Georgie leans over the dish and takes a deep whiff, putting her face so close to the ceramic that Roy’s half-worried she’ll burn her nose.

“Smells so good, baby,” Georgie says happily before sliding into one of the cramped chairs pressed to the wall. 

“Simon’s never made anything bad,” Jamie tells Roy almost conspiratorially before slipping into the seat next to his mum and patting the chair next to him in invitation. “Scones excluded,” he adds with a wink to Simon.

“No taste, this one,” Georgie sighs.

“Well, I hope this is better. Orzo and artichokes. Now tuck in, lads, while it’s still hot.”

“Thank fuck,” Jamie sighs, scooping a large portion onto his plate. “Roy’s not one for cheeky road trip snacks. Nearly ate me own arm.”

“You could’ve fucking said something,” Roy mutters with a light swat to Jamie’s arm.

It just makes him smile, like pushing Roy’s fucking buttons is his third favourite activity after wearing ugly clothing and slathering himself in Lynx.

“Too late now, innit?” Jamie says with a smirk, shoving a steaming bite into his mouth.

The next few minutes are quiet other than the scraping of plates and various compliments about the food through full mouths. It is fucking good. Better than anything Roy’s ever managed to make, and he’s no slouch himself.

Jamie only pipes up after finishing his second helping. “Fuckin’ mint,” he groans, pushing his empty plate away from him.

“Tarragon, actually,” Simon replies, his eyes flashing to Roy like he’s ready for Roy to crack up at his shitty joke.

And it isn’t funny, but Roy finds himself smiling anyway, feeling warm and sleepy.

“So,” Georgie says, taking a sip from her glass of white. “Jamie tells us you’re a footballer.”

It isn’t the least tactful way someone has brought up Roy’s career, much less from a partner or pretend partner’s parents. Shit, with Lexi, his on-again-off-again fling for half of his twenties, her parents asked him if he would ever do anything to bring actual value to the world. Didn’t exactly help that they were Spurs fans, either.

“Yeah,” Roy says evenly. “Midfielder for Richmond.”

“Terrible, that relegation,” Simon adds.

The comment, light and innocent as it is, stings, and Roy reaches for his own water glass. Awkward family dinners doesn’t mean he can start drinking again – the cheese in the pasta is probably bad enough.

“Saw that, eh?” Roy hedges.

“We’re a Man City family,” Jamie stage-whispers helpfully. It’s a miracle that Roy keeps his head from whipping around to look at him, make it seem more like a friendly reminder than a fucking confession.

And, shit, Roy really should’ve fucking talked to Jamie about his fucking footy club before they started this, especially if it was fucking Man City. Last season, they’d already had the league locked up. There was no fucking reason to beat Richmond by fucking four unless it was just to humiliate them. Fucking of course Jamie and his parents watched that match.

“Born and bred,” Georgie says, with just a twinge of regret in her voice. “Now that you’re dating, Jamie, though, you’ll be our favourite Championship side.”

“Might not last long. They’re well on their way to being promoted, Mummy,” Jamie chimes in, resting his hand on Roy’s thigh. It’s probably just a staged way to make him look more serious about Roy, but Roy’s grateful for both the contact and the interruption. Helps soothe him.

Can’t go getting pissed at his fake-boyfriend’s parents for tickling a sore spot they have no idea about, after all.

“Oh, yes,” Simon says helpfully. “Saw that last match against Nottingham, by the way. Were a real shame, that tackle in the eightieth minute.”

Roy takes another gulp of wine.

“You were amazing, love,” Jamie says quickly, planting a quick kiss on Roy’s cheek. Between the fucking conversation and the petname, Roy feels the tips of his ears going hot. He never used to fucking blush before Jamie. He should probably get that shit checked out – might be a disease he’s picked up.

Roy can’t wonder too much about it, though, because Jamie is thankfully spinning the conversation away from him. “Mummy, how is Sandra at the chippy, by the way?”

Roy exhales slowly as Georgie launches into a story about a woman somehow confusing fucking mayonnaise with cleaning fluid, and Roy is able to relax into his chair, spotlight firmly off him for the moment. Jamie’s hand is still on Roy’s thigh, the thumb running back and forth along the outside seam of Roy’s jeans.

It would be a little much, but it feels kind of nice. Plus, Georgie clearly spots it, just from the angle, and it makes her mouth lilt in a smile despite the story she’s telling. Good; maybe she’ll tell someone at work who’ll tell someone else who’ll leak it to The Sun. Anything to boost their authenticity or whatever.

The conversation is able to continue without many contributions from Roy for the rest of dinner. They talk about how Jamie’s campaign with that mousse company is going (“Mint. Look at this volume, innit?”), Simon’s latest haul at the farmer’s market (Jersey Royals for cheap), and Georgie’s latest audiobook (“I knew Fifty Shades would be randy, but my God!”).

Roy doesn’t have to really talk at all other than a few polite hmms or “Is that so?”s until Jamie volunteers them to clean up and they’re standing over the sink, Jamie washing, Roy drying and putting the dishes back into the plywood cabinets at Jamie’s direction.

“Sorry about the questions, mate,” Jamie says quietly as he scrubs a large pot. “They don’t mean anything by it.”

Roy shakes his head, but Jamie doesn’t see, nose buried in the sink. “It’s fine. I’ve had fucking worse.”

“Still. I know that were uncomfortable.”

Roy shrugs and wipes a fork down with a tea towel. “Not your fault.”

“Kind of is. They’re my parents, you know?”

“Believe me, this is nothing. Dated this girl Emmy when I was about twenty-five. My grandmother had just died, and they asked why, if I had all that money, I didn’t do something to help her.”

Jamie snorts and shakes his head, rinsing off the pot. “You’re fucking joking, right?”

Roy finds himself aiming a half-smile at the back of Jamie’s head before he schools it down. “Dead fucking serious.”

Jamie passes Roy the pot, and dutifully turns back to a cutting board. “Fucking ridiculous. Worst I ever had was right after I moved to London. Were dating this bloke, Fred.”

“Shit name.”

“It really fucking was, mate. Like, go by Freddy or something, right? Anyway, he wanted me to meet his parents. They lived in fucking Knightsbridge.”

Roy scoffs; he’d sooner cut off his own dick than have to meet someone from Knightsbridge, much less fucking date them.

“And Fred weren’t not a posh twat, you know, but his parents were something else. Fucking mansion, live-in cook kind of thing.” Jamie pauses to squirt more soap onto the dish sponge. His forearm works as he does it, and it shouldn’t be hot, shouldn’t be anything but bland, but Roy finds himself studiously looking down at the pot in his hands rather than at Jamie.

“I’d just finished my first modelling contract, you know?” Jamie continues. “Were for Primark pants, of all things. Willy were blasted to the entire world.” Jamie grins, and Roy isn’t sure if it’s out of pride or shame. “I’d used my first paycheque on some nice stuff. Gucci tracksuit, Versace shades, Louis Vuitton bum bag, that sort of thing. I wanted to look decent for Fred’s parents, right, so I get dolled up in this Dolce jacket and Balenciaga slacks. Fred picked me up, didn’t say a fucking word.

“We walk in, and they look at me like fucking dirt, innit? Give me and once-over and all. And Fred’s mum, she’s wearing this big brooch, right, and she takes it off and puts it in her pocket. And I hear her a few minutes later tell the maid to use the other flatware. Didn’t want me near her family silver.”

Jamie ought to say it bitterly, but he’s looking at Roy with a wide grin, as if to laugh at that fucking cunt without even an idea of it hurting his feelings. It should be overly confident, overly much, but Roy finds himself laughing, too.

“Like you could steal anything in Balenciaga trousers,” Roy snorts. “Shit runs so tight, your arse would pop the seams before you get anything in your pocket.”

Colour lights Jamie’s face momentarily before he turns back to the dishes.

Fucking hell, that sounded like Roy checking out his arse. And, yeah, it’s kind of impossible not to when Jamie looks like that, but that must cross a line of some sort. A professional one, if not a contractual one. Though, whatever professional lines should exist probably don’t when your job is to be someone’s fake boyfriend.

Still, Roy should feel embarrassment, or at least discomfort, at the accidental innuendo. Instead, he just finds himself studying the splotch of pink at the back of Jamie’s neck with not a little interest. If they were dating, he’d kiss it. Sink his teeth into it. As it is, he shouldn’t be wanting to.

But, fuck him, he does.

“Had something like that once,” Roy says quickly, almost as a distraction, or maybe just to soothe Jamie’s blush, unbidden. “Took my first Sunderland cheque and cashed it into fives. About eight thousand quid for one week, all in fives.”

Jamie turns and raises an eyebrow. His ears are still pink.

“Took it home and spread that shit on the bed. Called a girl I’d seen once or twice and told her to come over. Didn’t have Fred money, but she was fucking posh. She opened the door, I took her upstairs, and she laughed in my face. Told me I was embarrassing, that I should invest in real estate instead of whatever the fuck I was doing.”

“What did you do?” Jamie asks, scrubbing a plate.

Roy grimaces as he says, “Told her nothing was realer than the state of my knob and she oughta give it a squeeze.”

Jamie laughs so hard he almost drops the fucking plate. “How’d she take to that?” he asks through giggles.

Roy takes the plate and begins dutifully drying it before responding, “How do you fucking think? Slapped me and got a cab home.”

Jamie shrugs. “Fair play. You ever see her again?”

“A few years later, yeah. When I got the call-up for England, she texted me. She was in Sunderland, and drove down to fucking Cobham to see me. Asked if we could fuck on a pile of money again.”

“Did you?” Jamie asks, washing abandoned, eyes wide.

If Roy had the minutest more shame, he would blush or obfuscate or something. But he stands proud, puts the plate on the counter, and states simply, “Of course not. Had to run to the bank first.”

Jamie hiccoughs with laughter again, burying his face into his arm as he does like he wants to keep it down, like he’s embarrassed by the way tears are pricking at the corner of his eyes. The action rubs suds onto the tip of his nose, just a bare few bubbles. He doesn’t even seem to notice, still laughing into his forearm.

Roy’s only a step away. Not even. Half a step really. Roy hadn’t noticed it before. Either way, though, it doesn’t take any thought, nor hardly any movement, to reach in with his thumb and swipe the bit of soap up. The tip of Jamie’s nose is just as fucking warm as the rest of him always is, the puff of his breath feeling tingly on Roy’s fingers. Roy draws his hand back quickly.

Jamie jumps when Roy pulls back, just a fraction, like the contact isn’t what startled him, but the moving away. Jamie’s eyes dart to the empty doorway like he expects someone to be watching them. When he sees it’s empty, he turns back to Roy, still smiling crookedly.

“Shit,” Jamie says, shaking his head and picking up the final plate to wash. “You’re such a knob.”

“How?” Roy asks, feeling his eyes crinkle with a smile. “Just did what she asked.”

Jamie shakes his head. “Can’t believe you’re telling me about fucking a bird on a literal pile of money with me parents in the next room.”

“What’re you going to do about it? Break up with me?” Roy sidles closer, leaning against the other side of the sink. He doesn’t have much height on Jamie at all, but the scant inch feels more solid now.

“Probably ought to, eh?” Jamie sighs, handing Roy the final plate to dry.

“That would be shit,” Roy muses, setting the plate down on the counter. “I’d hate to see you in court for breach of contract.”

“You would.” Jamie takes a half step toward Roy, bumping him with his hip. “I look dead fucking fit in a suit. Would have you popping a stiffy on the stand.”

“That so?” Roy asks. His fingers seem to have a mind of their fucking own, and they come up to bump Jamie’s chin lightly with the knuckles of his first and index. It could be friendly – he’d probably do the same to Sam if they were faffing around – but the scrape of Jamie’s stubble catches on Roy’s fingers, and it fucking makes sparks jerk up Roy’s arm.

It doesn’t feel like that fucking around with Sam. Like if Roy could, he’d touch that stubble for far fucking longer.

Jamie puts a stop to that, though, taking a quick stumble back. He’s still grinning, but it’s not quite up in his eyes anymore. He even seems to deflate a bit, his chest puffing out less.

“I hope we’re able to be friends after the contract ends,” Jamie says softly.

Roy suddenly feels fucking cold, even in the warm yellow kitchen with the hottest person – absolutely no fucking pun intended – mere steps away. Like an ice cube has been slipped into his bloodstream. Tension that Roy didn’t know he’d let go of suddenly ratchets up his spine.

Friends.

It’s a normal fucking word. One that Roy uses for some of the closest people in his life, like Keeley. One that shouldn’t have him grateful he’s leaning against the counter so he can ground himself on the cool porcelain of the sink rather than shatter apart here and now. It’s a word that should even be fucking nice to hear.

But using friends in relation to Jamie is making Roy fucking ill. Co-workers, he can understand. Fake-lovers, too. But for some fucking reason, friends has him curling his toes into fucking fists inside his combat boots.

“Me too,” Roy grunts after a moment. “Anyway, I might head to bed. Long drive.”

Jamie’s expression shifts just a hair. Roy can’t quite tell in what direction it goes – it’s just a smoothing of his brow, a blink that goes a beat too long.

“Yeah, sure,” Jamie says, voice a bit rough. He coughs into his fist before jerking his head toward the doorway. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Sorry about the room,” Jamie says, tone noticeably more even as he shoves open one of the doors at the end of the hall upstairs. “I weren’t quite sure how to explain to Mummy that you’d need a separate bed-”

“It’s fine,” Roy interrupts. It is; he can scoot to one end of the bed and Jamie on the other. He’s not a homophobe or anything. He doesn’t mind sharing a bed with a friend. Because that’s all they are: friends.

Which makes Roy wonder if his fucking head has been flipped upside down, or if he’s been fucking drugged or something, when Jamie opens the door.

The room itself is just a childhood bedroom. The walls are painted a soft, Man City blue, adorned with posters of models and Polaroid photos. There’s one of Jamie with his mum at the Eiffel Tower, another with a group of obscenely tall, beautiful women in front of the Trevi fountain. There’s little ceramic ducks on half a dozen separate surfaces, a few stuffed ones on the small bed, tucked into a football-patterned comforter. The walls are lined with bookshelves, stuffed to bursting with titles ranging from Gaudi’s Architecture to Diary of a Wimpy Kid.

Average. Normal.

But the piece de resistance, though, that has Roy’s stomach dropping into his fucking shoes, is a poster of fucking Roy. Fifteen years younger, sure, with a fucking mullet and six pack to match, but it’s him. It was a campaign he had done for Burberry, right after he signed with Chelsea. He was no fucking model, sure, but it wasn’t too hard to look brooding in one direction and then the other, especially with the cheque he’d gotten.

In this shot, memorialised on glossy A0 paper, Roy’s shirtless under a massive tweed jacket, leaning on some ledge near an ocean with brown trousers cinched so tight and close around his waist, he’s pretty sure he can make out each of individual fucking balls. His abs are tight and prominent, dusted with hair that the production crew had brushed into submission. It looks like he’s in the light of some sunset by the way his skin is going golden, but Roy knows it was just the lighting. They’d shot that during a grey fucking day in Bristol, after all.

“The fuck?” Roy finds the air to say. What fucking friend has this in his fucking room?

“Surprise?” Jamie chimes in. He’s tucked his hands up into his shirt. It looks ridiculous, since it’s a crop top, barely stretching over his chest. 

“Why do you have that?”

“Had it since I was a kid, innit?” Jamie says.

“Why?”

“They were handing them out at Jack Wills,” he says, like Roy’s an idiot for even bringing it up. He’s not flushing in any way that belies embarrassment, but he fucking ought to, especially if they’re just fucking friends.  

And Roy probably shouldn’t be letting this rankle him as badly as it is. “Friends” doesn’t have any connotations out of the ordinary of what they should be, of what Jamie and Roy actually are. Besides, Jamie has the least shame of any bastard Roy has met, outside of whatever embarrassment his mum brings him. Of course he doesn’t mind having wank material of his friend, even if it is making the orzo and artichokes sit like a fucking stone in Roy’s belly.

“Why do you still fucking have it?” Roy says, throat tight for some godforsaken reason.

Jamie rolls his eyes, even as his hands are still tucked into his shirt. “Hot, innit? You look dead fit in those trousers, mate.”

Who the fuck says that to their friend?  

“Fucking creepy.”

“You don’t know the half of it. Used to have it on my ceiling, you know.”

Roy swallows down any and all mental images that conjures up. Jamie with his cock in hand, staring up at the ceiling. Roy’s face, albeit brooding and without eye contact, being the first thing Jamie sees in the morning.

Fucking hell. Roy ought to get electroshock therapy, the way Rachel suggested he do when they fought as teenagers. If Roy was having these thoughts about any of his other fucking friends, he would. As it is, he still might have to.

“Don’t give a shit,” Roy just says stiffly. “Take it down.”

“Shit, man, I’ll cover your face with a Post-It. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, granddad.” Jamie sighs and blows a bit of hair out of his face. “And here I thought the thing you’d be all tetchy about would be sharing a bed.”

Of course, for some fucking reason, it’s only then that Roy realises Jamie’s bed is a fucking single, and a smallish one at that. Jamie alone would be hanging off that bed if he tried to sleep on it alone, even without another grown fucking man trying to cram in. There’s no way for Roy to get space here, to spread to one end of the bed.

No way to leave a friend with an appropriate amount of personal space.

Jamie snorts, his hands moved down from his shirt and into his pockets. “Jesus, you look like you’re going to puke.”

“Sorry you have fucking wank material of me and now you’re expecting me to give you a fucking cuddle all night.”

Jamie winces at that, and Roy’s insides immediately begin shredding themselves to pieces. Roy isn’t even sure why he’s being a fucking prick, but he can’t seem to stop. His skin is too fucking small for his body, stretched uncomfortably over his bones.

“I’ll sleep on the floor, okay?” Jamie says, voice the tiniest bit quieter than it was before. 

“You don’t need to do that,” Roy says quickly, because as much as he’s an arsehole, he’s not going to kick his- friend off his own fucking bed.

“Well, you can’t fucking do it. You’d shatter.”

