Archive of Our Own ^beta

Someat were wrong with Jamie. An' not in that subtle, huff around the trainin' room, pout an' mope an’ bug the shit outta whoever he could way. The kind of in your fuckin' face wrong you couldn't miss from fuckin' space.

"Oi! Tartt!" Jamie freezes, mid-step, falterin'. When he turns his face is already perfectly composed down into a scowl he could have only learned from fuckin' imitation. He opens his mouth, the bitin', stupid thing on his tongue obvious even from clear across the pitch.

So. They were doin' one of these today.

Roy should have known, really he should have. From the moment Jamie'd walked in, just almost- not- late enough to get someone to snap at him. The lack of smart fuckin' comments, which really should have been a dead giveaway. Jamie thought his two cents were worth two pounds an' had no problem givin' 'em up. Were generous like that.

His flat fuckin' hair.

"Tartt! Get your prick ass over here!" Jamie doesn't even make the effort of pretendin' he cares, which is about a year out of date. He kicks at the pitch angrily, teeth barin' when Sam turns, clearly tries to check on him. Sam spins, widens his eyes at Roy in that meaningful way people got when someone's kid were throwin’ a fuckin’ strop in the shops. "Fuckin' now, Tartt!"

Jamie half turns, guilt an’ leftover anger swirlin’ confusin’ brew over his face. His eyes lock back on Roy an’ his brow sets down. Anger wins out. An’ it en't like Roy can blame him on that one. It were easier. Safer.

Coach Beard lets out a low sorta whistle, shakes his head as Jamie finally turns to do a pathetic impression of a jog towards the sidelines. "Jesus, who pissed in his cornflake this mornin'."

Roy just narrows his eyes, scowls into the watery, english sun. "He's goin' down. That's just how Jamie are. Fuckin' cycles. Knew we'd been too fuckin' lucky lately with him goddamn behavin'." Beard looks at him, one inscrutable eyebrow raised in that infuriatin' way he had when he were measurin' somethin' up. "An' Jamie don't fuckin' eat cereal. Too posh."

Jamie finally hits the sideline an' if his scowl on the pitch were somethin' to comment on, now it's a fuckin' thunderhead. He doesn't even wait for his trainers to his the concrete before he's losin' his goddamn mind.

"Oi, what the fuck's the problem now, Grandad? The washed up retiree wanna make fuckin' commentary? Forget you en't on the telly anymore? Come on, let's hear it."

Ok. They were doin' on of these.

Roy cuts his eyes over but Beard is already gone, somehow clean off the pitch. Goddamn, Roy had to know how the fuck he managed that.

Not important. He shakes his head once, hard, eyes up Jamie as he stands there, fumin'. Fists balled up at his sides, face all scrunched up like he were a fuckin' barn about to throw a strop.

But there's somethin' else there too, workin' its way across the furrowed brow an' the squared shoulders an' narrowed eyes. He's... askin' for somethin'. Wantin' somethin' he can't have. So instead, he's settlin' for a fight.

An' Roy was well practiced in never givin' Jamie Fuckin' Tartt what he wanted. So he ignores the bait. Fields it away with an incredulous raised brow that might as well have been a hook to the solar plexus.

"Do I need to bench you, fuckin' prince of all pricks? For a fuckin' scrimmage like a U8 brat?" Jamie's face crumples instantly, fingers shakin' out by his sides, shoulders droppin'.

"No!" However he meant for it to come out, he doesn't manage it. Voice high an' desperately close to whinge. He winces, tries for it again. "No. I en't need to be fuckin' benched, Coach."

The last part comes from between his teeth, hissed, angry. But Roy agrees. He en't askin' to be benched. Well, he's askin' for it, but en't really anglin' for it.

Roy eyes him up again, lingerin', scrutinizin' glare that makes Jamie squirm in a deeply satisfyin' way. "Fine." Jamie huffs out a sigh that sounds suspiciously like relief. "Then get the fuck out there an' remember how to fuckin' behave."

