Work Text:
Jamie sets the alarm and mashes his forehead into the pillow. He’s managed to beat the dawn to bed, so he’s calling that a win. Just about enough time for a kip before he’s due to turn up at Nelson Road.
His phone starts vibrating right as he’s nodding off, the team group chat filling with pics. The lads are winding down the party. A mad one, it was, even if Jamie had to call it a night earlier than usual, since he’s being such a good boy. He squints at the screen through one eye. That’s him right there, showing off his moves, looking dead fit. He wonders if Roy is seeing the photos too.
It’s only half five in Agios Pavlos, so no, Roy’s probably still fast asleep.
Unless they’re doing, like, an early class. Sun-up early.
He might as well ask.
Any sunrise yoga today?
No answer. Not even the double tick that says it was delivered. Did Roy really let them talk him into the no-screens thing? That’d be a fucking shame. Nah. Forgot to plug his phone in, more likely.
Vaguely, sleepily, Jamie thinks of calling the retreat centre to ask if there is sunrise yoga, and also if there’s a live cam to watch it if they say yes. But Roy had shown him the website for the place. The vibe was totally homey; there won’t be anyone on reception overnight, and he’s pretty sure he couldn’t justify calling the life-or-death emergencies mobile that the retreat director apparently holds. He tries to spin his grumpiness into meanness – Fucking Roy, too fucking cheap to stay at a proper hotel – but he gives it up for a bad job.
Roy’s not cheap. Sure, he’d been whinging about how much the retreat cost, asking if Gwyneth fucking Paltrow would personally be doing a sage ceremony before each class and shit like that. Except that he’d shouted his yoga mums the whole fucking thing in the first place, and then he’d asked his travel agent to book out an entire first class cabin for the group. There’s no rhyme or reason to Roy’s thinking about money, Jamie knows. Once, when they were out shopping, he’d watched Roy buy three suits on Savile Row, off the peg like a philistine, and then promptly start bitching about t-shirts costing too much in the Uniqlo round the corner.
So the retreat centre won’t pick up the phone. How about that nice lady, the one who texted him after their night out recently… Jamie scrolls down to find the chat.
Hi Janice! r u doing any sunrise yoga today?
It's the same, though. Not even the double checkmark.
He puts the phone away and settles back into the pillows. His eyes are closing, and it’s no big deal anyway. Roy’ll just see the pictures tomorrow.
***
In the morning there’s a gazillion new messages in the group chat, but nothing from Roy or Janice. A message from the holiday home rental agency pops up, asking about his upcoming booking. Would he like a meal to be waiting for him on arrival? Champagne? Flowers?
Jamie sighs deeply. No villas in Ibiza for him just yet. It’s not like he’s complaining – with Richmond shooting to second place straight back from relegation, it’d be fucking criminal to complain – but the season hadn’t been a walk in the park, what with the Zava business, them having to get into the groove of a totally new strategy, him losing his mojo for a bit there…
Mentally, he’s fine now. Tired, that’s all.
Physically, he’s— He’ll be fine too. But the ankle he’d fucked at the Etihad isn’t fully healed yet. Ted had asked him if he wanted to sit out the West Ham match, but what kind of question was that? The whole season comes down to the final day and he’d be on the bench for it? No way was he going to pass up the chance of scoring. So he’d played. And he’d scored. But it didn’t do his foot any favours.
Which is why now, instead of slathering himself in suncream on a beach somewhere, he’s pulling into the club’s deserted car park. He’s avoided surgery so far in his career, and he wants to keep it that way for as long as possible. The plan is to lean into tendon health, sprain prevention, all that stuff that he was maybe skimping on earlier for lack of time. He’s being good with other shit, too: nutrition, hydration, sleep, the works. He’s dead set on taking this recovery seriously.
It’s just that he’s the only one still around. That’s what last night was all about: those of them not on international duty getting together one more time before they all fuck off on hols. Jamie’s got his travel plans lined up too, but that’s for later. For now, he’s stuck in London, all alone.
He takes a quick pic of the empty car park. Sends it to Roy.
Place is a fucking ghost town
Hows greece going?