And Roy wants to protest, but Jamie isn’t fucking wrong. He isn’t the lithe, muscled twat from the Burberry photoshoot. He’s a middle-aged prick using a man fifteen years his junior for fucking media attention. Roy’s far the fuck from that Burberry advert.

“We can just share. It’ll be fine.”

Jamie’s eyes narrow carefully, assessing. “Don’t bullshit me, mate. I can take the fucking floor.”

“It’ll be fine.”

And it is fine, at least for the twenty minutes Roy’s laying back in Jamie’s childhood bed while Jamie takes a shower.

Roy’s a geriatric, so he can’t look at fucking screens before bed, and he forgot his fucking Kindle, so he just lays there, staring at the ceiling. It’s a perfectly decent bed, which is saying something, considering that Roy shells out a truly inhuman amount of cash for a fresh memory foam mattress every two years. It’s fucking . . . nice. The smell of detergent on fresh sheets, the sound of water running in the adjacent bathroom.

Roy can’t fucking explain, then, why his stomach is roiling, sweat beading on his fucking forehead. It isn’t just the poster, either – Roy feels just as sick looking at it as not. He’s been fucking ill since Jamie fucking called him a friend, which is fucking bullshit.

Of course they’re friends. Roy doesn’t want anything more. For one, Jamie is a means to an end. Roy’s nearly fucking forty – he isn’t about to date some model/reality star fucker unless there’s a purpose to it. For two, Roy’s nearly fucking forty. He doesn’t have fucking crushes anymore. He hasn’t since he was in fucking primary school.

But that doesn’t explain how Roy felt in that fucking kitchen tonight, with his fingers brushing Jamie’s stubble. It doesn’t explain the way Roy felt in Rachel’s fucking kitchen almost two weeks ago, with Jamie holding Roy’s injured hand and standing in his fucking space.

And those times were nothing they hadn’t done before, at coffee or the gala or even on Roy’s front stoop, but the times in Roy’s kitchen and here feel . . . different. Those times, Roy’s heart wasn’t having fucking palpitations, for one. For two, Jamie wasn’t whispering to Roy what he should do or say. And, yeah, that had been infinitely helpful every time previous, but still.

Those times felt like it could have been real.

But Roy can’t analyse why that thought makes his chest squeeze, because then the door is opening, Jamie walking in with his hand over his eyes.

“You decent?” Jamie asks, kicking the door shut behind him.

Roy rolls his eyes. “Yeah.”

Jamie puts his hand down and smiles at Roy. His hair is wet, sticking up in weird angles, his blue T-shirt overly large and soft-looking. He has a pair of black boxer-briefs on, and the shirt’s too long for Roy to see anything he wouldn’t if Jamie weren’t just wearing a tight pair of trousers, but he still feels his cheeks heat an iota.

Fucking stop, Roy tells himself viciously. He’s not your fucking boyfriend. He’s not your crush. He’s just a friend.

“So,” Jamie muses, plopping down on the edge of the bed. He’s keeping space between them, but Roy can smell his fucking conditioner, feel the heat radiating off of him through his shirt. “You a big spoon or little?”

If it had been a week ago, or even a day, really, Roy would have choked or shoved Jamie or something. But, maybe because of how fucking . . . Jamie he’s been all day, Roy just scoots over mutely and turns to face the wall.

“Little spoon, then. I can work with that.”

Jamie turns off the light and settles in behind Roy, a heavy, solid weight, and suddenly it feels way, way too close.

Jamie’s carefully not touching Roy, but there’s just not fucking space. Roy can feel his breaths on the back of his neck, the pressure of him keeping his elbows tucked in.

“Can I steal some covers, mate?” Jamie whispers, as if he’s trying not to startle Roy. “Fucking chilly.”

Roy tugs a handful back toward Jamie. The movement makes his elbow bump Jamie’s chest, and Roy’s breath hitches involuntarily. It’s fucking stupid. For fuck’s sake, he’s acting like a teenage fucking girl sharing a sleeping bag with a boy on a fucking camping trip. Every tiny fucking shift of Jamie’s body has Roy tensing or twitching.

“You alright?” Jamie asks after his wrist brushes the back of Roy’s neck and Roy jerks so hard he nearly knees himself in the stomach.

“Fucking fine. Small bed, innit?”

Jamie hums in acknowledgement, and the breath tickles the back of Roy’s neck. Roy’s momentarily grateful for his age; if he were any younger, he might be popping a stiffy from sheer proximity. And fucking hell, Roy would need that fucking shock therapy if that happened.

“I can move to the floor,” Jamie reminds Roy after a moment.

“I’m not kicking you out of your own fucking bed. It’s just a fucking bed,” Roy hisses back.

“Jesus, fine.”

Jamie stills, and Roy takes a deep, steady breath, letting his eyes slip closed, his breathing go even. He’s forced himself to sleep the night before a World Cup, before his first Champions’ League match. Squished in a tiny fucking bed next to his fucking fake boyfriend is nothing. Roy ought to be snoring like a baby.

Except, it’s fucking Jamie, so that’s impossible.

“I’m gonna roll over, okay?” Jamie tells him.

“You don’t need to fucking announce it.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jamie whispers. The bed shifts again, the covers with it, until Roy is left with nothing but half a fucking inch of sheet over his hip.

“Oi,” Roy hisses, “you took all the fucking blankets, you knob.”

“My bad,” Jamie admits, scooting back closer to Roy. It gives him more blankets, sure, but it also presses Jamie’s fucking arse right on the lumbar curve of Roy’s spine. And, shit, Roy’s watched the thing in a suit, in pyjama shorts, in fucking briefs, but sight doesn’t do the thing justice.

Jamie’s arse plush and firm against Roy’s back, far more fucking muscled than Roy thought it would be. He’s had plenty of fucking bums pressed to his groin, in his hands, on his fucking face. Feeling one on his fucking back should garner nothing beyond maybe a muttered, “Shove off.”

Instead, though, Roy feels his entire fucking body go stiff, every muscle coiled, ready to run out of the bed, out of the room, out of fucking Manchester entirely. It was a mistake to come here, a mistake to agree to this fake-dating shit with fucking Jamie, of all people, who’s fucking gorgeous and funny and caring and making Roy regret ever signing any sort of contract.

Because, Roy realises with a weird, double-thump in his heart, Roy wants to be actually dating Jamie.

If they were really dating, he’d be able to tease Jamie for the fucking poster on his wall, then fuck him under it. He’d have the blanket permission to wrap his arm around Jamie’s waist and kiss the spot under his ear where Amy did on fucking LCA. He’d be able to put Jamie’s head on his fucking chest and let Jamie listen to him breathe.

But they’re here out of contractual obligation. Because Roy didn’t trust Jamie not to spread shit, so he made him sign an NDA as iron-clad as possible. So now Jamie has to lie to his fucking mum, has to share a tiny fucking bed with the ghost of the man he liked fifteen fucking years ago.

Roy ought to fucking leave. Getting minutes isn’t fucking worth it, is just extending his fucking life, prolonging his fucking funeral, and subjecting himself to fucking torture here.

“Roy? You okay?”

“Fucking fine.”

“You’re all tense.”

“Then maybe stop fucking touching me,” Roy snaps.

Of fucking course, Jamie ignores him, rolling back over, a hand landing on Roy’s upper arm, warm through the thin cotton of Roy’s T-shirt.

“Do you want me to go to the couch?”

No, Roy wants to say. No, I want you to move your hand down to my hip and fucking hold me. I want you to mean it when you introduce me to your parents. I want you to fucking want me here instead of tolerating me here.

“It’s fucking fine,” he says instead.

“Okay, man, just say the word.” Jamie settles back in, facing Roy’s back again. His elbow pokes Roy in the ribs as he does – it’s not hard at all, more of a nudge than anything fucking else, but Roy fucking jerks.

“Move your fucking elbow,” Roy hisses.

Jamie must be getting exasperated now, because he sighs, warm breath fanning all the fuck over Roy. He would curl into a ball, but he doesn’t have the fucking room.

“It’s a tight fit, innit?” Jamie says. “Fucking trying, here.”

Roy hitches a weird, uneven breath before saying, “You can touch me. Just don’t fucking poke me.”

For a second, Roy thinks he must have whispered it too quietly for Jamie to hear, because he’s carefully still for a long moment. Then the bed shifts yet again, and one of Jamie’s arms comes to rest on Roy’s side, the inside of his elbow notching into the slight curve of Roy’s waist like a fucking jigsaw puzzle.

He doesn’t cradle Roy or anything – there’s still a good few inches of space between Roy’s back and Jamie’s chest, and a few more between Roy’s front and Jamie’s forearm – but it’s a fucking cuddle. It’s far too nice for what it is, but the solid weight and fucking warmth of Jamie’s arm has Roy relaxing into the fucking single mattress like it’s his down-filled pillow and memory-foam bed at home after a good round of melatonin.

“This okay?” Jamie whispers hoarsely.

“Yeah. It’s good,” Roy murmurs.

“Good.” Jamie shifts minutely, still not close to touching Roy with anything except the side of his fucking elbow, but planting himself more solidly behind Roy. “‘Night.”

“‘Night,” Roy repeats, voice thick with something he can’t quite define. Maybe sleep, since he finds himself drifting off before he can even start to spiral about whatever the fuck they’re doing right now.

Chapter Text

Roy wakes up the next morning to a soft, weak light coming through the open blinds – fucking Manchester weather – and a cold bed.

“Jamie?” Roy asks quietly, voice thick with sleep, as he rolls over to face the rest of the room, but it’s empty. Even Jamie’s blue duffel is neatly zipped closed and placed next to the door.

Roy shoves a hand through his hair sleepily and grabs his phone. It’s barely half-six, but he has a text from Jamie, an hour old already, telling Roy he’s running to the farmer’s market with Simon to get the “good cheese,” whatever the fuck that is, before it sells out.

Roy perhaps should go back to sleep, especially because Jamie’s fucking shifting kept him from falling asleep for a good fucking hour, but when he lies back down, his eyes won’t close. He’s studying Jamie’s fucking ceiling instead, the little bits of BluTack still stuck to it from posters past.

Roy’s not quite restless, but he’s not sleepy either. When he was younger, he’d use that sort of energy to go on a long, solitary run, watching Sunderland or Cobham just starting to roll out of bed while he reached mile seven or eight.

Fuck it.

Roy’s half-sure he’ll get fucking killed, since it’s a council estate in fucking north Manchester, or, at the very least, get a fucking cold from the drizzle that hasn’t stopped since they hit the Midlands, but he finds himself pulling on a pair of athletic shorts he hadn’t expected to need and lacing up trainers he brought just in case. At least his chronic overpacking has served him well this time.

Georgie must still be asleep, because the house is deadly quiet as Roy walks down the stairs. He cringes when one of the stairs squeaks under his shoes, but no one stirs. Roy briefly imagines how Jamie must have been as a teenager, sneaking in from some party, first attempts at makeup clinging to his eyelids.

Roy can’t fucking believe that Georgie refuses to move out of the place. Jamie could buy her a mansion, or at least remodel the thing so she wouldn’t have to deal with chipped Formica countertops and scuffed linoleum floors. But he finds himself also a bit jealous.

Jamie’s childhood home almost makes Roy miss the shitty flat with his grandparents that they had to sell when his granddad died. He and Rachel had to split the living room floor as soon as she was too big for her crib, laying on piles of blankets to keep the hardwood from poking Roy’s ever-knobby knees.

And the shit they have now is far fucking nicer, but there’s something Roy can’t quite explain about the way this place makes him feel. There’s so many ghosts of Jamie here, from baby to gap-toothed kid to self-absorbed teenager. It’s special, personal in a way that Roy’s place just isn’t.

As Roy slips out the door and looks around the other rowhouses, something in Roy’s gut clenches. These are actually homes, from the dying gardens to the rusted swing sets. Rachel would probably tell Roy that he was romanticising poverty or whatever the fuck, but the fucking . . . comfort of the houses, of the neighborhood, makes him sting a bit.

He’s fucking homesick, like he hasn’t been since fucking Sunderland.

The realisation just makes him pick up his feet a bit faster.

Roy runs without music, nothing except the steady tempo of his feet and quick breaths, looping around the estate three or four times before he realises it’s half fucking eight, and he probably ought to be getting back before someone calls the authorities for a famous footballer kidnapping.

The run feels easier than it has in a while. When he runs now, it’s on the pitch while Beard trills his whistle and he laments the fact that he’s so fucking slow. Here, though, with the light drizzle wetting his T-shirt, it’s easy to just relax into it, to run for his own enjoyment, rather than to be the fastest.

And, shit, running drills used to be fun when he was the fastest, but now it just leaves him with a bitter taste in his mouth that lasts even fucking longer on Gail’s table while she wails on him until Roy feels like he’s dying.

He feels good today, though: light, fucking . . . content, even, as he pushes open Jamie’s front door. The house somehow smells even fucking better than it did last night, the fragrance of streaky bacon and something sweet wafting over Roy’s nose.

Roy follows his nose to the kitchen without thinking about it. Jamie is bent over the small, round table, eyes narrowed carefully as he stirs something. There’s a streak of flour on the side of his cheek.

“Roy!” Simon’s cheery voice says behind him, his hand clapping Roy on the shoulder. “The prodigal son-in-law returns.”

Jamie looks up, almost startled. He’s in a fucking apron, this one sage green and printed with fucking tulips, his hair held back by a matching headband. The T-shirt he’s wearing under it has the sleeves cut off, and Roy can see all of his fucking tattoos, the muscles shifting under his biceps as he continues to stir. It’s enough that Roy can’t even parse the “son-in-law” comment.

“Hey, babe,” Jamie says, expression smoothing into an easy smile. “Was wondering where you ran off to.”

It’s awfully fucking domestic, the way Jamie sidles up to him, planting a quick smack of a kiss on Roy’s cheek before going back to whatever the fuck he’s cooking. Roy fucking aches at it, at how much he wants it to be fucking real instead of a painfully well-acted charade.

But Jamie summed it up last night: Let’s be friends when the contract’s over.

He wants nothing more with Roy. No real mornings like this, where Roy comes home and Jamie’s happy to see him, more happy to get to kiss him. No evenings when Jamie bursts in the front door, covered in glitter and reeking of fucking vape smoke, and desperate to get Roy’s tongue in his mouth.

Roy won’t ever get that. So he has to settle for this, the performative, perfunctory kiss here and awkward, tense cuddle he got last night.

“Went for a run,” Roy mutters, embarrassed that he even let himself enjoy that fucking peck. He has to get a fucking grip, and soon, or it’s going to hurt even fucking worse in three short weeks, when the Prem season ends and Jamie fucks off to Belize to do LSDivas or whatever the fuck that new show is. “What are you making?”

“Crepes,” Jamie says, stepping aside to let Roy examine the batter. “Simon’s on fillings, I’m on batter.”

“Could use an extra hand to cook them, though,” Simon chimes in from the hob, where he’s carefully pushing bacon around a pan, eyes narrowed in concentration.

“I don’t want to fu- impose,” Roy stutters, partially because it’s true, and partially because he’s pretty sure if he looks at Jamie in that fucking apron again, he might do something fucking ridiculous or embarrassing, like ask him to extend the contract or kiss him or tell Keeley the deal’s off or some shit.

“Nonsense,” Simon huffs.

“Simon just doesn’t want me to burn ‘em. I ain’t much of a cook,” Jamie confesses with a wink.

“You’re a fine cook,” Simon argues, but he gives Roy a look over Jamie’s head that makes it clear he’d rather Roy be the one tending to the crepes.

“C’mon, babe, the batter’s almost ready. You just have to pour it in and flip. I’m right shit at the flipping part.”

Simon nods behind Jamie’s back, and Roy can’t help but crack a fucking smile.

“Fine. But you’re doing dishes, then,” Roy says to Jamie.

Which is how, half an hour later, Roy is still in his fucking running clothes, carefully working a spatula under the crepe to flip it. Jamie wasn’t lying about being a shit cook; the proportions are far off in the batter, making it way too runny to produce an even half-decent crepe. But Roy’s cooked with Phoebe before, so he doesn’t mind surreptitiously sprinkling in a bit more flour while Jamie sets the table.

Georgie’s joined them at this point in a floral dressing gown, her hair done up in rollers. She’d look like she was fucking eighty if not for the cleavage the robe shows and how her toenails are painted electric pink. Her and Jamie are sitting at the table, giggling over something on Jamie’s phone together, Georgie tapping manically at the thing.

It’s adorable, the way their heads are pressed together, Jamie still in his apron. Roy’s grateful for the shitty batter now – means he has to focus on that instead.

“They make a pair, don’t they?” Simon whispers from where he’s working on the counter next to Roy, chopping chives into incredibly neat little pieces.

“Yeah,” Roy grunts, flipping the crepe.

Simon waits for Roy to finish the move before he says, “You make him happy, you know. Haven’t seen him like this in ages.”

Roy glances over his shoulder where Jamie is batting at his mum’s hand, complaining about her swiping without permission.

“It’s mutual,” Roy replies, turning back to Simon.

“He loves you,” Simon adds without looking up from his chives. “‘Head over heels,’ he said at the market this morning.”

Roy snorts despite himself. Trust Jamie to be an overdramatic actor, even when it isn’t necessary.

“Me too,” Roy just says, because what the fuck else is he supposed to say to that, about someone who isn’t anything to Roy but a contractual obligation?

“Jamie means it when he loves people, Roy.” Simon’s looking up from his chives now, staring at Roy like he’s really trying to make a point. “He doesn’t love easily.”

“That so?” Roy asks as blithely as possible, doing his best to put the finished crepe on the plate without it tearing like his first three did.

“He’s never cried to us over a boy before.”

Roy stiffens, hand freezing on the bowl of batter mid-pour. “When did he cry about me?”

“Months ago. Said you had a first date and it went poorly. Didn’t elaborate.”

What the fuck? What the fuck?

Jamie hates lying to his parents. Why would he pretend that he was gutted over something that wasn’t fucking real?

There’d be no purpose to doing that, to sowing the seeds so deeply to his fucking parents, of all people, who are even less likely to go to the press than fucking Rachel, if the simple way they dote on and protect Jamie is any indication.