Jamie doesn't linger long enough for Roy to change his mind, joggin' back out to the pitch. Properly joggin'. An' Roy can see it. Someat lighter.

"Oi, Tartt." Jamie half turns, eyes wide, dartin' an' Roy's never been a hunter but he fuckin' knows what a deer in the goddamn headlights looks like.

"Apologize to your fuckin' teammates," Roy drops his voice just low enough it carries to Jamie an' en't much further, "An' remember. This en't Man City. An' you en't the prince anymore."

Jamie's eyes soften around the corners, guilt playin' over his face plain as the fuckin' day. God, that kid couldn't hide a thought in his head if his life depended on it, the lil' twat. An' Roy's horrified to find how fuckin' fond he sounds to his own ears. God, he really were goin' soft or someat.

He watches as Jamie turns back 'round, replaces himself in the lineup, exchanges words with Sam that end with Sam slappin' him on the shoulder good-naturedly an' returnin' Jamie's position to him. The scrimmage starts back again an' Roy tries to go back to payin' attention to doin' his own fuckin' job.

"Something's up with Jamie." Beard's voice a foot from his side does not make Roy jump. Which is fuckin' annoyin' considerin' he spent his entire career havin' to be fuckin' aware of people movin' 'round when he couldn't see. God, maybe the kid were fuckin' right about his goddamn old age.

"Fuck, what? Oh." He follows Beard's gaze, watches the lad's circle Jamie, back to form, back to footin'. But it's clear, even as he receives the ball, sinks it so deep in the net it's a fuckin' wonder it doesn't come out the other side, someat's wrong.

"No. Someat's down with Jamie." An' if Roy decides to get to the bottom of it? Well, it en't about the fuckin' muppet. It's about the team.

For sure.

Roy had been a footballer since he'd learned to walk an’ figured there ought to be more to do with his feet than stand. An', though he'd never admit it, that made him a naturally superstitious man. Were baked into him right alongside knowin’ how to thread fuck an’ prick an’ twat into any fuckin’ sentence like Da Vinci an' the goddamn Mona Lisa. Which were why he knew beyond a fuckin’ doubt he'd jinxed himself with Jamie.

Jamie Tartt, his lil open fuckin’ book had suddenly an’ without any goddamn warnin’ made himself a pain in the ass to read. Like for the first time in his miserable lil worm life, he's learned not to let every single thought have a fuckin' game day parade across his face before it slides right out his mouth utterly unfiltered.

It was the lad's most fuckin' annoyin' habit. Right after pretty much everythin' else about him. But it was also a... comfort. To know no matter what, the fuckin' muppet just said every damn thing that came to his nonexistent muppet brain.

Jesus, Roy was goin' soft.

"Jesus, Jamie!" Issac's voice Roy jerks half around, lost in thought, to glance out the office window to the lads filterin' in the trainin' room. Fuckin' mental, it was. Havin' to look for Jamie fuckin' Tartt. Like goddamn clockwork since he'd known him, 'n probably for his whole ridiculously short life, Jamie entered rooms already mid-story or blatherin' on or snappin' up the first person he set his eyes on an' not carin' one bit if he was bein' listened to.

But that weren't exactly true now, were it. Roy's eyes wander over the lads, more an' more eyes turnin' to Jamie, standin' like their center cog, like the thing the whole team spun around. He didn't beg for the attention anymore. Hadn't for a long time now. Not since gettin' back-

Issac shifts an' Roy finally gets a look at what the hell has enraptured an entire team of rambunctious fuckin' footie players. Somethin' rises in his throat, turns, dives to the pit of his stomach.

Jamie's half hovered by the door, both hands clutchin' at the strap of his bum bag like a goddamn lifeline 'n he's goin' down. His eyes are blown wide an' Roy's reminded of the look on Phoebe's face that one time she'd gotten lost at the shops. Roy'd nearly had a fuckin' heart attack an' died which probably would have been a fuckin' favour considerin' then he wouldn't have to be here. Dealin' with this.