Is the beach nice
He gets nothing in return besides that one depressing grey checkmark. He stares at it in disbelief. A phone-free retreat. Seriously, who does that? Not Roy, Jamie’s pretty sure. He’s just going to give it some time.
***
Jamie only found out about the retreat on Friday.
The doorbell had yanked him out of sleep at 4 a.m. The Ring cam showed Roy, in workout gear, on the doorstep.
Jamie wondered hazily if he was still dreaming. They’d ditched their extra training towards the end of the season; they hadn’t done any in weeks.
He got to the door rubbing sleepily across his eyes.
“Morning.” Roy gave him a once-over. It wasn’t terribly unimpressed. A good start, all things considered. There wasn’t a follow-up, though – just the glare, stubborn as ever.
Jamie sighed. Yawned. Scratched at his head. Opened the door wide to let Roy in, and shuffled upstairs to pull some kit on.
They power-walked to the green like a couple of OAPs, and managed to get through most of their normal training, with adjustments to keep the strain off Jamie’s ankle. When Jamie was flat on his back on the grass, Roy said, “Nicole’s had to pull out of the retreat.”
Nicole…? Oh, okay. Nicole from Roy’s yoga. “Yeah?” Jamie huffed out, his voice strained from the bicycle crunches he was doing. Nicole reminded him of his grandmother, except Nan wasn’t as limber, probably on account of how she never did any yoga.
“Too late to get a refund.”
That sucked for Nicole, though Jamie wasn’t sure why Roy was telling him all this. Generally, Roy was very coy about the yoga mums. Jamie had only just been allowed to meet them like, last week, when he dropped in as a secret guest DJ at a Lust Conquers All-themed club night the same day he got home from Brazil. Roy had brought them out as his guests, and afterwards they’d sat around in a chicken shop til half two, eating and chatting shit. The women were a fun bunch with good banter. They were super-sweet with Roy, though, and you could tell Roy loved them right back.
“Starts this Sunday, goes on for two weeks,” Roy was saying.
Jamie hauled himself back to standing and propped a leg on the bench beside Roy, to start his stretches.
“Like a yoga retreat?” This was starting to ring a bell from the other night, but Jamie had been jetlagged to hell and back. He’d planned to try and reset his body clock on the flight home from Rio, except it turned out that Barbara starts telling majorly dirty jokes once she gets on the free champagne, and Jamie had been too entertained to suggest sleep.
Roy nodded. “In some fucking village on Crete.”
“Okay,” Jamie said neutrally. He had no idea where the conversation was going, but he didn’t particularly mind. The weather was lovely. The stretches were feeling great. Before, Roy had dropped the glare in favour of slagging off United, which was music to Jamie’s ears. It was a really nice morning, all in all.
“So. Since Nicole had to drop out and it’s non-refundable. She asked me if I’d want to take her spot.”
Jamie stopped mid-stretch. “On a yoga retreat?”
“The thing is,“ Roy proceeded as if he hadn’t heard him, “I don’t want to leave my sister in the lurch. If she needs someone to look after Phoebe. Or if there’s problems. Plumbing emergency or some shit. They’re going on a mini-break with our cousins from the night of the 16th, but before that.”
Jamie was still trying to wrap his mind around the notion of Roy on a yoga retreat.
“You’re not doing anything for the next couple of weeks, are you?” Roy asked, sounding – Jamie thought – kind of hopeful.
The villa had been booked and paid for from the 12th. Jamie had been counting the days. “Me?” he pointed at himself. “No. Nope. Nowt.”
Roy gave a grunt in response, and that was that.
***
Nelson Road isn’t completely dead, but there’s barely anyone about. The corridors look dim and abandoned, one flickering neon light away from a zombie film vibe.
Jamie hooks his phone up to the gym speakers, on the theory that a good playlist with some kick to it is bound to liven things up. Still, half an hour into his workout he’s antsy and itching for someone to talk to.
Is Roy back online, maybe?
A single grey tick, so nope.
Well, so what? He can text Roy now, and Roy will read it later.
Weight room smells weird today
Like a dodgy dentists office
In the rest breaks between leg presses, or after he’s done with his lunges — he just keeps texting Roy running commentary on whatever crosses his mind. The chat stays dead on Roy’s end, which is a downer, but it gives Jamie something to do, plus he’s used to keeping Roy updated. Why break the habit now?