“I know it’s all fixed now,” Simon continues, oblivious to how tense Roy has gone. “He said you two got coffee and smoothed things over – but I want to be clear. Jamie may not be my blood, but he’s my son. And under all the hair and makeup, he’s sensitive.”

Roy swallows and puts the bowl back down. He’s poured far too much batter into the pan without thinking, and it’s going to run down the fucking sides if he’s not careful.

“He’s not delicate, mind you, but his heart is too big for his own good sometimes. A lot of times.”

“I understand,” Roy says gruffly, but Simon seems to disagree, shaking his head.

“He ever tell you about his dad?”

“No.” Roy glances over to where Jamie’s completely oblivious, leaning his head on his mum’s shoulder and absently pushing a blueberry around his plate with his fork.

“Man was a piece of shit.” The curse sounds foreign coming out of Simon’s cheery mouth, and Roy barely keeps himself from jumping. “Day he died was the best day of Georgie’s life. He beat her, and him.”

Roy can’t keep his eyes from sliding over to Jamie yet again. It doesn’t make a lick of fucking sense that, in this cheery yellow kitchen, with Jamie sipping a cuppa and snorting with laughter, could be anything different.

Roy wonders now about the scuffs on the linoleum, if they’re from fleeing feet rather than kids’ boots tracking in mud. If the missing slat in the bannister is from Jamie’s father ramming his head into it, rather than an innocent trip. If the stupid fucking Roy Kent poster was a show of defiance, of being out and fucking proud, than a perverted fascination with Roy. Makes him sick he ever thought otherwise, to be honest.

“Jamie was at the funeral with a black eye, and he was crying, anyway. Broke Georgie’s heart, and that breaks mine.” Simon returns to his chives, and he’s chopping away like they’re talking about the weather, though the threat is implicit in each neat slice. “I don’t want either of their hearts broken, okay? So, I don’t care if you break up tomorrow or in twenty years or never. You better do right by my boy.”

Roy feels a lump in his throat, unbidden, when he replies, “Yeah. ‘Course.” It’s only a few months until they’ll “break up,” anyway, no feelings to be hurt. Nothing real to make sure Roy is delicate about.

Yet the fact that Jamie asked so earnestly to still be friends with Roy, the fact that he was crying to his parents about Roy makes him hesitate.

He can’t think for too long, though, before Simon is scraping the chives on top of a platter of scrambled eggs and spinning around.

“Breakfast!” he announces boisterously, setting the plate down in the middle of the small kitchen table and pressing a warm kiss to Georgie’s cheek as he does. “Roy, how’re those crepes coming?”

“Nearly done.” Roy’s voice is rougher than makes sense as he takes the last crepe off the heat and brings it to the table.

Jamie doesn’t seem to notice at all. He just says, “Smells great, babe,” and links ankles with Roy once he sits down.

Throughout the meal, Roy keeps checking Jamie’s eyes for the smallest bit of discomfort or sadness or . . . something. It’s not that Roy thinks he can tell just from looking at someone if they were abused or not – he knows he fucking can’t after Rachel’s shit of an ex-husband – but it doesn’t make sense that Jamie’s so at ease with himself, with this place. It should drum up bad memories, the way Roy’s old flat does, so much so that he never wanders closer than the nearby pitch.

More than that, Roy can’t believe Jamie, so easy and confident, fucking cried over him. Why? When? Must’ve been after Roy was a right knob at their first meeting, if they’d gotten coffee after. But that could be a lie, too. Yet Jamie keeps it all under the surface with an easy smile and a ready laugh, a compliment or joke thrown in here or there for good measure.

Roy doesn’t think he says a word the rest of breakfast. Even after, he only thanks Georgie and Simon for their hospitality and helps Jamie load the car mutely. The drive back, too, he barely even complains about the Britney Spears Glee Cast recording Jamie sets up on the aux. 

Jamie keeps eyeing him warily, but Roy hardly even notices. What the fuck else is Jamie hiding?

Chapter Text

It hasn’t felt like this in ages. Nearly a decade, if Roy’s honest. Grass flying under his feet, ball obeying his every wish, defenders dropping to the side like flies with the slightest fake. The sun is warm on Roy’s back through his kit as he makes short work of Preston.

He fakes to Richard, watches his man lurch to the side, and launches a high, arcing pass to Sam. Roy doesn’t even need to look. The swoosh of the net and the screaming of the crowd are more than enough.

There’s only a minute left in injury time, and, with that, Richmond are up 2-nil.

Roy feels fucking young as he goes to crush Sam in a hug, sprinting faster than his knee’s allowed him to in fucking years.

He’s played a solid eighty minutes. And, sure, it was only because Goodman took a nasty fucking tackle that left his ankle swelling up, but minutes are fucking minutes. Ted could have gone to Bhargava, could’ve decided not to play anyone in a show of solidarity because he’s just that sort of Yankee wanker, but he picked Roy.

Roy is sure skill had something to do with it, and the fact that Preston is fucking slow enough that Roy wouldn’t cause any issues, but he also knows that the camera focusing on Jamie’s face when Ted was making the call probably didn’t hurt. Nor did the slew of tweets Keeley compiled for him earlier about people buying tickets for the match just to see “Jamie Tartt’s boyfriend” play.

It feels so fucking good to get minutes that Roy doesn’t even give a shit that Jamie just wants to be friends. The contract is fucking working, which is, at the end of the day, what fucking matters. As Roy had scrolled through the tweets on his iPad during breakfast, he nearly popped a stiffy at all the people who wanted to see him play.

And Roy fucking hates the paps, would rather be buried alive in human feces than have to do a Buzzfeed puppy interview or whatever the fuck Haaland does in his free time, but he can’t argue that “raising his profile,” as Keeley so euphemistically puts it, has finally given him the chance to play again.

Due credit to Jamie, as well. When it was clear they needed a substitute midfielder, Jamie had actually sat on the edge of his seat in the owner box, chewing on his full bottom lip and tugging on the strings of his Richmond hoodie so tightly that the cameramen practically had no choice but to put him on the screen, that Ted would look like a real fucking twat if he didn’t put Roy in.

Roy catches Jamie cheering for him now in the owner’s box, even though the camera’s focused on Sam and Sam’s dad. Jamie’s jumping up and down, hair flopping about. Roy’s stomach clenches pleasantly, and he’s not sure if it’s pride in his scoring or joy at how fucking well Jamie is doing at being Roy’s fake boyfriend.

The joy doesn’t dissipate as Roy faffs around on the pitch for the last minute, nor does it when he heads back into the dressing room. Through his shower, through slipping back into his normal clothes, his cheeks hurt in a way that he’s pretty sure means he’s smiling.

A fucking goal and a fucking assist in a 2-nil victory. It’s enough that Roy doesn’t even mind when Ted knocks lightly on his cubby. It’s tough to hear in the din of the dressing room after a win, so when Ted jerks his head toward his office in silent invitation, Roy doesn’t hesitate to go.

Keeley’s arranged for him and Jamie to get drinks after this, some place where they’ll be photographed going in and out, but phones are strictly banned inside. Roy’ll be able to relax, and, as long as he doesn’t discuss the contract full-out, treat Jamie as normally as possible without arousing any suspicions in the press.

Ted’s office is as controlled of chaos as usual, disorderly stacks of paper hidden under fancy paperweights. Beard’s at his desk, feet up, reading a book, and Nate is perched on the side table like the awkward gargoyle he is. Normal. But, on the other side of the desks, Higgins and fucking Ms. Welton are standing imposingly. Well, Higgins is fucking Higgins, so he looks as much of a nervous pencil-pusher as usual, but Ms. Welton looks serious in a cream pencil skirt and lavender blouse.

“What?” Roy asks once Ted shuts the door. He feels his jaw clench for the first time since that goal, tension returning to riddle his back and shoulders. Fucking hell.

“Great match,” Ms. Welton says, smiling. It looks uncomfortable, like it must hurt.

“Thanks.” Roy glances sidelong at Beard, since he’s the only one here he trusts not to use weird bullshit to obfuscate a point, but Beard is focused on his book, doesn’t bother looking up.

“Beautiful assist,” Higgins adds helpfully.

“Thanks,” Roy repeats.

There’s a painfully long pause before Nate jumps in. “Goodman’s ankle is sprained. He’s going to be out for a week at least.”

Roy waits for Nate to get to the fucking point, but the fucker clams up as soon as Roy looks at him. Perfect.

“You want me to sign a get well card or something?”

“Not exactly.” The pained smile is back on Rebecca’s face. Poor fucking thing – she should take  a paracetamol if she’s going to keep doing that.

“What Rebecca’s trying to say is that we’re just peachy keen on how you played today – What’s peachier than peachy keen? Pear keen? Lychee, maybe? – Anyway, wonderful job today,” Ted says, his eyebrows angled in such a way that Roy’s sure he thinks he’s being helpful.

“Thanks,” Roy says, yet a-fucking-gain. “That all?”

There’s another pause and awkward shuffling. Fucking hell. Roy almost wishes he was awkwardly flirting with Jamie in front of a hundred paps rather than stay here another moment.

“We want you to start against Blackburn next week,” Beard finally fucking says without looking up from his book.

Roy feels the grin stretching across his face before he processes anything, his belly going warm before he can even take a full breath.

“Of course,” he says, almost breathless.

He’s not sure it’s possible for Roy fucking Kent to feel giddy, but it’s certainly fucking possible for some lame fucker called Roy to. And, fuck, he does. He needs to buy Keeley a fucking car. Maserati or something. Jamie, too, to replace his tiny Aston Martin.

“Your contributions to this club are invaluable,” Rebecca adds. Her smile has softened into something resembling more a smirk of acknowledgement, for which Roy is grateful. Her expression was starting to make his own cheeks itch.

Roy nods and turns to go, but Ted interrupts. “Just one sec, Roy-o.”

Roy crosses his arms over his chest and nods for Ted to go on. Ted could tell him he has to be the kitman for a week or some shit, and Roy would just fucking do it. Anything to get to start again, to get to feel cool wind whip on his face as he notches the ball into the net in the first thirty fucking seconds of regulation. Anything to play a full fucking ninety, feel like he’s twenty again, fit and strong and so fucking talented that he could play hungover, drunk, or anything in between and still be better than fucking everyone.

“Go on,” Roy says, hoping he looks intimidating even though he knows he doesn’t, between his still-damp hair and the fucking smile he can’t seem to tamp down.

Ted leans over and rustles in his desk for a painfully long moment before pulling out a small glass football mounted on a sleek black stand.

Roy recognizes it, of course he does, but it still doesn’t click. It can’t.

He hasn’t fucking got one of these since fucking Chelsea, even with the shallow pool of talent that make up the majority of the Richmond squad.

“We’re very excited to present this to one Mr. Kent, perhaps one of the greatest football legends of our modern time, an incredible captain, and a darn handsome man, too. Roy, your Man of the Match trophy.”

Ted can barely finish his sentence before the dressing room fucking explodes behind Roy. He fucking jumps as the door bursts open, half-dressed and overly excited footballers swarming into Ted’s tiny office, shouting and clapping him on the back and tugging him into hugs.

He catches Isaac yelling “Fuck yeah, bruv!” and Sam whooping and Jan Maas saying something fucking twatty like, “It was one assist. Are we really celebrating this intensely?”

It washes over Roy like the champagne shower from when he won the fucking Champions League, smooth and cool and so fucking good.

The ache in his knee doesn’t matter, the constantly impending fears of his growing irrelevance are abated, and all that’s left is a warm feeling deep his chest, spreading through to his fucking fingertips.

“We’re going fucking out tonight, lads!” Roy shouts over the din, which just gets louder at his announcement. Keeley can figure out another night for him and Jamie to get papped at drinks.

Tonight, he’s fucking going to the club like he hasn’t since he was fucking thirty.

Sure, he can’t pull, lest he jeopardise the fucking Faustian deal Keeley has wrought for him, but it doesn’t even matter. He’s earned this. He's going to get drunk for the first time since the fucking off-season, dance shittily the way he always does, and maybe treat himself to an episode of LCA and a lazy hour with his Fleshlight when it’s all fucking done.

Not a bad fucking night for a geriatric.

The club they wind up at is crowded and hot. Roy’s lost his shirt somewhere in the night, between shots of vodka and some pink, glow-in-the-dark concoction that Isaac had shoved into his hand with a smile and gentle wink, leaving Roy in a pair of black jeans that are wet with something he hopes is water and combat boots that are sticking to the fucking dance floor.

Roy’s a right shit dancer, but he’s too drunk to give a shit. He hasn’t had a single fucking drop since the fucking off-season, and it’s hit him all at once, flushing his face and leaving his head heavier than a bowling ball. It’s quite fucking nice.

“Roy!” someone yells in his ear, tugging at his arm.

Roy whirls around, sees Keeley standing there in impossibly high heels and a gold mesh thing that probably counts as a dress, but certainly ought not to.

“Hey,” Roy shouts over the din, still swaying absently.

“Jamie just got here! You wanna go kiss him? I’ll put it on my Instagram.”

There’s a small, sober part of Roy’s brain that thinks of that as a violation. There’s another bit that’s peeved and wants to be left alone to drink and dance and drink as he sees fit. And, a tiny, but very loud, piece that doesn’t want to kiss Jamie for the cameras anymore.

But the vast majority of Roy’s mind is panting like a fucking puppy for it.

“Yeah, alright!”

Keeley tugs him through the throng. Hands graze him, hips and shoulders bump him, but Roy doesn’t even give a shit, clumsily nodding and patting back. He’s reached the blissful part of being drunk that means you’re unaware of how drunk you are, the part that means you want to drink more, regardless of how ill you feel, because of course you want to. It’s fucking nice, a state he hasn’t been in since before Phoebe could fucking walk, probably.

Then, like in a fucking teen movie, Keeley yanks him around a corner and the crowd parts, and Roy can see Jamie.

He’s always pretty, but he looks fucking edible tonight. He’s changed since the match, into a tight, mesh shirt, his waxed pecs and rosy nipples clearly visible through it. The top is tucked into a bright pink pair of the tiniest fucking shorts Roy’s ever seen. They probably would look semi-decent on a normally proportioned bloke, but on Jamie, with his arse and his fucking thighs, the shorts are practically no more than briefs, his bulge squeezed and obvious. Roy finds his fucking mouth watering.

“Jamie,” Roy calls, stumbling toward him.

“Hey, man,” Jamie says happily as Roy’s hands find his hips and settle there, gripping happily. Roy must be really fucking drunk – Jamie’s skin, always burning, feels cool under his fingertips.

Jamie looks even fucking gorgeous-er (is that a word?) up close. He’s wearing long, fluffy fake eyelashes, his lips are painted pink to match his shorts, and his face is lined with glitter. It’s not even a conscious choice for Roy to rub his thumb over Jamie’s jaw and sigh happily.

“Shit, mate, you smell like the Etihad after a win,” Jamie teases, sliding his hands up Roy’s back to twine around his neck. Fuck, that’s nice, heavy and solid and perfect. “Where’s your shirt?”

“Dunno,” Roy murmurs, ducking down and bumping his nose on Jamie’s forehead.

Jamie laughs, the sound burbling over Roy’s bare throat. Fucking hell, Roy fucking likes him. Doesn’t give a shit if Jamie doesn’t feel the same. And maybe that’s the drink, but Roy fucking doesn’t. Jamie’s gorgeous and pressed against Roy and is contractually obligated to stay there.

Maybe that should be sad, but instead it has Roy feeling marvellously possessive. He wants to lick Jamie’s fucking face.

“Hi, Jamie,” Keeley says behind Roy. He would step aside to let them talk, but he doesn’t want to. Jamie has a couple tiny braids tucked into his hair, so Roy plays with them instead, lazy and easy.

“Hiya, Keels. How much has this one had to drink?”

Keeley shrugs apologetically. “Don’t know. He was like this when I got here.”

Fuck, Jamie smells good. Like baking cupcakes or something. Roy leans into his space and takes a deep whiff of his hair. Maybe biscuits.

“Do you know why he’s wet?” Jamie asks through a laugh, running a hand down Roy’s back.

Keeley laughs, a bright bubble of a sound. “No. Fucking hell, did he piss himself?”

“No,” Roy protests into Jamie’s hairline. “Spilled some vodka, is all.”

Jamie pats the small of Roy’s back, and fuck, that feels good. Roy’s pretty sure he makes a weird, keening noise at it, but he’s also pretty sure the bar's too loud for Jamie to hear it, anyway.

“Have you had any water, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart. So much fucking better than friend. Roy groans at the word, digs his hands into Jamie’s hips and shoves him closer, firmly closing the few centimetres of space between them.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then,” Jamie says through a laugh, cheek half-mashed to Roy’s shoulder. “Keeley, can you go grab him some?”

“On it. Lemme just take some snaps for Instagram, yeah?”

Roy feels himself being moved like a ragdoll, one hand to Jamie’s chest, one to his waist. Fuck, Jamie has a nice chest, vanity muscles or no vanity muscles. Roy wants to suck a hickey into one of those pecs, so big they ought to be called tits.

“Kiss him?” Keeley suggests.

Roy fucking likes that idea.

Jamie can’t even finish his “That okay with you?” because Roy’s diving in, mashing his mouth against Jamie’s with all the grace of a dying mosquito.

He tastes so fucking lush, warm and sweet, the last bits of his sentence vibrating Roy’s lips as he kisses him. It’s a sloppy thing, the kiss, all tongue and spit and Roy grabbing handfuls of Jamie’s bum.

Jamie was fucking right. Roy should’ve been squeezing this fucking thing all along. Round and plentiful and firm under Roy’s hands. A fucking stress toy. Shit, maybe Rachel wouldn’t be yelling at him about grinding his teeth if he could just play with Jamie’s bum all day.

Then, firm hands are on Roy’s chest, shoving him back.

“Gotta breathe, baby,” Jamie says, panting. His lipstick is smeared, his eyes a bit wild, his fucking chest brushing Roy’s, the mesh of his shirt tickling Roy’s bare skin.

“Fuck, I want you,” Roy breathes. He does; one minute shift, and Roy realises he’s popping one hell of a fucking stiffy in his jeans. Doesn’t even have a shirt to tug over it, but, fuck, he doesn’t care.