There's a dark bruise paintin' the pretty, high plains of Jamie Tartt's face. Circlin' his eye like a dart board or a fuckin' bullseye. Dark an' angry an' fresh in a way that makes a fuckin' inexplicable wave of nausea flit down the back of Roy's throat.

It weren't somethin' he en't seen a thousand fuckin' times. Worse. Done worse. Had worse done to him. Recently. Regularly! But it en't the fuckin' bruise. It's Jamie Fuckin' Tartt. Waverin' slightly, feet shiftin'. Lookin' like Roy's fuckin' nine-year-old niece. Lost in the shops an' alone an’ scared.

"Ey, boyo. Who nailed you?" Colin shifts, laughs in that light, nervous way like he's fuckin' beggin' Jamie to say ah, mate, you would not believe! Drank a lil' too much last night, yeah? I mean it en't too much if I can remember the story tho, ta. But too much for someone, Grandad over there thinks cough syrups too strong nowadays. But anyhow, I start talkin' with some bloke 'n I get to figurin', if this footie shit don't work I would make a right wicked stripper, mate. Next thing I know, I'm up on the table. Fuckin' killin' it mate, for your information, 'n then next I know, flat on my arse am I, yeah! Swear the bruise back there is more impressive than this one, but I en't showin' that off for free!

An' the stupid fuckin' kid would howl at his own joke an' everyone would laugh right along with him until Roy told them to shut their fuckin' mouths if they didn't want their arse to match Jamie's. An' Jamie wouldn't have the fuckin' sense to not find that almost as fuckin' funny.

Jesus Christ. He was fuckin' wishin' the kid would be a lil prick. What the fuck had happened to him? But he can't even resent it. Not when Jamie is still fuckin' there. Color all half drained from his face like he can't fully put the words together. Like he weren't given enough time to cobble together a lie that tasted right.

"Jamie?" Issac takes a half step forward an' Jamie takes one back. On fuckin' somethin' like instinct. Like a response drilled into him. The way he's facin', Roy can't see Issac's face but he can see the drop of his shoulders, the flip of his palms toward the ceilin'. Confusion an' baffled fuckin' concern.

An' it's like everythin' rushes out of Jamie in one pulsin' wave. Drownin' an' all con-fuckin'-sumin'. Like someone has grabbed the strings to the muppet of Jamie an' jerked him hard. The grin is held together with pins an' beggin' you to swallow it.

"Aw, mate, dumbest fuckin' thing, swear down. Was gettin' out me car last night, right? I mean not me car. Fuckin' partied too hard to drive, eh? But crashed right there on the walk! City should be grateful, like. They'll have the imprint of my face their in the pavement for free! 'N I usually charge right high for that!"

Jamie laughs an' it's a lightnin' strike. A dumbell crashin' to the floor. Off pitch an' unconvincin'.

Down, down, down.

But then Bumbercatch chuckles cause someone oughta break the tension when Jamie en't doin' the crack up job he managed like it was a career. An' Colin joins in crackin' off somethin' light an' jabbin' an' shufflin' off an' the rest of the team is behind him in short order.

Issac lingers, studyin' Jamie with those searchin', pull-you-apart eyes Roy had chosen him as Captain for. Not findin' whatever he's lookin' for. When he raises one hand to pat Jamie on the shoulder as he passes, Jamie fuckin' flinches.

Further down than Roy was prepared for. Diggin'. Shovelin'. Hands an' knees in the dirt down.

But then Issac is gone an' Jamie is still there. Stupid lost fuckin' kid in the big fuckin' shops all turned around an' desperately, gaggingly alone.

An' watchin' Roy. Grey eyes wide an' beggin' for... Jesus. Somethin'. Somethin' he won't ask for an' Roy can't fuckin' read. An’ then he wavers. Eases white knuckles off polyester straps, tilts his head, narrows his eyes, an’ slips the sure fuckin' smirk back into place. Fits firmly the shape of the great Jamie Tartt over that scared boy. Smothers him. An’ then turns on his heel, gone. 