He’s wrapping it up and getting ready for massage therapy with Gail when she pops her head into the gym. “Thought that must be you.”
”Oh. Yeah. You alright?”
Gail nods towards the speakers with appreciation. “I hope Kate Bush’s raking it in.”
“Off of this banger making a comeback?”
“Exactly, yeah.” She gives him a curious look. “Some solid choices there.”
“Eighties’ singers-songwriters, man.”
“A big Cyndi Lauper fan, myself. Love her.”
“Yeah?”
It takes some doing to keep Gail from putting her AirPods in when she starts the massage, but if there’s one thing Jamie has in spades, it’s determination, and he’s really determined not to be stuck lonely and quiet for another hour. He makes it work.
***
The next day is pretty much a repeat, just with an added time slot in the treatment room. It's a bit dull, but manageable. Back home, Jamie watches England scrounge a single point in the Nations League and spends the rest of the evening playing FIFA, putting West Ham to the sword.
At the real-life Dog Track, they couldn’t have done more. That mad scramble for the first goal, Isaac’s unhinged penalty, and then Sam smashing it home off of Jamie’s Oscar-winning decoy… Jamie’s memory replays it for him, FIFA-style. Fucking quality, that match. Jamie’s ankle was a swollen bloodshot mess by the time it was over, but he was feeling no pain – just the high of the win, the happy mayhem of the huddle, and Roy’s hands, clapping his back, squeezing him in giant bear hugs.
Their celebratory bash at Ola's was packed to the brim with warm bodies, and when he and Roy stepped outside for a breather, the cool night air hitting his sweat-damp skin gave him an immediate chill. Roy had stripped off his coat – he'd traded his daily leather uniform for a blazer of dark grey wool – and put it on Jamie’s shoulders. “Stop fucking shivering,” he’d ordered, and Jamie had obeyed.
Did u get that huntsman jacket off the peg too
The one from the end of season do
Roy’s not answering or even seeing the messages, but he will eventually, right? So Jamie keeps going.
Good jacket
I liked it
I liked that u gave it to me when i was cold
Dead nice of u
It’s only Tuesday, but the chat’s already a massive wall of text. Roy’s going to have to put a shift in to catch up.
***
On Wednesday morning the messages still aren’t showing as delivered.
So it’s probably time to reckon with it: Roy has actually switched his phone off and is sticking with the screen detox, the stubborn prick.
To be fair, Roy had specifically said that he was going to do it. That was the plan. The whole reason why he needed Jamie to be the point of contact for his sister, and all that.
Jamie just hadn't believed he’d go through with it. It seemed mad.
Very unpleasant, the notion of not hearing from Roy for two weeks. Jamie hasn't gone two weeks without talking to Roy in a good long while. Roy’s just a part of nearly every day of his life now.
He loves it. He loves having Roy around and he just… loves Roy, yeah. Feels like it’s something Roy knows. Probably feels the same towards Jamie too. An easy kind of love. Solid; you can bet on it and win every time.
Speaking of which – he makes a quick call. Hangs up smiling.
Checked on your sis
They’re all good
Phoebe aced her spelling test
This time, he shows up at Nelson Road better equipped to handle how grim the place feels. He’s got his iPad to watch shows at lunch, and then he strikes up a chat with Isabel at the reception. She’s just back from her holidays, showing off her tan.
“Have a good one then?"
“Brill, yeah! Just what was needed.” She shows him a handful of photos: herself and a big group of girlfriends, living it up in Capri.
The villa that Jamie has booked – he didn’t have any clear plan for it, beyond lazing around in the sunshine. He’d put the feelers out to his mates back in Manchester and loads said they were game. He should get in touch soon, to hammer out the details.
At bedtime, as he’s trying to wind down, memories from all sorts of trips keep popping into his head – holidays, and away games abroad. Plenty with City and the Young Lions. Less with Richmond, obviously. His first match in a Richmond away shirt was abroad though, a pre-season friendly in Germany, a flukey 1:2 win they didn’t deserve. Before Ted, before Sam, before everything. He’d been with the club two weeks, at most, and he kept thinking, Is this lot for real? Couldn’t believe how shambolic they were, each play constantly on the verge of collapsing. Pep had told him he’d get minutes. Sitting in the corner of the bar they’d gone to to celebrate – ‘celebrate what , you absolute fucking losers,’ he’d nearly shouted more than once – he’d folded his arms and clung to that promise with all he had.