“Keeley? That water?” Jamie says without looking over at her. His eyebrows are doing something funny, all scrunched up. Roy puts his thumbs on them to smooth them out. Fuck, Jamie’s skin is soft and warm, like satin. Roy loves it.

“Yeah, babe, on it.” Keeley’s voice sounds distant. “Not sure we can post these, though. There’s decency laws, you know?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Jamie says, his hands coming up to Roy’s wrists and tugging them off his face.

“Right. Be right back.”

Roy doesn’t even notice Keeley leave, other than a faint waft of her perfume hitting his nose. He’s focused on Jamie, whose eyebrows have gotten that fucking wrinkle back.

“What’s wrong?” Roy asks, lifting his hands to smooth it straight again, but Jamie catches his wrists again. His grip is tighter this time, cool and dry under Roy’s feverish skin. He twists absently in them, not really trying to break away, feeling Jamie’s hands.

“Roy, did you take anything?”

Roy rolls his eyes. Jamie can be so dumb sometimes. “Fuck, no. Just like your face, is all.”

Jamie’s smirking, even as he says, “Sure you didn’t take nothing?”

“Knobhead,” Roy teases, loosing one of his hands long enough to pat Jamie’s forehead.

“Who knew all you needed to be a good actor was vodka, huh?” Jamie asks. The way he has Roy’s hands almost feels like they’re slow-dancing to the bass-heavy music blaring in every direction.

“And tequila. And something else.”

“Something else?” Jamie asks, still swaying slightly with Roy.

“Dunno. Isaac gave it to me. It was pink, like your shorts.”

Jamie laughs and shakes his head, and Roy feels all fizzy inside. Fuck, he loves making Jamie laugh.

“Love your shorts, by the way. You’re so fucking fit,” Roy sighs, bending forward to catch Jamie’s mouth again.

Jamie lets him do it, but it’s just a quick, saliva-coated swipe of lips before Jamie takes a step back. His eyes dart to the side, watching where Richard and Colin are jumping uncoordinatedly a few steps away.

“Let’s sit you down, yeah? Worried about your balance.”

“My balance is fine,” Roy complains. He’s pretty sure it would be more convincing if he weren’t slurring, but fuck it. Too late now.

“Roy, love, I’m holding you up here, ain’t I?”

“Love when you call me that,” Roy sighs, closing the gap between them so their chests are touching again. Good, that. The mesh feels nice on Roy’s skin, pulling lightly on his chest hair.

“What? Roy?”

“No,” Roy says, harsher than he means because, c’mon, how fucking thick can one man be? “‘Love.’”

Jamie laughs again, but it’s thinner this time. “Shit, Roy, I think you’re drunker than I thought.”

Roy ignores him and twines his arms together behind Jamie’s broad back. He can feel every muscle, every fucking breath. Christ, Jamie’s gorgeous. Like this, he only has to tilt his head to the side, and they’d be full-on macking it.

“Take me home,” Roy whispers in Jamie’s ear instead. Or, whispers as much as he can in the cacophony of the club while making sure Jamie hears him.

“We can do that,” Jamie says immediately. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Then Roy’s being moved again, just like Keeley earlier, but this time it’s far nicer. Jamie’s hands are bigger, for one, so they don’t pinch as much as Keeley’s did. For another, his hands are on Roy’s waist instead of his arm, and every step makes him rub up against Roy a bit, which has Roy fucking shivering.

“I wanna suck your cock!” Roy yells behind him when Jamie steps up flush behind him. Roy can feel his whole fucking prick on his arse. It’s soft, but that’s fixable.

“Tabloid princess, huh?” Jamie just huffs in response.

“Fuck off,” Roy grunts, and he wants to grunt a few more things, too, but then Jamie’s pushing open the door to the club, and cool May air washes over Roy’s skin.

It does little to sober him up, but it does make him aware of his nakedness, and of Jamie’s too. His nipples pebble, and Jamie’s arms suddenly feel warm again as he winds one around Roy’s waist.

The street’s empty of paps, which is nice. Roy wants Jamie all to himself. He almost flops to the ground then and there, just so Jamie will spend longer with him alone, without having to do anything for anyone. He likes the Jamie he gets when they’re alone, who’s snarky and silly and playful. Likes it better than the one always with one eye out for the paps.

“C’mon, Roy, you gotta help me,” Jamie’s saying.

Roy looks over at how Jamie’s yanking him, vaguely realising Jamie’s dragging him.

“Okay, baby,” Roy replies. He puts one foot in front of the other, even as his legs are weaker than a newborn gazelle’s.

“‘Baby,’ huh?” Jamie says as they stumble along. The words are teasing, but he doesn’t sound like he’s smiling. “That’s how it’s gonna be?”

Thankfully, though, Roy doesn’t have to reply because Jamie’s turning them into the carpark, helping Roy make his way to Jamie’s car.

“Were gonna Uber,” Jamie says as he fishes around in his tiny shorts. Fuck, it looks like he’s adjusting his dick, and Roy’s mouth waters. “Glad I didn’t, eh?”

He pulls his keys out of his shorts, and Roy’s almost disappointed that’s the only thing that comes out.

“You’re so fucking fit,” Roy just says stupidly.

Jamie shakes his head again, tiny braids slapping at his temples. Roy wants to wrap them around his fingers. Fuck, he missed being drunk.

“You’re fucking messy,” Jamie just tells him, opening the passenger side door.

“Can’t drive,” Roy manages to say. “I’m fucking pissed.”

That makes Jamie smile again, and Roy’s heart taps out a happy little dance. “I’m sure, love. Just getting you in the car.”

Roy grins sloppily and goes for the door. Of course, though, the ground shifts under his feet, and he trips. Roy’s already closing his eyes, ready to smack out his veneers on the asphalt of the fucking carpark, but then strong arms are around his bare chest.

The warm, firm contact itches a bit, and Roy belatedly realises it’s fucking Jamie, in his mesh fucking shirt, holding Roy up, his own head mere feet from the pavement.

“You’re a mess,” Jamie tells him again, but it sounds like a compliment in Jamie’s warm, honeyed voice.

“I’m fine,” Roy protests, even as he lets Jamie half-shove, half-toss him into the car. Fuck, he’s strong. Roy ought to have a wank about that at some point, preferably soon. “Gonna do my seatbelt?” Roy asks instead, tongue thick in his mouth.

“You need me to?”

“Want you to,” Roy corrects.

“Brat,” Jamie scolds gently before grabbing the buckle.

And it’s fucking nice, having Jamie lean over him, all warm and near-naked, as he slides the buckle across Roy’s chest. If he were an immature child, he’d make a bondage joke. As it is, he just lets the sensation soak in as he lifts a lazy, heavy hand to pat Jamie’s back. And if that hand slides down to Jamie’s arse, giving it a nice grope, who could blame him?

“Roy, love, no one’s here. You can relax,” Jamie says once Roy’s buckled in and he can lean back a bit. Roy’s hand slips off Jamie’s bum, and it almost hurts.

“I’m relaxed,” Roy argues. He folds his arms behind his head. “See?”

“Fucking hell,” Jamie just sighs, shutting Roy’s door and sliding around to the driver’s seat. Bending over to do Roy’s belt has ridden those tiny fucking shorts up his arse somehow more, and the bottom of his cheeks fucking jiggle as he walks around the front of the car. Roy’s nearly drooling over the windscreen. He’s never wanted anything in his mouth more, ever.

“Didn’t peg you for a horny drunk,” Jamie says as he sets himself in the driver’s seat.

“Haven’t pegged me at all.”

Jamie snorts at that as they pull out of the carpark. He puts one hand on the back of Roy’s seat, and it’s only Roy’s safety belt restricting him from biting the prominent muscle of Jamie’s bicep.

“I fucking hate your music taste,” Roy sighs as Jamie’s Bluetooth connects and Spice Girls’ “Wannabe” starts playing. “You’re lucky you’re so fucking fit or I’d walk.”

“Jesus, Roy, did you have rubbing alcohol? I’m worried you’re going blind.”

Fucking ridiculous, that. Roy shakes his head vehemently, letting one hand drift over the centre console to drift over Jamie’s smooth thigh. He must’ve shaved since Manchester, when his peach fuzz tickled the back of Roy’s legs pleasantly. Roy doesn’t mind this, though. Gonna feel great wrapped around his waist.

“You shave everywhere?” Roy asks, pinky finger playing at the edge of Jamie’s shorts. They’re so little, Roy’s bare centimetres from Jamie’s cock. He’s only seen it through clothes or blurred-out on LCA. Fuck, he bet it’ll feel nice in his hand, thick and silky.

Jamie, though, is taking Roy’s hand and gently, but firmly moving it to Roy’s own thigh.

“I’m driving,” Jamie says as if that’s not obvious.

“That’s okay. I can wait.”

Jamie makes a weird choking sound, one that only intensifies when Roy puts his hand back on Jamie’s smooth thigh. Been spending too much time with Higgins, this one.

“Roy, you know we’re alone, right?” he murmurs after a moment. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I want to.” Roy isn’t far gone enough to not mean it, but he’s definitely pissed enough to not mean to say it. He looks at Jamie from the corner of his eye, ready for Jamie to call them friends again, but Jamie’s silent, so Roy repeats, “I fucking want to.”

Jamie adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, knuckles white. “You’re drunk, Roy. I’m sober. It’s not a good idea.”

“Can fix that. I have a decent whiskey at mine,” Roy suggests helpfully, playing with the hem of Jamie’s shorts again. Jamie’s not yet at a full chub, but the shorts are steadily getting tighter. Roy can get him there, easy.

“Roy,” Jamie says, voice strangled. He grabs Roy’s wrist again and moves him back to his own seat. “We’re not doing this.”

“Why?” Roy argues like the petulant, sullen child he doesn’t think he’s ever quit being.

“The contract? Ring any bells?”

Roy puts his hand back on Jamie’s thigh, but closer to his knee this time. Can’t get too tetchy about that. “Doesn’t say we can’t fuck.”

Jamie laughs, a bit too loud and high-pitched. “It’s not a good idea, mate. If anything happens, we’d still need to see each other, get our stories straight.”

“But nothing will happen.” Roy switches his attentions to Jamie’s hand before Jamie can shove Roy back into his own space. Instead, he grabs Jamie’s hand and kisses the palm lightly. It’s sweaty, but Roy doesn’t mind. Not sure there’s much he would mind with Jamie, anyway. “You’ve met Phoebe, I’ve met your parents. You’ve taken care of me when I was in a strop. Fuck else could happen?”

Roy watches the line of Jamie’s throat in the yellow half-light of the streetlights. He wants to press kisses there, if only Jamie would stop being a prick and let him.

“We can talk in the morning, okay?” Jamie finally says, wrenching his hand free and patting Roy’s knee awkwardly before placing it back on the wheel.

“Fine with me. Lots of stuff we can do tonight, instead.”

Jamie shakes his head, a tiny smile on his face like he’s watching a particularly dumb puppy run into walls.

“Oh, fuck,” Roy mutters after a second when the car is pulling to a stop and he realises they’re on his drive. “How’d you do that?”

Jamie doesn’t say anything as he turns off the car, but he does walk around to Roy’s side and pulls his door open.

“You’re a little stupid, huh?” Jamie leans into Roy’s space, and Roy’s arms go to dive around his neck, but Jamie stops him with a firm hand on his chest. Fuck, that’s nice. An inch or two down and he’d be getting at Roy’s nipples, all peaked from the chill air.

“Not right now,” Jamie chides, undoing Roy’s seatbelt and stepping backwards. He’s wearing bright white trainers, these ones with pink laces. He’s so lovely. “C’mere, you knobhead.”

Jamie takes his hand off of Roy’s chest and grabs Roy’s wrist instead, hauling him to his feet. The world spins at the sudden change in position, but Jamie’s there, solid and strong and warm, his chest all pressed against Roy’s side.

“Wanna fuck you,” Roy tells him as he takes a few wobbly steps toward his front door.

“I’m sure,” Jamie says, hands still on Roy’s sides. “Where’s your key?”

Roy shrugs even as a grin stretches his face. Feels funny, but a nice funny. “In my pocket.”

“Wanna hand ‘em to me?”

Roy shakes his head. He wishes his hair was long enough to have those braids like Jamie, let them whip around his face.

“Roy, we can’t get in the house without the key.”

“Better get it out, then.”

Jamie exhales sharply. “Which pocket?”

“Don’t remember. I’m drunk, you know.”

Roy’s pretty sure someone near him is giggling hysterically as Jamie pats over his bum, his hips. The sound can’t be from Jamie, because his eyebrows are all fucking scrunched like he’s upset, but whoever is laughing finds this whole thing pretty hysterical.

“Roy,” Jamie says sharply after a particularly loud cackle resounds. “It’s half two. Need you to be quiet, okay?”

Roy shakes his head. It’s not fucking him, after all.

“Roy, baby, please.”

Oh, fuck. Jamie’s calling him baby. Roy shuts his mouth immediately, and the giggling comes to an abrupt halt. Kind of whoever for doing that.

“Thank you,” Jamie sighs. He digs his hand into one of Roy’s pockets, and it shoots daggers all over Roy’s body. He can feel the heat through the thin cotton of his pocket, feel Jamie’s fingers digging around and inadvertently brushing Roy’s hips, where he’s always been so sensitive he’s been liable to buck up and choke partners if they touch him there while they're blowing him.

Jamie’s so fucking close to where Roy wants him. A bare two centimetres to the left and it would be perfect. He can’t help the way he shoves into the touch, pushing his hips into empty air.

“Fucking hell,” Jamie groans, sliding his hand out of Roy’s pocket with a soft jangle of keys. “You’re a fucking menace. Surprised you ain’t running into the street.”

“Don’t want to. Fucking want you.”

Jamie doesn’t say anything, and then the door is being pushed open, the warm light of Roy’s hall spilling golden onto them. Jamie looks somehow more beautiful in the light, with his makeup glittering. He’s wearing a necklace Roy hadn’t noticed, a simple silver chain. He wants to bite it, yank it against Jamie’s neck with his teeth.

“Let’s get you inside, hm?” Jamie says, manhandling Roy over his front stoop. His hands are everywhere, and Roy keeps trying to arch to catch his mouth, but he can’t fucking find it, no matter how he twists or bends.

“Stop thrashing.” Jamie kicks the door closed behind them. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Up,” Roy murmurs lazily. It’s a fucking stupid question; they can just fuck on the floor. Roy has lube somewhere in his front closet. Be fucking easy.

“Can you go upstairs for me, Roy?” Jamie’s breathing hard, and his pecs look fucking magical as they stretch the mesh of his top.

“Don’t want to.”

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Jamie grabs Roy’s forearm and tugs him upstairs behind him. He would protest being yanked around, but it means he has a decent view of how Jamie’s bum is spilling out of those tiny shorts, and Roy wouldn’t give that up for love nor money.

“Fucking Christ,” Jamie mutters at the top of the stairs. “Who the fuck has this many bedrooms?”

“Good for sleepovers, for Phoebe.” Roy draws a finger down the line of Jamie’s neck, enjoying how it makes Jamie twitch. “Or orgies, when I first got the place.”

Jamie makes a breathless sound that could be a laugh or a gasp, but Roy likes it either way.

“I sleep in there,” Roy finally says, flicking his hand toward the double doors at the end of the hall.

“Thank you.”

Jamie drags Roy down the hall, not that he’s putting too much of a fight, before pushing open Roy’s bedroom door with his hip.

Roy’s cleaners came earlier, so it’s spotless, purple bedspread made up neatly, pillows arranged artfully at the top. Good – lots that he can prop Jamie up with.

“Okay, Roy, let’s get you in bed,” Jamie says. He’s not touching Roy anymore, but Roy can take a hint. He wants Roy to put on a little show.

So Roy goes for the button of his jeans, popping them slowly and unzipping the fly even slower, each tiny tooth of the zipper getting its own dramatic beat. Jamie’s not watching, though, too busy flipping back the covers and fluffing the pillows. Guess he’s gotten impatient.

So Roy shucks off his jeans and pants in one smooth go and spits quickly on his hand, giving himself a few warm-up strokes. He doesn’t need much, with Jamie in that fucking outfit, hair falling in his face, but it feels lush, anyway, takes the edge off.

“Oka- Roy, fuck are you doing?” Jamie says, voice strangled, when he turns around.

“What?” Roy asks without moving his hand from his cock. “I’m not twenty anymore. Not gonna come anytime soon.”

“Roy-” Jamie pauses, dragging a hand down his face. His shorts aren’t tenting yet, and Roy frowns a bit. No matter – Roy can get him there.

“Roy, you’re drunk,” Jamie finally says.

“And horny,” Roy replies with a barely-restrained eye roll. “Just stating facts, are we?”

“I’m not fucking you while you're drunk. I’m not gonna fuck you with the contract, either.”

Roy feels his own eyebrows furrow, the ease with which he’d drank and drank until he felt floaty starting to fade.

“It’s over in a week, anyway. Who gives a shit?” Roy belatedly realises his hand is still on his cock, albeit stilled, and he awkwardly moves it away.

“It’s not a good idea.” Jamie’s voice is wavering, just a hair.

“Why? Don’t you like me?”

Jamie’s face goes pink suddenly, like Roy’s dick being out isn’t embarrassing, but his own feelings are. “‘Course I do. Of fucking course. But this ain’t smart.”

Roy brushes past Jamie and sits on his bed. Jamie takes a stumbled step back, as if he’s scared of Roy’s cock, but Roy doesn’t mind. The 200-thread count flannel of his sheets is cradling his backside, his cock is flushed and red, and Jamie isn’t running away, though he could. On some level, Jamie must not mind this. Wants it, more likely, if the choked-off little gasps he’s breathing in are any indication.

“Probably weren’t smart to do this in the first place.” Roy leans forward and opens the top drawer of his nightstand. “Probably gonna end up in a wheelchair by age fifty. You’re probably going to have to answer questions about this for fucking longer. But here we are.”

“Roy-”

“I’m not gonna force you to do anything,” Roy says evenly as he pulls out the lube, the good, long-lasting, silicone stuff. It’s heinously expensive, but fuck, is it good. “Do you want to leave?”