An’ Roy has to remind himself he doesn’t care. He really doesn’t. 

It's a right stupid fuckin’ match. The kind that doesn't matter if they win or lose.  Though that doesn't stop Lasso from deliverin one of his long, long, fuckin’ long meanderin’ life stories that ends in some vague life lesson that leaves at least half the team with that blank fuckin’ look on their faces that says they stopped understandin’ somewhere between tryin’ to puzzle out what a five dollar hamburger meal, the Eagles ‘97 season, an’ Lasso's high-school Dodge pickup have to do with fuckin’ football. An’ to be honest, Roy would be fuckin’ curious too if he hadn't mastered the fine fuckin’ art of tunin’ Ted out within a week of knowin' him. 

Well. That. An’ also his fuckin’ focus was torn. As usual. On one Jamie Goddamn Pain In The Ass Tartt. God, it were exhaustin’ this not carin’ shit.

Especially when Jamie didn't… need it anymore. Or at least, that's what Roy was tellin’ himself with growin’ sincerity as the days passed. Jamie had been down. Now he's back up. 

He'd come in early for practice. Stayed late. Real fuckin’ late ‘til the sun had slid low over the pitch an’ Roy'd made him pack up. He chatted with the lads. Slapped shoulders an’ exchanged promises to meet next weekend ‘cause he had plans for this one, yeah.

By all accounts an’ fuckin’ purposes, Jamie was back to Jamie. 

Roy's eyes wander, past Will absorbin' every word like he really minded the strategy, smashed next to McAdoo, eyebrows furrowed an’ mouth pursed up as Ted blathered like he was attendin’ a sermon, Hughes with that slightly blank, confused stare. An’ Jamie. 

Already lookin’ to Roy.

An’ this is where all Roy's arguments fall flat. All his fuckin’ convincin’ himself. All his goddamn surety. Right there in the bunch of Jamie's shoulders. Bared down like he was… braced. And the widenin’ of those stupid, stormy fuckin’ eyes. 

Askin’, askin’, askin’. 

Fuck.

“- I mean, y'all don't actually have those over here now do ya? Probably a good thing though, microplastics ‘n all yeah but-”

“Coach means go out there and play like it matters even when it doesn't now let's go!” Ted half spins, raises his eyebrows an’ nods appreciatively in Beard's direction, an' he bobs his head back.

“What he said. Now let's go play some football, boys!” There's a collective cheer, though whether it's from general enthusiasm or the end of the story, it's up for debate. Either way, the group disperse faster then a Catholic mass. The final precious minutes before the match to be spent in superstition an’ pregame rituals or last minute brush ups on strategy.

“- an’ if we win this, I'll buy you lads so much fruity vodka I'll have to carry you home- or someone will!” Or whatever passed as encouragement.

“Eh, Coach?” Jamie's voice suddenly at Roy’s elbow makes him jump. Or almost does. Won't give Tartt the satisfaction of another Grandad comment.

“Jesus, fuck is it, Tartt?” Jamie half frowns, the corners of his mouth tippin’ into somethin’ bizarrely vulnerable before he freezes, locks it down.

“Just wanted to fuckin’ talk to you, yeah? ‘Bout strategy or someat.” He widens his eyes meaningfully, though what the fuck Roy were meant to be gettin' outta that, he had no idea. 

“Alright. Fuckin’ talk then.” Jamie just scowls, shuffles his feet back an’ forth along the floorin’.

“No. Uh. Alone, like. Yeah.” Roy rolls his eyes hard enough he's half sure they clip the top of his brain. He doesn't answer, just growls low in his throat an’ jerks his head toward the office. A tick of relief slides across Jamie's face as he follows dutifully after. Not even one smart comment. Roy won't admit how that makes his stomach flip a lil’.

“Alright.” Without askin’ Jamie reaches over an’ snaps the blinds shut. Which, yeah, were weird but- “Shoot-”

“I need you to move me to forward striker for this match.” Roy opens his mouth. Shuts it again. Cause there were a fuckin’ lot of unreasonable shite he expected from Jamie Fuckin’ Tartt. But this was not one. An’ Jamie has somehow made it onto an increasingly short list of things that render the great Roy Kent speechless.