Remember that grotty boozer in bielefield
Everyone was doing jager shots
Colin chucked his guts up all over the floor
But u were like five in and cool as owt
That shits vile of course u love it
Or were u just trying to self medicate lol
The vibe was fucking depressing but u were not
He’d been watching Roy that night. Seemed like the only person on the team who wasn’t in the mood to celebrate, which – yeah. Jamie’s point exactly.
Minutes, and playing on Roy Kent’s side. He’d been desperately hoping that it would all work out – and hey, it did. It’s nice to know he’d been right.
Might have imagined it but did we have a moment that night?
It’s fishing – Jamie knows they did. It wasn’t a nice moment, but it was something. They don’t really do this, talk about the time before they were friends, but the memory's so clear in his mind. He’d headed off for a slash, and Roy was coming back from one, with Cartrick tagging along, slapping him on the back and boasting to everyone in the vicinity about the great Roy Kent securing ‘yet another powerful victory over the Huns.’ “Oi! Fritz! Do you know who this is?” he shouted at some poor random German lad in the middle of a Facetime call. “Ja? Nein? Ja?” Roy had looked like he wanted to deck him. As they were passing in the corridor, he’d caught Jamie’s eye, paused for a moment and nodded. Just barely, but approving. It was only zipping back up that Jamie realised his own face must’ve been wearing a basically identical expression – a mix of horror, scorn, and boiling rage.
Not too many nice travel stories with Roy, all told. Not yet. Except for Amsterdam. That one’s burned in: Roy wobbling on the bike, cursing his head off.
Still cant believe youd never been to Amsterdam
Also that you thought windmills arent real
Theyre literally all over england too you knob
But arent you glad you had my expert service as a tour guide
That night was class
We shouldve kissed under that windmill
Wouldve felt right
….Shit.
Oops, innit.
Deeee-lete.
He selects the message and almost taps the bin icon, but stops at the last moment, finger hovering.
It feels good to see it typed out. That word. About himself and Roy. Kissing.
He bargains with himself: he’ll delete it, but not right off.
Roy’s not coming back until next Sunday. He’ll keep his phone off until next Saturday at least, if he’s sticking to the rules. So next Friday, the 17th, just to be safe, Jamie thinks. He’ll bin it next Friday.
***
Thursday’s a slog. He gets everything done, just about, but it’s all… ugh.
Part of it is that his thumbs did him dirty, typing out that message.
Roy’s fit, always has been, and Jamie has always noticed. Now, though, he’s got this urge to tell Roy stuff. Stuff like...
There’d been one other trip, with Richmond. Last summer. During pre-season, riding the buzz of being promoted, they’d gone out to the Portuguese Riviera, for a friendly against Estoril Praia and a spot of team-building. Jamie packed all of his Speedos, ready to neck sangria by the pint, or whatever the Portuguese version was.
Ms Welton had spared no expense on the team-building part of the trip. She put them all up in a dead posh hotel that was like something straight out of a Bond film – literally – and they all got glammed up for a massive night out at the casino next door.
Ted was doing his usual Ted thing, gawping and saying hokey shit, comparing everything to Vegas as Ms Welton pointed things out and told stories about the real spies who used it during the war. Eventually, the pair of them had peeled off for a private dinner in the restaurant and the lads had headed straight for the casino floor.
Jamie would have reckoned this would have been right up Keeley’s alley, getting dolled up like a Bond girl and chivvying Roy into a tux. Blowing on his dice for good luck and all that. But she hadn’t come to Portugal at all, which, yeah. Makes sense, in retrospect. Now, he knows that they were in the process of breaking up.