Jamie’s throat works as he swallows. “No.”

“Okay. You can just watch.”

Roy squirts out a good handful into his palm and slicks his cock up without any further preamble. It’s cold, and Roy hisses at it, but it starts to feel nice after just a few strokes.

He keeps his eyes on Jamie the whole time. He’s stock still, eyes wide, mouth frozen in a surprised O. But his gaze is fixed on Roy’s cock, and his hands are twitching at his sides, near his tiny, tiny shorts that have certainly started to get a bit tighter.

“I’d be gentle with you, our first time,” Roy tells him, sliding back and forth, slow and easy. “You probably don’t need that, could probably take it like a champ, but I wouldn’t want that from you. Would want to kiss you first, get my hands all over you.”

Jamie takes a sharp, stuttered inhale.

“Want to feel all over your thighs, your fucking arse. Your bum’s fucking insane, you know that, right? I wouldn’t hurt you, but I’d want you to feel me, feel my hands everywhere. Then, when you’re hard and you’re leaking and think you’re going to convulse if nothing happens, I’ll start at your hole. Just dry at first, just feeling. I bet you’re fucking tight there, strong bloke like you.”

Jamie makes a choking noise. He’s digging his fingers into his thick thighs, and Roy smirks.

“You can go ahead and touch yourself, baby. I don’t mind.”

“I shouldn’t,” Jamie says.

Roy nods, slowing the movement of his wrist just a bit, squeezing around his head. It’s silky and blood-hot, sweet tingles drifting from his knees to his armpits. A simple wank hasn’t felt like this since he lost his fucking virginity.

“You want me to stop? Say the word, and I will.”

The muscles in Jamie’s jaw jump, but he shakes his head slowly.

Roy feels himself smiling as he says, “Okay, then, sweetheart.” He starts picking up the speed again, sliding his foreskin over the head, before continuing, “Once I’ve felt you up a bit, I’d get the lube out.”

Roy pauses to hold up the bottle. “I’d warm it up in my hands first, of course. Don’t want any discomfort for you during our first time. Get you to prop your hips up on some pillows, and then I’d slide one finger in. You’d probably want more, hungry thing like you, but this is meant to be slow. We’d kiss for a little bit, with my one finger in you, just gliding back and forth. Easy.”

Jamie licks his lips. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and Roy isn’t quite sure if it’s just that sight or the alcohol or his hand on his dick, but he feels dizzy, floating in a nice way, like champagne bubbles in a well-poured glass.

“Do you want to touch yourself?” Roy interrupts himself to ask.

“You’re drunk,” Jamie repeats hoarsely, ever the broken record. “I shouldn’t.”

Roy eyes his tented shorts – Jamie isn’t exactly small when soft, judging by the shape of him through his trousers, but Roy can’t deny he’s a bit excited about the size when hard.

“Your choice,” Roy says easily, sliding his free hand down to his balls and rolling them. Fuck, that’s nice. “If we were fucking, I’d only give you a second finger if you started crying, if I thought you really needed it. Wouldn’t touch your cock at all. Maybe I’d let you hump my thigh, if I was feeling generous.”

Jamie fucking hiccups at that. Roy’s cock gives an answering twitch.

“But I’d wipe those tears up, let you suck them off my fingers as I give you two in your arse. I’d find that spot of yours, treat it nice. How much pressure you like back there?”

“A lot.” Jamie’s cheeks are stained red, and Roy twists his wrist a bit faster.

“I’d give you that, then. Just work you until you’re mewling, until you’re not sure you’re fucking human anymore. Then I’d give you my cock. Nice and slow at first. Just the tip.” Roy pauses to hiss as he digs his thumb into the weeping slit. “Let you breathe. I’d be so gentle with you, Jamie, just like you deserve. Bet it’ll feel so good in there, even with just the head shoved in. I’d kiss you, stroke you, help you relax. You like that?”

“Mm-hmm,” Jamie manages to say. His eyes look big and wet, locked on Roy’s cock like they’re chained there. Roy gives him a bit of a show, extending his strokes from root to tip, sighing theatrically as he does.

“When I’m sure you’re feeling good, when you’re completely lax, then I’d slide all the way in, till my fucking balls are on your taint. And I’d just stay there, for as long as I need, until you’re fucking yourself on my cock, until you can’t bear to wait another fucking second. Until the only option you have is to take care of yourself.”

“Fuck, Roy.” The syllables fall from Jamie’s pink lips like rose petals onto a warm bath, sweet and slow.

Roy sucks his teeth as he works a finger down one of the veins. He can feel his pulse in his dick. Fuck, he’s close.

“I’d help after a minute, hold your hips and let you relax. You’d be so fucking strung out, all the blood in your prick, none left to hold yourself up with, to even think. You’d just be loose and easy for me, like a fucking doll.”

Jamie swallows thickly. “I’d like that.”

“I know, baby. Talked such a good fucking game on LCA, but I know what you need is something easier. Someone to take care of you, keep you from having to do all the work.”

Roy moves his other hand from his balls to the root of his cock, twisting with both hands. “When I’m close, I would finally fucking touch your cock. Would be painful at this point, but I’d help. Give it some good, firm strokes, kiss your neck. That’s all it would take, isn’t it?”

Jamie nods jerkily.

“I thought so. Then I’d finish myself off. Wouldn’t take much, just a few more pumps. I’d stay in there after, go soft inside you. Let you feel just how fucked-out you are. How fucking loved you are.”

Jamie’s blush looks like it’s going to burn him alive.

Roy’s not that far himself – he’s fucking close, teetering on the edge. He pinches the frenulum gently, still working the base with one hand.

“Do you want that, Jamie? Want me to fuck you?”

“Of course I do,” Jamie says thickly. “It’s fucking you.”

That little stroke to Roy’s ego is all it takes before he’s spurting, hot and thick, all over his stomach and chest. It’s more than he’s come in a fucking while, like he didn’t have his daily wank in the shower that morning.

Roy swipes a hand through it, panting. Jamie’s so still, pressed to the wall like it’s the only way to keep him from touching Roy.

“Jesus, Roy,” Jamie breathes. He’s so fucking hard, the outline of his erection straining against his tiny, stupid fucking shorts.

Roy wipes his hands on the bed sheet lazily. It’s probably an awful idea – shit will crust and stain by morning, and no fucking way will Roy do laundry before then – but Roy’s suddenly exhausted, like his orgasm took any remaining energy from him. He lays back, distantly aware he’s half in the wet spot, anyway, and stares at the ceiling.

His eyes are slipping closed before he can even check on what Jamie thinks of it all.

Chapter Text

Roy wakes up with an awful fucking taste in his mouth and a pounding headache.

He’s in his bed, which is nice, the sheets tucked up to his shoulders and sunlight streaming in from between the gaps of his blackout curtains.

Roy rubs his bleary eyes with his fists and sits up slowly. The movement makes his stomach roil, and he’s hardly even comprehended the fact that he’s all fucking sticky and gluey before he’s sprinting to the bathroom, bent over his toilet. Bright yellow vomit streams bitter out of his mouth, convulsing his entire body. When he’s done, he’s fucking shivering, head resting on the cool porcelain of the toilet seat.

The fuck had gotten into him last night? Well, other than about a dozen shots and half a dozen more mixed drinks, besides. Roy doesn’t pull that horny begging shit. He doesn’t jerk off in front of someone just to put on a fucking show. He certainly doesn’t do that to someone who has told him, in quite clear fucking terms, that he only wants to be friends.

But Jamie had been into it. He’d been whimpering and wanting and hard enough to pound fucking nails. Roy can’t fucking parse any of it.

Thankfully, though, he doesn’t have to, because there’s a soft knock coming from the doorway to the bathroom, and when Roy turns his head to look, the man himself is there, staring down at Roy.

“Hey,” Jamie says quietly. He’s wearing a pair of Roy’s socks, the purple ones with little footballs on them, a pair of blue pants Roy’s pretty sure belongs to him, and a black T-shirt that, judging by the fit across Jamie’s shoulders, definitely does. “Alright?”

“Delightful,” Roy replies. His voice is ragged, like he’s been chewing glass all fucking night.

“I put some Lucozade on your bedside table. Guess you didn’t see.”

Roy shakes his head – he’s been too busy splattering sick over his toilet bowl to notice much of anything.

“Here,” Jamie says, sliding down to his bum and sitting next to Roy, back against Roy’s double vanity. “You look like you could use company.”

Roy’s pretty sure he looks like a hungover geriatric covered in last night’s come and this morning’s vomit, but to each his own, he supposes. His chest does a little squeeze at the idea that Jamie was so thoughtful, though.

“Should we, erm, talk about it?” Jamie says after a long, awkward moment.

Roy swallows the acid burning his throat before replying, “Can I rinse my mouth out first? Put on some fucking pants, maybe?”

“Shit, yeah. Sorry, mate.” Jamie goes pink up to his ears – easy fucking blusher, this one. This morning, it doesn’t ache for Roy to admit, even to himself, that he likes it.

“Give me five minutes.”

Jamie scrambles up to his feet. “I’ll be in your bed, yeah?”

Roy nods in acknowledgement and watches Jamie’s bum jiggle as he gets to his feet and walks out. Fuck, he’s gorgeous. Once Roy stops fucking puking, maybe he’ll give Jamie a handjob, long and slow and languid. Maybe just hold him, watch some shitty telly. Roy has nowhere to be for forty-eight fucking hours, and he intends to give Jamie every single one of them.

Roy stands on shaky legs, runs a flannel over the worst of the crusted come, gets under his arms and between his legs, then gives himself a perfunctory toothbrushing. Even having the brush in his mouth threatens to get him sick again, but he’s not about to try and smother Jamie in kisses the way he wants if he tastes like spew and last night’s vodka.

He shoves on a pair of soft boxers from his hamper, loose enough that Jamie should have no issue shimmying them off Roy’s hips, and a T-shirt, since he’s aching to cook Jamie’s breakfast, and he’s not about to derail that with a burn on his nipple from fucking bacon grease.

Jamie’s curled up on Roy’s bed when Roy gets in there, scrolling on his phone, biceps large and prominent from how he has one arm tucked behind his head.

“Hey,” Roy says, not without awkwardness.

“Hey,” Jamie replies. He sits up straighter and pats the spot next to him, like Roy needs permission to get into his own fucking bed. Roy appreciates it, though, because it means he has no qualms about plopping himself down next to Jamie, all in his personal space.

“Hey,” Roy repeats, stupid from his hangover and the feeling of Jamie’s bare thigh, shaved smooth, pressed to his own.

“How’re you feeling?” Jamie asks. He’s working his fingers at the hem of his borrowed shirt, and that won’t fucking do. Roy grabs one of his hands and squeezes it, quick and perfunctory, before drawing his hands back into his own lap.

“Feeling hungover,” Roy murmurs. “A-are-” Roy swallows against the dryness in his throat. “How’re you?”

Jamie smiles, a little slip of a thing. “Good. A little tired, to be honest.”

Roy remembers himself all at once, and suddenly wishes he was wearing more than boxers and a T-shirt, that he could hide himself better. “I’m sorry about that, last night,” he mumbles, willing the heat on the tips of his ears to cool. "I shouldn't have done-"

Jamie shakes his head and swats Roy on the arm. “Fuck off, mate. Only bad part of it were you being pissed.”

“Still, I shouldn’t h-”

“Roy, I got to watch my crush have a wank thinking about me, then wear his clothes and sleep in the best fucking bed I’ve ever seen. I’m fine.”

“Did you sleep with me?”

“Nah,” Jamie winks and elbows Roy gently. “You were too drunk to.”

Roy resists the urge to swat at his thick thigh, even as it’s close enough that it would be easy to. “You know what I fucking mean.”

Jamie shakes his head. His hair has lost whatever gel he put in it last night, and it floats onto his forehead as he does like fucking goose down. “Guest room, innit? Didn’t want you waking up and freaking out.”

“That was . . . sweet of you,” Roy mumbles, embarrassment dyeing him red.

“We’ll call it even. Stole your clothes and all, didn’t I?” Jamie gestures down at his T-shirt almost sheepishly.

“I like it,” Roy says, just as self-conscious. “You look good in my clothes.”

Jamie turns to face him, grinning crookedly, and Roy’s suddenly lightheaded. “You like it?”

“Yeah,” Roy says, letting the pinky of his hand, resting on his own thigh, drift over half an inch and brush Jamie’s. It’s warm and firm and perfect. “You look hot.”

It must have been the wrong thing to say because Jamie is suddenly curling into a ball, making a weird, high-pitched sound into his thighs.

“Shit, fuck, sorry,” Roy says hurriedly, an awkward hand going to pat his back. Fuck, he’s muscly here, too.

“Don’t be fucking sorry,” Jamie scolds, uncurling himself and resting his cheek on his knees. “Roy fucking Kent just said I look hot. Had to have a little moment, didn’t I?”

“Oh,” Roy says like an idiot. “Yeah.”

Jamie blinks slowly before sitting up and putting one hand on the back of Roy’s head.

“Can I kiss you?” Jamie says quietly, like someone might overhear them in Roy’s empty house. “I just fucking have t-”

Roy interrupts him by ducking forward and pressing his lips to Jamie’s. He can’t fucking help himself, not when Jamie’s blushing and wearing Roy’s fucking socks and in Roy’s fucking bed.

It’s certainly not their first kiss, but it’s maybe their first real one. Jamie makes a soft, surprised noise in the back of his throat before he melts into Roy. His lips are soft, plush against Roy’s, and it’s not much more than a peck before Roy pulls back, but it’s nice. Jamie’s all warm and soft, and Roy’s caveman brain is fucking chanting.

He doesn’t even give a shit that his head is pounding or that his stomach is still roiling, with Jamie here.

“Okay,” Jamie says quietly, a small smirk playing on those gorgeous fucking lips. “Yeah. Mint. Cool. Yeah.”

Roy can’t help but laugh at Jamie, the hand on his back coming to wrap around him fully. It’s not an easy fit, with Jamie being so broad and all, but it’s a good one.

“Couldn’t help it,” Roy says into Jamie’s hair. “You’re wearing my fucking clothes.”

“Wasn’t about to sleep in hot pants, mate,” Jamie snorts, shuffling so his legs are swung over Roy’s lap, warm and pleasantly heavy, and pulls back to study Roy’s face. Jamie looks so fucking . . . cute today, a bit of last night’s makeup still clinging to his eyelashes, nose ring shining in the light from Roy’s floor-to-ceiling windows, sleepy grin on his face.

“Guess this all answers my first question,” Jamie says, one hand starting to tangle lazily in Roy’s hair. Fuck, it’s nice.

“And what was that?” Roy asks, voice rough.

“If last night were an accident, or if you actually like me.”

There’s a flash of nerves on Jamie’s face, and Roy can’t keep himself from using the arm around Jamie’s waist and tugging him closer so the back of his thighs are pressed against the side of Roy’s. Fuck, he’s warm.

“Were you worried about that?” Roy asks, trying not to be distracted by how close Jamie’s face is. He can see every fucking pore, every dot of last night’s glitter that Jamie missed when washing his face.

“Yeah,” Jamie says quietly. “You were so drunk you could hardly walk, had a wank at me, and then passed out. Didn’t know what was happening, you know?”

“Shit,” Roy says, aching to tug Jamie somehow closer, even though he’s pretty much already seated on Roy’s lap. “Well, I fucking like you. A lot.”

Jamie’s smile spreads into a wide, toothy thing, and Roy feels something in him squeeze pleasantly.

“Yeah? Why didn’t you say nothing, then?”

“Didn’t really figure it out till Manchester.”

Jamie’s fingers drift to Roy’s temple and tug lightly at a curl there. “How’d you figure it out?”

“You said you just wanted to be friends, and it fucking pissed me off. Still does.”

Jamie snorts. “That’s what it took?”

“Well, yeah. How’d you know?”

“Know what?” Jamie says coyly, still tugging at Roy’s hair.

“That you had a thing for me.”

“You saw that poster, mate. Had a thing for you since I were twelve, innit?”

“Hmm.” Roy nods slowly. “That why Keeley had you in mind for me?”

Pink brushes Jamie’s cheeks again, and Roy feels fucking giddy at the fact that he’s now allowed to brush a finger over it now, feel the heat. It’s not inappropriate to do anymore – in fact, it’s fucking perfect. Jamie’s cheek is soft under his thumb, fucking silken.

“Yeah,” Jamie says after a moment. “Nice of her, eh?”

Roy doesn’t respond to that, just tugs Jamie forward into another short, hard kiss. Roy’s pretty sure he’s blushing himself when he pulls back.

“What’re your other questions, then? Said I only answered the first one.”

Jamie looks down at where his thighs are draped over Roy’s before saying, “Last night, you were talking about how you wanted to fuck me. Were that true?”

Roy should be taking the question seriously, but he can’t keep himself from grinning, his eyes crinkling with it. “Fuck, yeah, it is.”

“Mint,” Jamie says, twisting his socked feet together. It feels nice on Roy’s bare legs. “Fucking mint.”

“Would do it right fucking now if my head weren’t pounding.”

“Soon it won’t be the only thing doing some pounding,” Jamie says quickly, tongue jammed between his teeth.

“Muppet,” Roy says fondly, squeezing Jamie’s ankle. “What’s your next question?”

Jamie cocks his head to the side, nearly leaning it on Roy’s shoulder. It’s embarrassing how much Roy wants him to. “Just got two more. First, do you, erm, want this to be real? Not just hooking up or whatever.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, do you wanna really date?”

Roy grunts, confused, and Jamie just groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Like, boyfriends, I mean. You wanna be my fucking boyfriend? Happy?”

Roy wants to pretend to think about it, but he’s nodding before he can stretch the moment at all. “Fuck, yeah, I do.”

Jamie grins widely. Roy’s pretty sure he’d be kicking his feet if Roy’s hand weren’t on his ankle.

“Sick, that. Fucking sick.”

“Last question, then?”

Jamie licks his lips. “What do you wanna do for the rest of the day? Ain’t got nowhere to be, me.”