Jamie's hands ball into fists, pure instinct. Shoulders bunched, bared down for a fight. But fuckin’ for all of God's lackluster green earth Roy couldn't figure out why.

His first instinct is to tell the kid fuck no an’ move on with it. Wouldn't be unreasonable. But the mild shock an’ the itchin’ feelin’ he was missin’ a crucial fuckin' piece of somethin’ makes him change tactics.

“So you want me,” Jamie's jaw sets, but it doesn't stop Roy from walkin' him through his proposal like he were explainin’ to fuckin’ Pheobe she couldn't eat the entirety of last year's Halloween candy all in one go. “To change the entire fuckin’ match strategy. ‘Cause you woke up this mornin’ an’ decided you didn't want to be midfielder anymore. With fuckin’ seconds before start.”

Jamie's eyes flit back toward the door, off the wall, across the desk, anywhere but Roy's face. He crosses his arms tight against his chest, kit bunchin’ under his hands an' the only word Roy could think to describe him would be downright fuckin’ petulant. “Didn't think of it this mornin’, did I? Just didn't know when to bring it up, like.” 

“Oh, that's different then. I can work with that.” Jamie's gaze flies off the floor up to Roy an’ he looks so stupid an' hopeful Roy almost feels bad. Almost. Right.

“Really?”

“Fuck no.” 

An’ here's the thing. Roy has come to expect certain things of Jamie. When the kid isn't busy blowin’ every last one of his usual fuckin’ behaviors out the water. At some point in his miserable career that ended with lettin’ an American rodeo clown convince him to teach the prince of all pricks, he'd become an unwillin’ fuckin’ noticer of Jamie Tartt. Was prepared for the anger that always came off bein’ told no. 

He's not fuckin’ ready to be faced with Jamie who suddenly looks very much like he could fuckin’ cry. 

“What the fuck.” Which is probably not the right thing to say but he's never been a man of words. Jamie shakes himself. It's a strange thing. To watch someone unravel an’ remake themselves in a handful of fuckin’ seconds. 

“I need to be a striker today, Coach. I just… I gotta be. ‘N if you en't gonna move me then,” his eyes rove about desperately, settle on the floor with the weight of a decision bein’ made, mouth screwed up like he doesn't like the taste. “Well, I'm gonna play fuckin’ forward striker ‘n the rest of you are just have to deal with it, yeah.”

Now. Words alone, Roy considers, for a moment, puttin’ Jamie's head through the wall. But it's all in the fuckin’ delivery. Waverin’ an’ hesitatin’. Like… fuck. Like he en't askin’ for himself or someat.

Fuck. Oh. Fuck.

“Or. Jamie fuckin’ Tartt.” An' the kid's back to lookin’ at him with that guarded, hopeful look that makes Roy feel, effectively, like a fuckin’ knob. But he's followin’ a hunch. One he doesn't fuckin’ like. “I put you on the fuckin’ bench for this game, you lil’ twat.”

Jamie explodes. “You can't fuckin’ do that! You prick!” Roy just raises an eyebrow, impassive. Goddamn Beard. Been around him too much, he's pickin’ up his fuckin’ habits. Jamie just fumbles forward, squares his shoulders an’ steps back like he were linin’ up a penalty. “You, you fuckin’ need me, yeah? You can't just put me on the bench last minute, can you?” 

It takes a moment to register that every fuckin’ sentence in that last word vomit is a question. Like he were tryin’ to make sure someone-

“Fuck you!” Jamie's voice has somehow managed a record high. Roy's half shocked he en't shattered the glass in the window. He's certainly testin’ the office soundproofin’. Were far past the point of carin’, though. “You just- you en't fuckin’ get it, you dumb fuckin’ geezer! You just- you just can't.” It's not his best line. Another thing he's apparently past carin’ about. 