Roy had stuck close to Beard that night, chewing cigars as they checked out the tables, exchanging minimal words and fat wads of cash. Jamie was wild with jealousy. After their epic hug during promotion, Jamie had thought that this was it – he was going to get to be mates with Roy now, proper. They’d celebrated together all night after the match, but when Jamie texted him over the break, he’d gotten nothing to show for it except a couple of blue ticks. Then Roy had shown up for pre-season with a tan from Marbs and a shocker of an attitude, more monosyllabic and touchy than ever.
That night, though, he’d been different. Not with Jamie, but he’d been different in himself.
Jamie watched as Roy deflected the advances of a pair of glittering women, likely on the hunt for high rollers, and settled at the baccarat table like he owned the place, a glint in his eye brighter than the chandelier overhead. That clenched-jaw, hunched-shoulders thing he’d been prone to in recent weeks? Gone. Instead, he wielded an easy charm that had the pretty young croupier blushing as he toyed with a chip between his long fingers. He looked smooth. Sharp, like the lines of his suit. Like he knew he’d win – and then he did. Jamie’s trousers suddenly felt too tight.
Last summer
At that casino
U looked so fucking fit
Could have blown u there and then
Gone to my knees
Blown ur fucking mind
So yeah. That itch to say shit is a real fucking problem. The bin icon’s going to get a workout.
On top of that, a question keeps pestering him – and annoyingly, it’s one that he does have an answer to. He loves giving head. He’d love to show Roy a good time. So why didn’t he offer, in Estoril?
Afraid of what’d come next, wasn’t he.
Poster Roy used to be this big idol. Then the man in the flesh turned out to be a world-class cunt, always pissed off and carrying it round like a badge. Then these last two years, with more head-spinny ups and downs than a day out at Alton Towers, and bam – now more often than not Roy’s on Jamie’s sofa mouthing along to Encanto , or in Jamie’s kitchen swearing up a storm as tomato sauce splatters all over.
You can give someone a blowie and then carry on being mates as normal. Been there, done that. It’s just that he hasn’t been mates as normal with Roy for a single fucking day of his life.
***
Late at night, when Jamie’s in bed but not asleep yet, Mum sends a voice note, gushing about the absolute belter of a gig that she and Simon just went to. On impulse, Jamie calls her back, and some of his mopey mood must bleed through, because she texts him later to say that she's coming to London for the weekend. Sounds like she’s spoken to Simon and they decided Jamie needed, like, an intervention. Sweet, that. He’s not going to stop them, if they fancy fussing over him a bit.
Mum, on arrival, unpacks a box of goodies from Simon and a new dress. “Isn’t it a scream? Look at those rhinestones! Like something off of Strictly. Perfect for a night on the town with my baby.” She gives a cheeky wink.
Jamie makes a dinner reservation and shoots a text to his favourite pap, and then they go online to book tickets to a West End show – a private box, so that an usher can take them straight to it and then whisk them straight back out to where their driver’s waiting. The show’s fantastic. They belt out songs in the car on the way back until their voices go hoarse.
The next morning they decide to go back into town, for shopping and brunch. No tip offs, this time, but Jamie does get recognised on the King’s Road, and one thing leads to another. Jamie generally prides himself on the amount of fan selfies he can handle on any given day, but even he has his limits, so he calls another car service, just to get them around the corner to where they’d parked, and they wait for it in Peter Jones, where the staff are happy to do a spot of crowd control for him.
Jamie takes a detour through Fulham on the drive home in order to point out Roy’s place as they pass. Mum’s suitably impressed, and naturally asks more about Roy: how he’s doing, what he’s been up to. “A yoga retreat in Greece, oh wow.” She seems bemused when Jamie tells her.
“Yeah. Asked me to watch Phoebe for him when his sister is on call. And, like, be around to help out if needed. Gave me his keys and everything.”
“It was lovely of you to offer.”
“It’s no problem. Happy to do it.”
And he is – he is genuinely so happy and proud that Roy trusts him with shit like that: with Phoebe, and with the house. Even more than that, he loves that Roy lets him see how important his family are to him, how much he cares. That’s private stuff, and Roy’s a very private lad, so Jamie doesn’t tell Mum about it specifically. But he tells her some other stories, and they have a good laugh.
The talking helps, and anyway with Mum around he’s too busy to be getting into his own head too much. By the time Monday morning rolls around and he’s putting Mum on the train back to Manchester, his sulky mood is all gone.