Roy pretends to think, drumming his fingers on his chin. “Well, I do have some bills to look through.” Roy can’t keep the sarcasm up for even a second before he amends, “But I’ll do those tomorrow. Today, I’m thinking I cook you some breakfast, then we get to trying out some of the shit we were chatting about last night. Then, if we’re done in time, I’ll make you dinner.”

The way Jamie bites the inside of his arm, so clearly happy that Roy thinks he’s close to kicking his feet, makes Roy’s insides fucking glow. He hardly even feels the fucking hangover anymore, with Jamie looking at him like this.

“Yeah, alright. Could use a coffee, probably.”

Roy makes pancakes. Chocolate chip ones, like he hasn’t made since Phoebe’s birthdays when she was a toddler. Bacon, too, burnt the way Jamie requests. And cuts up some fruit because they probably ought to have some nutrition, after fucking all.

Jamie doesn’t lift a finger, sitting at Roy’s breakfast bar and watching him work the hob, sipping at a mug of cold brew Roy found in the back of the fridge.

“Smells so good, mate,” Jamie says, half into his mug. “You were a chef in a past life.”

Roy snorts and flips a pancake.

“See?” Jamie says to no one in particular. “You just did the flippy-thing.”

“The flippy-thing?” Roy asks over his shoulder.

“The flippy-thing,” Jamie repeats, like that answers everything. “No spatula or summat. Only seen that on TV.”

“Simon doesn’t do the flippy-thing?”

Jamie looks around Roy’s empty kitchen then leans forward on his stool. “Simon never makes pancakes,” he stage-whispers. “Burnt 'em on his first date with Mummy and hasn’t made ‘em since.”

“Well, hope these are good,” Roy mutters, scooping one out onto a plate.

“They will be,” Jamie says smugly. “You literally just did the flippy-thing. How could they be bad?”

“Muppet,” Roy says, hoping his voice isn’t as treacly as he feels. He puts a plate at Jamie’s place and hands him a fork. And, if he kisses Jamie’s temple while he’s at it, that’s between him and Jamie’s sinfully soft, hibiscus-scented hair.

Jamie forks a piece as Roy wraps a possessive arm around him, rubbing over his side and watching Jamie’s eyes slip closed with the bite.

“Good?” Roy prompts.

Jamie lets out a sound that, were Roy feeling a bit less hungover, would have him tonguing Jamie before he let another second pass.

“Fuckin’ mint, mate. Christ,” Jamie groans, shoving in another bite before he’s even finished the first.

“Good,” Roy says smugly. He finishes the rest of the batter and puts the last pancakes on a plate with the bacon and bits of melon before he joins Jamie at the breakfast bar. He slides one of the stools way too close to Jamie’s, invading his personal space to the umpteenth degree, and knocks his knee against Jamie’s as he tucks in.

“Shit,” Jamie says to no one in particular after a few minutes. “Can’t fucking believe this, mate.”

“Can’t believe what? That a fucking gorgeous, smart, kind boy like you gets to have his breakfast cooked for him?”

Jamie shakes his head animatedly, even as he’s smiling. “You’re Roy fucking Kent. Roy fucking Kent is cooking my breakfast.”

Roy’s not above enjoying his ego being stroked, and he pets Jamie’s thigh to show it. “Well, Roy fucking Kent makes a good fucking omelette, if you’re around tomorrow.”

“Oh, fuck, yeah. You better make me one every fucking day next year.”

Roy smirks. “What do you want me to do for aways? Freeze ‘em for you?”

“Yeah, probably.” Jamie hooks his ankle around Roy’s and tucks in to the rest of the pancakes.

Roy’s not even eating, just watching him. It’s a weird feeling in his chest, how . . . good this feels. There’s no anxiety about whether or not Jamie is happy, the way there was with Keeley. There’s no upset lingering in the pit of Roy’s stomach about what he should be doing better.

Rather, there’s just Jamie making decidedly sexual sounds into his fucking pancakes and Roy feeling fucking warm.

“Can I ask you a question?” Roy says, letting his fingers brush Jamie’s shoulder.

“‘Course,” Jamie replies, mouth full.

“Are you still going to do that show this fall?” It’s embarrassing how quietly Roy says it, but Jamie doesn’t seem to nervous, bumping Roy’s knee with his own.

“Nah,” he says into his mug. “Keeley’s working on a Burberry deal for me, actually. I’ll need to be based in London for the shoots.”

Roy’s chest fucking sparks, as if it’s his own success, a Ballon d’Or with Chelsea or some shit.

“No shit,” Roy says.

“Yes, shit. To be honest, I think she just wants to keep me here rather than move me up to Manchester, but I’ll take it.”

Roy bends forward even more, fully in Jamie’s space. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

Roy pauses, waits for Jamie to say no or stand up or push Roy away, but all he gets is Jamie’s hand curling around the back of Roy’s head and tugging him in to close that last little gap between them. Jamie’s mouth is still a fucking wonder, tasting of pancakes and cold brew as he licks his soft little tongue between Roy’s lips.

Roy makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, and Jamie pulls away. His hair is sticking up, his lips are pink, and he’s fucking smiling so shyly that Roy feels the pit of his stomach nearly drop away.

“Finish your breakfast,” Roy tells him, rubbing a palm over Jamie’s thick thigh. “I want you so fucking bad.”

Jamie’s gaze drifts down to Roy’s crotch, as if Roy’s a teenager who’ll pop a stiffy from one kiss. Though, considering he’s rocking a half-chub from one fucking kiss, the assumption’s not far off.

“What?” Jamie says, all faux-innocence as he cuts himself an absolutely fucking miniscule bite of pancake. “I can’t savour my food?”

“Tease,” Roy scolds without any heat or steel behind it.

“Calm down, granddad,” Jamie says with a laugh. “Burberry doesn’t start till November. We can fuck every spare second until then.”

Roy shakes his head, letting his pinky finger brush the hem of Jamie’s borrowed pants. “Can’t fuck you when I’m playing, though. Need to start now.”

“You can be patient for a week,” Jamie demures, even as gooseflesh dots his thigh where Roy’s rubbing.

“But what about once the off-season is over? Need all the time I can get, innit?”

Jamie scoffs. “You’ll have to attend, what, one match, get your awards and whatever? I’m sure you can keep it in your pants for three hours.”

Roy shifts. “You saying I’m gonna be riding the bench next year?”

Jamie scrunches his eyebrows. God, he’s fucking cute. “‘Course not. Only thing you’ll be riding is me.”

“That so?”

Jamie nods confidently. “Yeah, mate. With you not playing anymore, you’ll have to get your exercise in somehow.”

The image is fucking sexy, to be sure, but Roy feels his lips settle back into their usual frown. “Who fucking said that I’m not playing? I’m the fucking captain, innit?”

Jamie sits up straighter, pushing his plate away and abandoning his last few bites of pancake. “This year, you mean?” he asks quizzically.

“Obviously. You’ve been to the matches, right?”

Jamie waves his hand like he’s swatting away a fly. “You’re the captain this year,” he repeats.

“And next, too, unless Isaac wants me to nut him.”

Jamie slides his leg away from Roy’s, crossing them instead. His knee is still brushing the outside of Roy’s thigh, but Roy’s left cold by the movement, stiff.

“You’re playing next year?”

“Of fucking course I’m playing," Roy scoffs. "What else would I do?”

"Dunno," Jamie says, picking at a bit of pancake. “Going on holiday? Fucking me? Shit, mate, picking up golf or something? Something that makes you happy.”

Jamie’s voice isn’t exactly harsh, is warm and sweet, really, but Roy feels himself go stiff anyway.

"Football makes me happy," Roy replies. He feels his eyebrows starting to wrinkle despite himself.

"'Course," Jamie says, cocking his head to the side. "But next year, I mean."

“When I retire, you mean,” Roy clarifies. His voice is suddenly unrecognizable from that morning, going from honey to steel without his conscious permission.

"Yeah," Jamie replies quizzically. “You said you wanted to start for your last season.”

Roy ignores that. “You think I should retire?”

Jamie holds his hands up in front of him. There's chocolate on his index finger. "I don't know shit about footy, mate. Just figured you would at the end of the season."

"Why?"

Roy doesn't mean to say it coldly at all, but it must be icy, since Jamie’s hands lower and go to the hem of his shirt. “That’s why the contract were only until May. Because you ain’t gonna need it next year.”

Roy swallows drily. “I don't need it next year because it worked. I’m starting again.”

"Are you going to next season, though?" Jamie puts down his fork, and the clink sounds far too loud. "I'm not sure how we can get more media attention without people getting sick of us."

Roy shakes his head like he can blink away the ridiculousness of that. "I don't need the media attention."

"Then why weren't you starting before all this?"

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if Jamie didn’t sound so dismissive. If his eyebrows weren’t drawn close and his tone low like he’s asking if Roy wants his mental asylum straitjacket adjusted. Maybe it wouldn’t sting as harshly if Jamie’s lips didn’t twist that minute fraction, his nose wrinkling like he smelled something awful. Maybe then, Roy wouldn’t feel like he’d been splashed with cold water all over the warmth Jamie usually brings.

"I'm going to start next season," Roy repeats stiffly.

“Roy,” Jamie says. He’s speaking slowly now, picking his words carefully. “Aren’t you tired, man? You work so fucking hard. When is it time to rest on your laurels?”

Jamie goes to put one hand on Roy’s. It’s probably just going to be a gentle pat or something, but Roy yanks his arm back like Jamie’s burned him. But it's the way Jamie draws back the smallest inch at that has Roy’s chest splitting in two.

“Fuck are you saying? You want to put me in a fucking home, too?”

Jamie’s nose twitches. “Fucking hell, Roy,” he says exasperatedly. “I’m not fucking saying that.”

Pride runs burning and jagged through Roy’s veins, so different to how fucking . . . squishy he was feeling earlier.

“Tell me outright, then. Tell me you think I’m old and slow and geriatric and should fucking retire.” Roy’s pretty sure he’s just quoting Sky Sports, albeit with a bit fruitier language, but Jamie cringes at the words.

“I just want you to be happy, man.”

“Football makes me fucking happy.”

“Does it?” Jamie slides back further, leaning his chin on his hand. “Because it seems to me like you hate it a bit.”

“Fuck you mean?”

Roy feels himself getting hot from the pride burning through him. Not the sweet, gentle warm that he gets from Jamie, that Jamie radiates like a particularly attractive sun, but blood-hot. The kind of hot that had him red-carded out of one of his first Champions League matches. The kind that had him buying lengths of rope and gallons of red paint for Phoebe’s father. The kind that he felt when Granddad died and the older, bigger kids at the fucking billet in fucking Sunderland laughed at his red-rimmed eyes and runny nose.

“You complain about it,” Jamie says, voice carefully measured like Roy’s a fucking dementia patient he’s trying to keep from smashing his soup bowl yet again. “You’re in pain a lot of the time. You don’t smile when you get minutes, but you seethe when you don’t.”

“Oh, fuck off with that. You’ve never fucking played. You don’t get it.”

“Maybe not.” Roy watches Jamie plant himself, sit himself up straighter. “But I get you. And I know when you’re happy.”

“Bullshit.”

“You’re happy with Phoebe. You’re happy when you’re cooking. You’re happy with me. You’re not happy when you play.”

Roy inhales sharply. “Fuck off with that. Half the time with you, I’ve been bullshitting anyway.”

Jamie’s nose twitches again, but the words don’t deter him. “Be that as it may-”

“I’m not fucking retiring. I don’t give a shit what you, or Ted, or Sky fucking Sports thinks about it.”

Jamie puts his palms down flat on the counter. It’s not hard enough to be loud or jarring or anything, but it’s solid. “What about what you think about it?” Jamie says, voice low.

Roy swallows, throat suddenly thick. “I think I have a couple fucking more good seasons left.”

“What happens after those, then? When does it end? When do you decide to stop? When your knee gives out?” 

“Don’t fucking talk about my knee,” Roy hisses.

“Why?” Jamie’s eyes, so fucking soft this morning, have gone hard. No longer an ocean, but flint. “What is so scary about having a shit knee?” 

“I’m not fucking scared. I’m just not ready yet.”

“When will you be, then?”

The heat in Roy’s body starts to grow, roar inside him like a kettle reaching boiling.

“Never. Not until I fucking die on the pitch.”

Jamie scoffs. “Roy, do you see how that’s fucking ridiculous?”

“No. You wouldn’t fucking get it. Footy is all I have.”

“What about Rachel, mate? Or Phoebe? Or fucking me?”

Roy feels his fingers curl into a fist as he says, “Those aren’t the same thing. Those’ll be there when I’m done.”

Jamie’s hands twist in the hem of Roy’s borrowed shirt. “You don’t fucking know that, though. Don’t you want to enjoy things while you have them?”

“Not if I’m not playing.”

Jamie makes an annoyed groan. “Roy, you know that’s fucking bullshit. When the fuck was the last time you were happy because you were playing?”

“La-”

“Not because you got minutes or scored a goal or some shit, but just because you were fucking playing.” Jamie’s not quite yelling, but his tone certainly isn’t the sweet, gentle thing it was all morning. It makes Roy go somehow even more tense, muscles coiled like he’s readying himself to run from a fucking lion.

“You don’t fucking understand. You’ve never had to work for something like this. You just have to look pretty at the right time, and everything is fucking handed to you. You’re not scared to give it up because you have nothing to give up.”

Jamie laughs, but it’s not the warm, belly laugh that makes Roy feel soft and sweet, like taffy in the sun. This one is high-pitched and thin. Mean. “I never had to work hard? Seriously? You fucking saw the council estate I grew up on.”

“You caught a lucky break.”

“And you fucking didn’t, man?”

Roy digs his fingernails into his palms, enjoying the sting of it. “Jamie, you’re a fucking child. In ten years, you’ll get it. You’ll be having the same problems I am. But there’s no way to fix it in your world. You can get fillers and facials and whatever the fuck, but you’ll be done. No one is going to want an ugly model.”

Roy isn’t sure quite where the words come from, but Jamie freezes when Roy says them. He looks like he’s been slapped. His beautiful grey-blue eyes, caught so perfectly in the light from Roy’s floor-to-ceiling windows, go wide before narrowing into angry slits, all in the space of a shaky half-breath.

“I’m a child?” he hisses, deathly quiet. Roy instantly misses the yelling. “Fucking rich, coming from the bloke who couldn’t get the balls to tell me he liked me until he was piss-drunk. The man whose last good goal was a fucking decade ago. Who’s too fucking scared to retire from something he’s been a bit shit at for the last ten years.”

Jamie stands up. He’s still in Roy’s clothes, still has a bit of fucking chocolate from the pancakes clinging to one lip, but he doesn’t look sweet anymore. He looks like a stranger.

“You’re fucking pathetic, mate,” Jamie says icily. “Had to beg your ex-fucking-girlfriend to find some fucking prick dumb enough to be your escort, just so you could play a stupid fucking game.”

It doesn’t take any conscious effort for Roy to reply, “Least I’m not pathetic enough to agree to be someone’s escort.”

“Fair play, mate.” Jamie wipes his hands on his bare thighs. “Fair fucking play. I’ll see you at the match, I guess.”

He walks out of Roy’s house without shoes, without even putting on fucking trousers, leaving Roy alone with only the harsh slam of his front door and a pervasive feeling of cold.

Chapter Text

The week leading up to the final match of the season is straight shit.

Jamie hasn’t texted Roy since the morning of their fight, not that Roy would want him to. Prick doesn’t get it, won’t fucking ever, and Roy has no fucking interest talking to someone who thinks he’s “pathetic.”

So he goes through the motions. Training is fucking shit, like fucking always. Sam can’t kick a decent cross to save his life, and Colin is fucking flailing at the winger spot. Plus which, it’s been shit weather, which has Roy’s knee aching.

He can’t go to the physios, though, if they go to Ted and say he needs to be benched, so he pops two more paracetamol than the recommended dose and keeps at it.

Phoebe has the flu, so Roy can’t see her before the match, but that doesn’t keep her from calling with long, extended complaints about her symptoms and how much she misses Uncle Roy. It makes Roy feel like fucking shit, but he can’t fucking get sick. Fulham beat Luton Town by fucking seven, which means Richmond has to fucking win this match to stand even half a chance of being promoted.

The worst part, though, is when Keeley calls him into his office to see if he wants to do an advert with fucking Rogaine, even though male-pattern-baldness has yet to rear its ugly bald head anywhere fucking near Roy’s hairline.

Roy barely gets through the meeting without screaming at her when she pulls a plastic bag from under her desk and hands it to Roy, saying it’s from Jamie.

Roy waits to open it until he gets home. It’s the clothes he’d left in Saturday morning. They’re folded neatly, down to the socks, so much so Roy half-wonders if Jamie fucking ironed them.

That night, in the privacy of his own kitchen, Roy certainly doesn’t lift each garment in turn to see if they smell like Jamie. And he most definitely doesn’t feel a lump in his throat when they don’t smell like anything except plain cotton and a whiff of Keeley’s perfume. Because that would be pathetic, and Roy fucking isn’t.

So what if he holds the fucking bag to his chest when he can’t fall asleep late that night? So would anyone fucking else.

“Fuck’s your problem?” Rachel says gruffly. They’re in Roy’s back garden the morning before the last match of the season, Rachel enjoying a pan au chocolate, Roy working his way through a grapefruit.

Phoebe’s kicking a ball around Roy’s makeshift half-pitch. She’s still sniffly, but she isn’t contagious anymore, according to Rachel.

“Fucking nothing,” Roy replies, equally as curt, before picking up another wedge of grapefruit.

“You didn’t even hug Phoebe when we came in.”

“Don’t want to get sick.”

Rachel sighs, taking an overly crunchy bite of croissant. “Roy-”

“We’re on the edge of promotion and the final match is tonight. I’m just a bit fucking stressed.”

Rachel chews slowly, running a hand through her ponytail. “You know it’s more than that, Roy. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

Roy huffs. He has slept, albeit in spurts and bursts of no more than an hour each, checking his phone obsessively every time he wakes up. Never anything from Jamie. Not that Roy’s wanting something, of course. Just curious, isn’t he?

“Ted bench you again?”

“No,” Roy grunts into his black coffee. Fuck, he misses milk and sugar and whatever the fuck syrups Jamie got in his matcha that first time they’d been alone together. Hadn’t even tried it, but the smell alone had been fucking lush.