“Yeah, the fuck I could, Tartt. With fuckin’ seconds to match an' you fuckin’ stroppin’-”

“I ain't stroppin’, am I!” He stomps his fuckin’ foot. Doesn't even seem to consider it en't doin' him any favors. Roy just pushes forward as if Jamie hadn't spoken at all.

“- tryin’ to tell me what I can an’ can't do, you ridiculous muppet. If you want someat to whinge about I can fuckin’ give you someat to whinge about.” 

Jamie sucks in a gaspin’, chokin’ breath an’ he can tell he's somehow managed to traipse over a line the moment the words leave his mouth. It's right there. In the dip of Jamie's chin, the widenin’ of his eyes, the set of his spine. You can tell a lot about a footballer by watchin’ their feet. An’ Jamie is backin’ away. Not to line up. Not to prepare. Not to sink the type of goal he'd howl about to anyone he could get to listen. 

No. Jamie backs up like he's fleein’. Disengaged. Offense to defense in the blink of an eye.

Maybe all those goddamn drills were payin’ off.

For a long moment, no one says anythin’. Both of them hung on a point of understandin’. Jamie is a deer on the M-28, certain he'll be ripped apart if he moves. Not much mindin’ the idea. Just quiet. Like he's almost waitin’-

Three things occur to Roy simultaneously.

One. Roy had a dog when he was lil’. It had bit him once. An’ he'd come home the next day an’ it was gone. He'd been fuckin’ inconsolable. Figures things bite when they're scared. Can't be their fault, can it.

Two. Jamie is goddamn good at keepin’ secrets. A walkin’ conundrum, that is. That he wears everythin’ right there on his stupid, muppet face but manages to be the best liar Roy has ever met. A skill, that is. A practiced one.

Three. The kid in front of him is not Jamie Tartt. Not the one he's known the last year. Who was annoyin’ an’ a brat an’ spoiled in unfathomable ways but also fuckin’ funny an’ stone fuckin’ willed an’ better. 

What is it they say about objects in motion? They stay in fuckin’ motion. Until someat fuckin’ stops them. Or someone.

“Jamie-”

“Roy. Please. Look. I'm sorry, yeah? I just… look. I'll do whatever you want. But if I en't striker then he-” Jamie cuts himself, his throat bobbin’ as if tryin’ to swallow back things already said, eyes frantically flyin’ over Roy’s face like he’s assessin’ how far down he’s stuck his fuckin’ foot in it.

“He?” Jamie actually whimpers. Like a kicked fuckin’ dog. He. He, he, he, he. Now who the ever lovin’ fuck-

Unbidden, the image of that bruise like pitch spread against the tan of Jamie's cheeks lifts to Roy's mind. A week or two or three of Jamie snappin’ out, volatile, vicious, and then sickeningly vulnerable. Of those big, wide eyes. Like Phoebe's, caught with somethin’ she en't meant to have. But somehow… wantin’. Like he en't mind bein’ caught out-

Oh. Oh. Roy takes a long breath. The in through the nose remind himself the jail time for murder out through the mouth, kind. 

He watches Jamie's face as he watches Roy's. Watches him put together things he'd accidentally been too goddamn good at keepin’ secret. Like an instinct he never asked for. 

An’ he looks so fuckin’ relieved. 

“Jamie.” Roy's words are suddenly thick in his throat. Pickin’ each one careful like. Like he were talkin’ someone off the fuckin’ ledge. Well. The situation en't that fuckin’ different now, were it. “How long has your piece of shite father been back around.”

The fuckin’ noise. Like bein’ opened up an’ havin’ someone dig around an’ pull somethin' out through the chest. Jamie takes two steps forward an’ collapses against Roy. Tucked into the turn of his neck that had been Jamie's since… well, since the last time. Heavin’ lungs shudderin’ against Roy, hands hoverin’, unsure, restless against his sides. 

Roy only stands in the baffled shock of havin’ hit a nerve so directly on its ugly fuckin’ head for a breath. An’ then he's got the stupid muppet in his arms, fingers playin’ up an’ down his spine like he used to do to Phoebe when she was real small an’ skinned her knee an’ nothin’ worse had ever happened to her.

Someone knocks on the door an’ Jamie instinctually smothers his sobs, tries to shove off Roy, reluctant but necessary like lettin’ anyone else see him be soft would be a crime. Roy just holds the kid tighter. 

“What? Fuck off.” Ted's laughter comes through the door cause for whatever fuckin’ reason the man was endlessly fond of bein’ insulted.

“Just popped by to make sure you aren't killing our star in there, Coach. Need him on the field right about,” Roy can't see him but he knows Ted's out there checkin’ an invisible watch, “now actually.” 

Jamie almost-laughs an’ Roy rolls his eyes, jostles him just enough to pay attention, makes up his mind. Jamie lifts his head just enough to blink at Roy. Wide, wet eyes.

 “The stupid muppet that we ever let play center cog'll be out there.” Jamie turns, looks impossibly small but safe. There in the circle of Roy's arms an’ he's got the urge to keep him there. For forever maybe. “But it won't be for anyone else but this fuckin’ team. An’ his fuckin’ self. No one the fuck else.” 

Jamie's face goes all splotchy. Embarrassment or shame or the leftover memory of tears. But he nods, buries himself one last time in the security of Roy's neck.

“Ooh, boy. I feel like I missed a life lesson there, Coach!” Fuckin’ Ted, still through the door. “But I'm basking in the afterglow! Oh, nice and comfy like gettin’ a tan. Y'all don't get a lot of proper sun over here so-”

“Ted.” An’ Jamie laughs again. Proper. 

“Oh, sorry, sorry. Let you two have your moment. But we do actually need Jamie on the field so, whenever you can that'd be great.” He pats the opposite side of the door an’ fucks off down the hall. Jesus christ, Roy in his old fuckin’ age was fond of every-fuckin’-thing.

“Americans, man.” Jamie's voice is muffled but if he had the wherewithal to be fuckin’ mouthy again he had the wherewithal to play fuckin’ footie. 

“Fuckin’ Americans.” He pulls the clingy lil’ muppet away an’ fuckin’ refuses to admit it's reluctant. “C'mon. How do you expect AFC to score any fuckin’ goals without you.”

“Eh, they'd manage. Pretty fuckin’ good even without me, yeah?” An’ it's not quite humility but it's so fuckin’ close Roy loves the kid for a moment. 

Jamie shuffles his feet, hesitates, indecisive. “Uh, Roy?"

Roy just tilts his head, waits him out. Someone'd managed to teach him patience. Sometime in his old fuckin' age. "Muppet?"

Jamie swallows, tucks his hand into the bottom of his kit. "He's uh, he's here. With his mates. In the stands, like.” 

Roy's gut suggests he find their goddamn seat numbers an’ put every one of their heads into the cement ‘til it left a permanent fuckin’ mark. But… he's been learnin’ himself. From Keeley an’ Phoebe an’ Jamie Fuckin’ Tartt. So instead he swallows, thickly.

“Do you want them gone?” Permanently? Roy could make that happen. Would. Wants to even.

Jamie's throat bobs again. Eyes skitterin’ across the floor, the wall, the desk. Roy. An’ he's made up his mind. Tilts his chin up. The best parts of that cocky, sure kid Roy spent every game in the final season of his career hatin’.

Jesus. How things change. How they stay exactly the same.

“Naw. I… I want them here. ‘N I want him to watch every assist ‘n everyone fuckin’ pass ‘n every minute of this match ‘n know it en't for him. Not at fuckin’ all.”

Phoebe had told him once, with all the wisdom that got baked into fuckin’ nine-year-olds for no fuckin’ reason, that she was as good as the best of him. It was fuckin’ strange. The way that comes to his mind. An’ to feel so fuckin’ comfortable knowin’ it weren't true at all. 

She was fuckin’ better. An’ so was one Jamie Fuckin’ Tartt. 

He was up. He was fine. An’ it was time to play some fuckin’ footie.