“Your knee acting up?”

“No.” No more than usual, at least.

Rachel exhales through pursed lips. “Blue balls?”

“No.”

Rachel pounces on it like a fucking cat. “Oh! Something with Jamie, then?”

“Can we not fucking talk about Jamie?” Roy says, far too loudly, enough that Phoebe looks up from where she’s practising keepy-uppies.

“That’s a yes,” Rachel says, far too fucking smug for Roy’s taste.

Roy stays silent, watches Phoebe return her focus to the ball. She’s doing pretty well with headers. Roy should look into getting her into an U12 squad rather than the U10 she’s on now.

“C’mon,” Rachel says. “What’s going on? He call you pretty or something?”

“Fuck off.”

“Roy,” Rachel sighs, putting her saucer down on the wrought-iron table in favour of pushing at Roy’s shoulder. “I’m your sister. Talk to me.”

“Nothing to talk about.” There isn’t. Not really. Jamie and Roy were never anything, and now they’re definitely not. One drunken night and lovesick morning doesn’t change that. The whole situation’s not much more interesting than watching a ball sit perfectly still on a flat surface, to be honest.

“Then why are you grumpy?” Rachel asks, with the cheer only a little sister could manage at her older brother’s misery.

“I’m not grumpy.”

“Tell that to your face.”

Roy doesn’t grace that with a response, just takes another bite of grapefruit.

“Did you guys have a fight?”

“Yeah.” That much is true at least.

“What about?” Rachel starts examining her nails, as if to emphasise how cool and casual this is, how calm and easy it should be for Roy to express his feelings.

“My career.”

Rachel hums, eyebrows wrinkled. “Fuck does he know about football?”

“Exactly. Fuck all.”

“Then why are you so stroppy?”

“I’m not fucking stroppy.”

“Sorry. Why are you so . . . upset about it?”

Roy takes another sip of coffee. He’s probably liable to give himself an ulcer between this and grapefruit and the ibuprofen he’s been guzzling for his head that hasn’t stopped pounding in days and his knee which is fucking throbbing, but he doesn’t find himself caring.

“He called me pathetic,” Roy finally mutters.

“Shit,” Rachel says coolly, even though her mouth is twisted up in fucking agreement. “That was ballsy.”

“The fuck?”

“I just can’t imagine anyone except maybe me calling you pathetic. They’d be too scared to. Makes me like Jamie more, to be honest.” She punctuates her insult with a loud crunch of her croissant, crumbs flying onto Roy’s patio.

“You don’t see why that might piss me the fuck off?” Roy grits out.

“Piss you off? No. Hurt your feelings? Sure.”

“He didn’t hurt my fucking feelings. I’m a fucking adult.”

“One who’s been sulking for a week now,” Rachel retorts without looking up from her plate.

“I’m not fucking sulking.”

Rachel sighs, clearly done arguing with Roy about his behaviour. Roy can see her switching tacts from the shifts in her expression, and it makes him want to kick something. Preferably a thing easier to hurt than a football.

“Have you talked with him about it?” Rachel finally says.

“No. He hasn’t texted me.”

“Have you texted him?”

“Fuck, no. I don’t owe him anything.”

“He’s your boyfriend, you know. You might owe him an olive branch.”

“Don’t think he is,” Roy says into his mug, because it’s true.

“Did he say he wanted to break up?” Rachel’s voice is slow, like she’s talking to a child.

“No. But he did. I could tell.”

“You don’t know what he’s thinking, Roy. He’s your boyfriend, not your twin.”

For some fucking reason, Rachel continually calling Jamie his fucking boyfriend has a lump in Roy’s throat, his eyes fucking stinging in a way they haven’t since his fucking granddad died. He looks up for a moment, studies Rachel’s profile. She’s considering him, thick eyebrows, so similar to his own, narrowed in concern.

Roy swallows. He knows he shouldn’t say anything. For his own sake, and Jamie’s, and, shit, he ought to throw Keeley’s in, too, while he’s at it. It’s stupid, for his career, for his relationship with his sister, for his entire fucking life.

But Roy can feel himself close to fucking crying. He needs fucking help. And, if Rachel’s willing to help him, she deserves the truth.

“He’s not. Never was, really.”

It feels like the words are being scraped from Roy’s very soul with a rusty pickaxe, but Rachel doesn’t get it. She snorts at him.

“What? Just because he didn’t have a weird, sit-down dinner with me and Phoebe, he doesn’t get the boyfriend title?”

“No.” Roy tries to swallow the pebble in his throat, but it stays stubbornly put. “We never actually dated. He was here because of a contract.”

Rachel sets her cup down carefully. “Like, an escort?”

Fuck, the reminder of the way Jamie had spat that word stings, and Roy cringes despite himself.

“No. It was . . . fucking PR. I wasn’t getting any minutes, and Keeley thought if I raised my profile or whatever, the fans would wanna see me play, so Ted would put me in to sell more tickets. Because we’re a Championship side now, so our budget is fucked, so we need to sell as many seats as possible.”

“What?” Rachel says simply, mouth dropped open. It turns the pebble in Roy’s throat to a fucking stone, so he just continues to keep her from saying anything more.

“And Keeley said she had the perfect candidate, who had experience being papped and who she thought would get along with me. Someone who was trying to break into modelling, and wanted to use my connections.”

“Jamie,” Rachel finishes for him.

Roy just nods miserably. “And I thought he would be a twat, and he is, but he’s also sweet and fucking- kind, and he takes good care of Phoebe, and he loves his parents, and he’s fucking smart, too. He fucking took me to an art museum because I was having a shit day. He fucking catsits for Higgins. He’s fucking sensitive, too, and I fucking called him a worthless child.”

Roy isn’t sure when he started crying, but tears drip down his nose and plop into his coffee. It would be funny if his eyes weren’t burning, his throat not being torn into shreds.

“Whoa,” he hears Rachel say distantly, her arm coming to wrap around his shoulders. “That’s a fucking lot.”

“And I lied to you, and Phoebe, and fucking everyone because I was scared. I was so fucking scared of being benched or looking like an idiot, and of fucking course I do. I’m parading around like the team fucking mascot just to get five extra fucking minutes.”

Roy pauses to hiccup. Fuck, he hates crying. “And I fucked it with Jamie because I was too fucking scared to say he was right. I shouldn’t be fucking playing anymore. The only reason I am is because I’m too fucking scared to do anything fucking else.”

“Shit,” Rachel says softly. She plucks the coffee mug from Roy’s hands and places it on the table before using the sleeve of her jumper to wipe at Roy’s eyes. It’s soft, which just makes him cry harder for some fucking reason.

“And he hates me, and you probably hate me, and Phoebe ought to as well, at this fucking point.”

Roy heaves a real, honest-to-God fucking sob. He’s going to have fucking no one next year. Can’t play anymore. Jamie hates him, with good fucking reason. Rachel and Phoebe would be better off ditching him, too. He’s going to be alone, which just makes the way Rachel is swallowing him in a half-hug fucking worse.

“Jesus, Roy,” Rachel sighs, still patting his eyes.

“I know,” Roy rasps.

“Jamie was right. You are fucking pathetic.”

Roy’s head whips up at that, so fast he’s almost dizzy.

“The fuck?” Roy says, throat thick.

“Fucking pathetic you’d rather fucking play until you drop dead rather than take a fucking rest. Pathetic that you wouldn’t talk to me about it, you knob.” Rachel shoves at his shoulder. “Pathetic that you chased away a perfect fucking boy because he wanted what was best for you.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be comforting me?” It’s meant to be a chastisement, but Roy’s pretty sure the effect is ruined by how he’s swiping at his still-wet eyes.

“Yeah, probably,” Rachel admits. “I’ll make sure to do that later.”

Roy snorts, nudging his head up toward the weak light of an overcast sky. He’d laugh outright if he wasn’t fucking miserable.

“Seriously, though,” Rachel says, squeezing Roy’s shoulders. “I’m definitely peeved at you for lying, but I get it. If I had to lie to you to keep my job, I would without a second thought.”

“You would?” Roy asks, only a bit embarrassed at how wetly he says it.

Rachel purses her lips. “Well, probably not. Would probably just go to a different hospital or something. Besides, asking doctors to lie is definitely a violation of something. But, my point is that I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

“I’m fucking sorry. I’ve been a fucking knob.” Roy usually hates apologies, but this makes him feel lighter. He’s still not sure he’ll get out of bed any day he doesn’t have to watch Phoebe for the rest of his life, but the thought is starting to sound a bit sad rather than ideal.

Rachel claps his shoulder. “You have been, yeah. But that’s okay. I love you, anyway.”

“Thanks,” Roy says, wiping at his nose, belatedly embarrassed.

“So what the fuck happened with Jamie?”

Christ. If there’s anything worse than crying in front of his little sister, being embarrassed and crying in front of her is worse.

“I fucked it,” Roy says simply.

“I gathered that. What did you actually do, though?”

“I fucking like him. And I didn’t tell him until I was so piss-drunk that Jamie wouldn’t touch me with a ten-foot fucking pole. The next morning, he was all fucking happy, and then I yelled at him because he mentioned me fucking retiring. God fucking forbid, huh?”

“Jamie wouldn’t touch you when you were drunk?”

Fucking hell. It’s like Rachel can see every single fucking thing Roy’d rather gloss over, and is poking at it with a hot knife.

“He didn’t want to f-fucking take advantage of me,” Roy hiccups. “Said he wanted to wait until I was sober.”

Rachel hums, bumping her forehead against Roy’s shoulder.

“He was so fucking excited to be with me, too, until I fucking fucked it.”

“It doesn’t sound to me like you fucked it. Completely, at least,” Rachel says quietly, rubbing Roy’s arm with her sleeve.

“Fucking how? I told him he was a child and compared him to an escort.”

“Well, I hope he’s not both of those things at the same time. Little too Pretty Baby for me.”

Roy tries to fix her with a glare, but his eyes are too watery for it to have any effect. In fact, it just makes her fucking pat his eyes with her sleeve again.

“Look,” Rachel says, adjusting so she’s facing Roy more properly. “You definitely need to apologise. No fucking doubt about that. But it’s not fucked.”

“He won’t talk to me, Rachel.”

Rachel coos at him like he’s fucking Phoebe as a toddler, crying over a skinned knee, but Roy’s horrified to find that it feels kind of nice, rather than oppressive. “But he clearly cares about you a lot.”

“How do you fucking know?”

“I watched LCA, Roy. I follow him on all of his socials. I probably watched every single interview the man has ever given-”

“How does your obsession with him prove he cares?”

“Because the man is a horny motherfucker. Fuck anything that moves kind of guy.”

“So I’m not even good enough to fuck.”

“No, you adorably sad, self-centred little twat. He wanted you to be sober for the first time you fucked. He wanted you to enjoy it and fully want it. He was willing to put his needs aside to take care of you.”

“So?” Roy asks, scrubbing at his dripping nose.

“So he clearly gives plenty of fucks about you. He prioritises your needs.”

“That’s who he is, though. He sacrificed his evening to watch fucking Phoebe with me. He’s been driving me everywhere since my car fucked itself. He took me to an art museum because I was sad. He gave me a million fucking media tips.”

“And what’s the thread there?” Rachel says sceptically. If there’s a way to haughtily sip coffee, she’s doing it now.

“Jamie?”

“No, you fucking muppet. He did all those things for you.”

“He would do it for anyone. You should’ve seen him with his parents. He was so fucking sweet.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. Actually rolls them, like she’s still fifteen. “Those are his fucking parents. Of course he was sweet to them. But he’s also sweet to you.”

Roy shakes his head. “Not anymore. He fucking hates me, and he’s well within his rights to.”

“Did he say that?”

“No,” Roy sniffles, like the child he’s being.

“Did he, before the fight, give you absolutely any fucking indication that he wasn’t over the moon with you?”

“It wasn’t real, Rachel.”

Rachel sighs noisily. “He played fucking Princess and the Dragon with Phoebe. No one would do that unless they fucking loved you.”

“Or loved Phoebe,” Roy mutters.

“Roy,” Rachel scolds. “Try, for a minute, to see this from a lens of anything except self-pity. He didn’t reach out to you, but did you ever reach out to him?”

“No,” Roy mutters. His tears have dried a bit, for which he’s fucking grateful.

“So how the fuck do you know what he wants?”

“He didn-”

“Neither did you,” Rachel interjects. “For all you know, he’s crying in his own back garden right now.”

That image feels like a lash across Roy’s chest with a flaming whip. Jamie, curled into a ball like Roy, wiping at his eyes and thinking he was an idiot for assuming he could ever reach some sort of happiness with Roy. Not even minding the lingering April chill because he’s not feeling anything, anyway. Not feeling hungry or uncomfortable or anything other than a bit tired.

More tears leak out of Roy’s eyes, and he swipes at them, frustrated. “I don’t want him to be.”

“Then you better fix this shit, huh?”

“Fucking how?”

“Talk to him.” Rachel’s voice goes softer, and she rubs at Roy’s eyes with her sleeve again.

“He doesn’t fucking want to, Rachel. He’s done with me.” Roy neglects to mention the plastic bag of his clothes gathering dust in his closet upstairs, that don’t smell like anything at all. If Jamie wanted to talk, that was the excuse to do it, and he chose not to use it.

Rachel screws up her lips. “Fine. Let’s say he is. What are you going to do about it?”

Roy swallows wetly. “Dunno.”

“Keep playing until you die from a football to your Alzheimer’s-addled brain?” Rachel jokes.

Roy doesn’t laugh, though. “Probably.”

Rachel exhales sharply. “Roy, what’s fucking next? You have your whole fucking life in front of you.”

“Nothing. I’m nothing without football.”

“Bullshit,” Rachel snaps. “You are a good fucking uncle. You’re a decent brother, most of the time, last few months notwithstanding. You’re fucking funny, and you’re smart, and you take good fucking care of people.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Roy says miserably.

He jumps when Rachel stands suddenly, setting her mug down hard on the wrought-iron table. “So I don’t matter? Being good to me doesn’t matter? Phoebe doesn’t matter unless you’re kicking a fucking ball?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Really? Sounds to me like it is.” Rachel juts her chest out, hands on her hips, patience clearly run through. “You have so much fucking going for you, Roy. It’s up to you to figure it the fuck out.”

“Rach-”

“Phoebe?” Rachel calls, ignoring him entirely. “C’mon, sweetheart, let’s get you home, okay? Uncle Roy has some thinking to do.”

Phoebe obediently trots over, cheeks pink with chill and exertion, football tucked under her arm.

“Uncle Roy, can we get ice cream?” she pants.

“Ask your mum.”

“Ice cream always helps when I’m sad,” Phoebe says matter-of-factly, placing the football neatly into the bag of them on Roy’s porch.

“Thanks,” Roy mutters, drying his eyes for what better be the last fucking time before the match tonight. He needs to fucking focus.

“You’re welcome,” Phoebe says, hurrying into Roy’s house and fiddling with her kit as she goes, untucking the shirt and tugging at her shin guards all at once.

“Phoebe fucking matters, Roy,” Rachel says archly, grabbing the last bit of her croissant off the table. “So do I. So does Jamie.”

She adjusts her shirt before fixing Roy with a stare that makes him feel like their eight-year age difference is reversed entirely. “You can fucking fix this. Have a good match.”

Roy laces up his boots in silence for his last match fucking ever. For a Championship side, no less. One that’s perhaps on the edge of promotion, sure, but a Championship side nonetheless.

Jamie still hasn’t texted him. Rachel hasn’t, either, other than to send a picture of Phoebe in her Richmond gear in the stands, gripping an ice cream cone so tightly Roy wonders if she’s actively trying to strangle it. They don’t usually come to matches, but last week, when Roy was happy and Goodman was injured enough to allow Roy to get decent minutes, it had seemed like a good idea. 

“Roy-o,” Ted says, far too jovially for Roy’s black mood, coming over to where Roy’s leaning against his cubby.

“Gaffer,” Roy grunts by way of greeting, not looking up from his careful double-knots.

“How’s that knee doing?”

“Not in the physio, am I?”

“Feeling good enough to start, you think?”

Roy almost fucking jumps at the words. He looks up at Ted, eyes wide, a ghost of a smile on his face. “You fucking serious?”

“Well, I don’t know who serious is, so I would certainly hope not, but I do certainly mean that I want you to start today. Need our best players in.”

Roy feels light on his feet for the first time in a fucking week as he stands and shakes Ted’s hand without really thinking about it.

“Be glad to,” he says after a minute too long of shaking Ted’s hand. Roy needs to gather himself – one start doesn’t make a career, not the way that one benching does. Jamie still hates him. Rachel’s still pissed at him.

Still, it’s better than fucking nothing, particularly half an hour later, when the ref blows the whistle and Roy immediately gets the ball shoved into his legs by an errant pass from the Sheffield United forward.

It’s not any more than instinct for Roy to start taking it up the field with neat, easy dribbles. Sam’s on his wing, wide open if Roy needs it, but Roy’s light on his fucking feet tonight. A Sheffield defender starts in on him, but Roy fucking nutmegs him. His knee doesn’t feel perfect, he can feel every fucking eye on him wondering why the fuck Ted decided to start a geriatric, but it doesn’t fucking matter. None of it fucking does.

Right now, it’s just Roy and the ball and his body, until he watches the keeper dive in the completely wrong direction and slots a shot neatly into the back of the net.

Roy’s weightless for a moment, even as he feels teammates’ hands slapping on him for scoring in the first fucking minute, until the fucking screen changes from showing their celebration to showing Jamie’s in the stands.

He’s wearing an absolutely massive knit jumper, stitched across the front with a number 6. Jamie’s by no means small, but he’s dwarfed by the thing, the sleeves covering his hands except for red-and-blue painted fingernails that he’s clapping together.

At first glance, he looks good. Normal. He has stripes of red and blue high on each cheekbone, his lips done in a soft pink gloss. To someone who doesn’t know him, he’d look like a typical excited WAG.

But Roy does fucking know him. Roy sees that his foundation doesn’t quite cover dark circles under his eyes, that his nails are surrounded by bits of angry red where Jamie must have been picking at them. A normal person sees Jamie feels cold and is tucking his hands under his jumper, but Roy knows what it actually is. Anxiety. Or sadness. Or awkwardness.

Something uncomfortable at least.

And Roy fucking aches to do something about it, but he can’t because his team is already running back to the centre circle, and Roy has a fucking match he needs to win.

There’s no more easy goals the rest of the half. Sheffield knows it’s a good few goals away from its own fucking promotion, and they play like it. Roy’s been lucky to net that one fucking goal early, give them some breathing room.

The equaliser comes late in the first half, when Roy’s dripping sweat onto his fucking kit because, yeah, he is too fucking old for this shit. Sharp slides a neat cross to Brewster, who gives it a header toward the goal. Zoreaux manages to slap that attempt away with the tip of his finger, but sends the ball straight into Gibbs-White’s laces. They never stood a fucking chance.

Roy groans and scrubs at his temples. Wasn’t anyone’s fault, at least at first glance. He’s sure Nate will have some shit to say when they review the game tape, but nothing yet, at least. For his part, Roy was nearly twenty metres out from the entire thing because he’s fucking slow.

Thankfully, the whistle blows for halftime then, and Roy hustles into the tunnel.

Roy is fucking slow. He knows it, his team knows it, and Sheffield fucking United knows it. Ndiaye cuts neatly around Roy in the fifty-first minute, and he’s sailing through open grass on the way to the net. It’ll be easier than fucking shot practice.

It’s not even a conscious choice to start sprinting after him, Roy’s feet a fucking blur under his body. His head is throbbing, his chest is tight, and there’s no fucking way Roy can catch him. There just fucking isn’t. But Roy isn’t fucking going to be on a Championship side next year. No fucking way.

Roy’s practically tripping over himself with the momentum, but he manages to keep himself upright long enough to be within striking distance of Ndiaye. Long enough to launch himself in a tackle, the intensity of which he hasn’t attempted since fucking Chelsea. Long enough to watch the ball go flying off into the stands, and long enough to feel relief for that.

Long enough to feel, more than hear, the sickening pop his knee gives.

Pain blooms along his knee, his ankle, up into his fucking groin. The grass is cool and welcome under his back, the breeze sighing over his body, but he can’t really feel any of it. It’s worse than any other time he’s fucked his knee, sharper and hotter, and more fucking . . . everywhere. Roy can’t even draw a full fucking breath.

Roy doesn’t realise the crowd was screaming until they fall silent. He’s confused for a moment until he sees Sam appear in his vision, blocking out the lights, concern wrinkling his brow.

“You alright?” he asks, still panting.

“No,” Roy grits out. “My fucking knee.”

There’s more commotion, more faces popping in and out of his view. A medic comes in after a minute. She’s new, blonde hair in a thick braid, anxiety written on her face. She barely has to touch him before he’s screaming.

“He can’t play,” she tells someone over Roy’s head, breathless.

“No fucking shit,” Roy spits from the ground.

“We need a stretcher.”

“No.” Sam’s voice again. “Roy Kent doesn’t get stretchered off the pitch.”

Then Sam’s kneeling down by him, hand reaching toward Roy’s chest to pull him up. Roy takes it, not feeling anything except pain when Sam lets him go and he falls onto his back.

“What the fuck?”

“Shh,” Sam says quickly, blazingly white teeth bared in a smile. “Listen.”

Roy wants to say he can’t hear fucking anything except fucking pain, but then he gets it. Quiet at first, but growing steadily louder. It’s like a rose blooming almost. No one thinks that something could come out of that hard, green bud, but within weeks, lush, blood red petals are spreading toward the sun.

He’s here, he’s there . . .

The first time Roy heard his chant, he was barely a first-teamer at Sunderland. Had partied that night completely fucking sober. He didn’t need anything more than the drug of being fucking good.

He’s here, he’s there, he’s every-fucking-where . . .

The first time he heard that for England, he’d laid in his back garden, completely naked, and played a recording of the match on his phone. Didn’t have a wank or anything, but just appreciated it.

He’s here, he’s there, he’s every-fucking-where, Roy Kent, Roy Kent!

It doesn’t hit him, as Sam hauls him to his feet and he claps his appreciation at the crowd, or as he hobbles into the tunnel, nor as he shrugs off physio after physio, that this is probably the last time he’s ever going to hear it.

It’s only when he sits in the empty dressing room, kit shoved into his cubby, panting over his leg, propped up on towels, that it finally sinks in.

It doesn’t fucking matter how the rest of the match goes. Doesn’t matter what Roy did for it. Because he’s done.

He’s fucking done.

There’s no time to feel anything about that, though, because the door is creaking open.

Roy sees the toe of a black combat boot first, then black tights over a muscled calf. Roy watches thick thighs draped over by a massive jumper slide into the dressing room before he slips his eyes closed.

Roy’s fucking freezing, half-naked like this and in too much fucking pain to shower, to even slide off his shorts, let alone get a pair of trousers on. The cold only feels worse with the new person in the room, ever warm.

“You’re not allowed back here during a match,” Roy says to his lap, eyes still closed.

“Okay,” Jamie replies softly.

“Oi,” Roy says, harsher this time, when he doesn’t hear the door creaking open and footsteps wander off. “I mean it.”

Jamie doesn’t say anything to that. Roy isn’t looking at him, but he doesn’t hear any movement, doesn’t even hear a breath in the oppressive silence of the empty dressing room. Roy should be on the pitch, listening to the noise of the crowd. He shouldn’t be in fucking here, where even his shaky inhales hurt his fucking ears with the noise.

“Fuck off,” Roy growls.

“I’m not gonna do that, mate,” Jamie says, still in that soft, scared voice, like he’s soothing a wild animal.

Roy almost wishes he was crying again like this morning. Would be preferable to have that to focus on, rather than the pain and the fucking silence. But his eyes are as dry as his mouth, making it difficult to blink or swallow.

“I don’t fucking want you here,” Roy spits acidly.

“I know.”

Jamie’s voice is so fucking quiet, cracked with pain, that Roy looks up at him without really meaning to. He’s absolutely fucking drowned by his jumper, but his hands are still twisting in his sleeves. He’s standing pigeon-toed. He’s always so fucking big and loud and warm, but here he’s smushing himself into a quiet, awkward version of himself, and it makes Roy’s throat burn.

“Then what the fuck are you still doing here?”

“Wanted to see if you were alright.” Jamie’s mumbling, but he’s holding Roy’s gaze with careful determination, his jaw set, his eyes big and wet. It almost hurts worse than the pain in Roy’s knee. Almost.

“I’m not,” Roy says simply. “So fuck off.”

Roy watches Jamie’s hands make fists within the sleeves of his jumper. “No,” Jamie says. His voice is shaking just a bit, but he’s louder now, at least.

“I’m a fucking arsehole.”

“You are.”

“You deserve fucking better.”

“I do.”

Roy pauses, waiting for Jamie to take his own fucking advice and turn on his heel. Leave Roy alone with his fucked knee and finished career, to rot in his own misery until he gets the inevitable news that they aren’t getting promoted and Roy’s injury was absolutely meaningless.

But Jamie doesn’t move a fucking muscle, standing there all tensed like he’s waiting to be punched.

“I’ve treated you horribly. I called you an escort.”

“Not before I called myself that,” Jamie says with a shrug, a ghost of a grin playing at those full lips before they set back into a steady line.

“I said you were worthless without your looks. That you’ve never worked hard in your life.”

“You did say that,” Jamie says simply.

“You sacrificed so much fucking time and effort to try to make me happy, and I didn’t give a shit about any of it.”

“Guess not.”

“Then why are you fucking here, Jamie?”

It comes out harsher than Roy intends, and Jamie’s expression shifts, just inches away from a wince.

And fucking hell if that little twinge doesn’t hurt worse than Roy’s fucking knee. Than his career ending. Worse than the disappointment writ in Rachel’s dark eyes that morning. Worse than anything Roy thinks he’s ever fucking felt.

“I care about you, don’t I?” Jamie murmurs eventually. “Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do.”

“Why?” Roy’s voice breaks on the single syllable.

“Because you’re you. You want a fucking list?”

“Piss off,” Roy just mutters.

“Fine. You’re all the surface shit, yeah, hot and fit and talented, and whatever, but you’re also all the underneath shit. You’re stubborn. And you have a temper for everyone except Phoebe. You’re kind, even when you don’t want to be. My parents like you. You like the children’s Bake-Off, not because they’re cute, but because you care about what they’re making. You hate my music, but you let me play it, anyway. You’re an awful dancer. Your eyes do this fucking glowy thing when you’re happy.”

Jamie’s throat bobs as he rubs the fabric of his sleeves between his fingers before he adds, in a voice so soft Roy wouldn’t be able to hear it if the heat was on, “You want to treat me gently.”

“But I haven’t,” Roy says immediately. “I’ve leaned on you and been a twat in the meantime.”

Jamie shakes his head. His hair doesn’t look as shiny as it normally does, and Roy’s chest squeezes without his permission.

“You let me meet Phoebe. You cooked with Simon. You let Mummy grill you at dinner. You didn’t kick me out when I came over in my pyjamas and you were in pain-”

“That wasn’t for your sake.”

“-and you’re so fucking soft when you let yourself be. You let me hold you in Manchester. You let me take care of you when your knee hurt. And you’re brave. You let me kiss you at the gala. You did all this shit that made you horribly uncomfortable.”

“None of that was me!” Roy’s nearly yelling all of a sudden, and he quiets himself down to a biting whisper as he tacks on, “All of that was me pretending or for my benefit. I’m fucking selfish, Jamie. Football is all I’m fucking good for, and I can’t even do that now.”

Jamie raises a hand to his chest like a dramatic damsel in an old movie. “Then my job, for however long you’ll have me, is to show you all the things you’re good at.” Jamie takes a shuffled step toward Roy. “Like making me laugh. Or being an uncle. Or a brother. Or a boyfriend, hopefully.”

“You deserve better,” Roy says, eyeing Jamie’s approach warily, a cornered animal faced with a predator, ready to be eaten alive, or maimed at the very least.

But Jamie doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he takes three careful, quiet steps toward Roy before sitting down on the bench next to him. They’re not touching, but they’re close enough that Roy can feel Jamie’s ever-present heat. He hates the way it feels nice on his icy, sweat-chilled skin.

He doesn’t deserve nice things, especially not from Jamie.

“I don’t care if you don’t deserve me,” Jamie says quietly, looking over at Roy from the side of his eyes, hands puddled in his jumper in his lap. “It don’t matter, because I want you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Roy says immediately.

Jamie shrugs. “Maybe not. But I do, Roy.”

Roy could say all the things that are stupid about that. They’re on the tip of his tongue, in fact. All about how Jamie is smarter and kinder and funnier than Roy, how he’s so fucking beautiful, how he deserves the very fucking best, which certainly isn’t fucking Roy.

But he’s fucking tired. His knee aches with the pulse of his heart, he’s freezing, his head fucking aches. It’s more than that, though. Two decades in the Prem and the Academy before that have all come to sit on Roy’s shoulders, and he’s tired.

He’s fucking tired.

Of arguing, of fighting, of striving to be perfect and the best and whatever the fuck else is lumped into his head.

So he just mutters, “Okay,” and sits in silence.

Until Jamie’s arm comes around his back, his side pressed against Roy’s. He smells so fucking good, everything Roy wishes the fucking clothes Jamie gave to Keeley to give to Roy were. Sweet and fragrant cologne, warm soap, and just fucking . . . Jamie.

And fuck, he’s warm, even through the thick wool of his Richmond jumper.

“Why didn’t you give me the clothes back yourself?” Roy asks quietly when Jamie lifts two fingers to Roy’s jaw, just brushing it lightly with the backs of them. Not asking for anything other than simple touch.

“Thought you wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Fuck, Jamie. I’m fucking sorry.”

“I’m fine, Roy-o,” Jamie says lightly, tapping his index finger against the hinge of his jaw.

“Are you?”

Jamie shrugs, and Roy can feel the whole movement, from its origin in Jamie’s back, through his shoulders, down his arms.

“Yeah. Just been crying a bit, haven’t I?”

Roy can’t keep himself from tucking his head into Jamie’s chest. It’s fucking awkward like this, on the hard wood of the bench, Roy’s leg extended on it, his whole side twisted, but it’s so fucking nice to be close to Jamie, face pressed over Jamie’s fucking heart, his lungs.

Jamie’s arms come around him, the wool of the jumper rubbing against Roy’s bare skin, itchy in the best fucking way, in the way that means he’s present and real and there. He can feel Jamie’s inhales, his swallows, every tiny little rhythm of Roy’s body.

It doesn’t matter that Roy’s missing the match. It doesn’t matter whether they secure the promotion. It doesn’t matter that he’s probably fucked his knee forever. The pain doesn’t even fucking matter.

The fact that Rachel and Phoebe will be waiting for him at home does. The fact that Jamie’s holding him does. The fact that he feels fucking happy does.

Chapter Text

A few months later . . .

Roy balls his hands into fists on the table, hips working desperately.

Underneath him, Jamie gives soft little gasps into the wood, stomach pressed to it, fingers scrabbling for purchase.

Roy moves one hand to give Jamie’s bare bum an appreciative pat before grabbing his hip and yanking Jamie back onto his cock, using the leverage to nail Jamie’s prostate carefully and consistently. 

“Fuck, Roy,” Jamie groans weakly, voice wobbling with each of Roy’s thrusts.

The smooth, hot clutch of Jamie’s hole is always fucking perfect, but it somehow feels better like this, over the counter at their rented villa in Marbella. Rachel and Phoebe aren’t due for a few more days, Georgie and Simon for a few days after that, so Roy and Jamie have made sure to put every inch of the place to good use.

“Fucking perfect,” Roy grits out, moving the hand not on Jamie’s hip to the small of his back, palming over the dimples there, the light sheen of sweat glazing his entire body like a particularly gorgeous doughnut.

Jamie makes a high, keening noise, hands slipping along the smooth table until they reach the edge of it and he holds on, knuckles white with the force of his grip.

“Feels so good,” Jamie chokes out into his bicep, face split with a grimace of pleasure.

Roy doesn’t even reply, just swivels his hips in a way that has Jamie loosing a punched-out moan, barely steps away from a scream.

They haven’t been able to keep their hands off each other in the two months since Roy got the fuck over himself at the last match of the season, but this fuck is something special. Maybe it’s the fact that Roy’s been tipsy on sangria and cava for forty-eight straight hours, but Roy’s pretty sure it’s just how happy Jamie is, how he’s shoving his hips back to meet every thrust, his plush arse cushioning his movements.

“Fucking love you,” Roy grits into the back of Jamie’s neck, bending over him and letting himself feel Jamie’s muscled back, working hard for him, pressing into Roy’s belly and chest until he’s entirely subsumed by Jamie.

“You-” Jamie cuts himself off with a gasp as Roy nudges his prostate. “You too. Fuck, right there.”

Roy smiles smugly and keeps up his efforts, letting a hand drift to Jamie’s front. He palms over Jamie’s abs, his happy trail, his gloriously fuzzy thighs. He brushes Jamie’s hipbone with the heel of his hand, and Jamie fucking squeaks.

“What?” Roy pants, purposefully ignorant.

“Touch me,” Jamie says into the table. He’s making a little puddle of drool under himself, smearing on his cheek with every thrust, and it’s fucking cute.

“I am, baby.” Roy punctuates the sentence with a particularly vicious thrust.

“No- fuck.”

Roy loves fucking Jamie until he’s incoherent, until he can’t even ask for what he needs anymore, the way he has every fucking day of the last two months. He loves watching Jamie’s eyes grow big and wet, his cock leaking, his hole clenching down desperately on anything Roy can give him. He loves smelling Jamie’s sweat, feeling his hair grow wet with it until it slips through Roy’s fingers like sopping silk. He loves Jamie being so desperate that his cock hurts, that he scratches at Roy’s back because he can’t fucking help himself anymore.

He’s close to that place now, red-faced and hiccuping and thrashing.

“Hey,” Roy says in Jamie’s ear, licking over the shell of it. He shivers as Roy does it, squeezing around Roy’s cock like a vice. “Relax, sweetheart. Don’t want you to bruise your hips.”

Jamie makes a desperate, animalistic sound into the grain of the polished table, somewhere between a scream and a gasp and a sob. He’s bucking his hips more desperately, utterly out of rhythm with Roy’s steady thrusts, desperate to get some sort of pleasure fucking somehow.

It’s no hardship for Roy to take pity on him.

Jamie’s cock is hard as steel, smooth and satiny. Roy works the foreskin over the head and back, wanking Jamie in quick, sharp tugs. Jamie chokes on air, clenching down on Roy so tightly that Roy’s half-worried if he pulls out now, he won’t be able to get back in.

He feels Jamie’s hot, thick come coat his hand, and he smiles against Jamie’s shoulder. It’s the short work of three quick, rough thrusts for Roy to shoot deep inside Jamie, groaning.

Roy flops, dead weight over Jamie, panting into the nape of his sweaty neck, still seated deep inside him. If it were up to him, he’d let Jamie walk around the rest of the night, naked and leaking, shuddering each time he shifts, but they have reservations at the best tapas place Roy’s ever been to in his fucking life in an hour, so he lets himself slip out, still clinging to Jamie.

His breaths raise Roy a bare inch or two, his powerful muscles pressing to Roy’s.

“You alright?” Roy asks into Jamie’s neck, kissing over it as he does.

“Mm,” Jamie murmurs sleepily.

“Hips don’t hurt too bad?”

“Mm,” Jamie repeats, and Roy relents to just laying over Jamie and feeling him breathe. They can check in when Jamie’s a bit more back to himself. Roy’s more than content to wait, lazy and sticky and sated and happy.

It’s much different to Roy a year ago, running through training camp sick and nervous and in pain. The difference doesn’t hurt too much, though. It certainly still stings, but Roy is looking forward to coaching Phoebe’s U12 squad, to getting to actually take time to cook complicated recipes, to visit Rachel at work occasionally.

The idea of getting to spend the rest of forever taking care of Phoebe and hanging out with Rachel and loving Jamie sounds pretty fucking good, in fact.