***
The ankle feels better on Tuesday. Jamie experiments with a few supersets: yeah, there’s definitely an improvement. It perks him right up.
Gail looks at his ultrasounds and, for once, instead of the usual stampede of rhinos across his calves, she sticks to a light touch. She leaves the AirPods out and chats to Jamie the whole time. So that’s great too.
Back home, he checks in with Phoebe’s mum, and then dutifully reports to Roy.
Taking Phoebs for gelato tmrw after school
She can get 2 scoops
Or a chocolate dip sprinkle cone
But not both
Compromise
Im getting sorbet
Mango sorbet is lush
What flavours your fav
Nothing. One grey tick.
He sticks on the England match and updates Roy at the half.
Weve just gone down 0-1 to Hungary AGAIN
This tournaments a joke
Legit glad im not there
Three singular grey ticks and three more conceded goals later, he’s had enough.
Roy mate
I fucking hate it when youre not talking to me
It used to boil his piss when he first came to Richmond, Roy ignoring him on purpose just to be a dick. Right now Roy’s not doing it at him, he gets that. But it still feels fucking wank.
Come on man
Tell me
The radio silence does my fucking head in
How r u actually going along with it
Since when do u let people tell u what to do
Whats gonna happen if u break their stupid fucking rules
Does some old greek lady beat you with a broom?
Do u get banned from doing pigeon pose
Srsly why would u go along with it for real
Stop being a wet fucking arsewipe Roy and turn ur fucking phone on
The phone stays silent.
***
Chocolate dipped sprinkle cone in hand, Phoebe scoots deeper on their bench in the small gated park near Roy’s house. “How’s your mango sorbet, Jamie?”
“Mmm! It’s—” fucking mint , he nearly says before catching himself, “—really mint.”
Phoebe fixes him with a look that says she’s seen right through him.
“I’ve got no cash on me,” he explains. “So I’ll be very good.”
“You will? Oh. I wish Uncle Roy were here.” Phoebe gives him a cheeky smile.
They grin at each other over the ice cream.
“That was a joke,” she says, “but I really do miss him.”
“Makes two of us.”
Phoebe’s good company. It’s a good laugh, the afternoon. Bitter-sweet, though, because every now and then she says something that’s exactly what Roy’d say, or pulls a face that’s exactly like Roy’s, and it twists Jamie’s gut a little.
He really does miss Roy. So fucking much. Wants to have Roy around… pretty much always? Argue with him over match tape, decimate him at FIFA, text him memes, eat his food, hold his hand when Pedro faces the riders in Encanto – so yeah, all that stuff they’re already doing – but he wants more from Roy, too.
Still wanna know your fav kind of sorbet
Cos your fav ice cream is vanilla i guess cos you always have it in your house
Awesome choice btw i fucking love vanilla
When its proper hot out though sorbets nicer
You know whats the best tho?
Granita
If we go to italy for UCL we should do like a granita date
Test all flavours
Phoebe wouldnt be there though
Is that cool?
Adult granita date
Dont get me wrong Phoebes awesome
Elite kid
But we should do like a u and me only date
He’s typing out the messages just for the hell of it. Into the trash they’ll go, every single one of them.
But it’s… practice, he’s beginning to feel.
He’s going to say something to Roy. Ask him out.
Lots of problems with that, obviously. Most glaring one is that Roy doesn’t really go with lads, at least that Jamie knows of. So there’s no reason why he’d be up for it.
Except — Jamie really wants it. And he gets what he wants. So there is that.
Roy’s not gonna mind him asking. Worst comes to worst, he’ll just say ‘no.’ All Jamie has got to do is gather up his courage, put it into half-decent words, and ask.
He scrolls up the chat. Maybe there’s something in that jumble that he could, like, re-use?
Fuck, he really went off at Roy yesterday. Bit much. But – it’s so weird, Roy obeying a random rule like that. Roy’s fucking Roy , he does whatever he wants.
Does Roy actually want that shite, then? Nah. Makes zero sense. Jamie’s going to ask what the fuck that was all about, soon as Roy’s back.
Sorry mate for going off like that btw
Got carried away
Fucking miss u man
If u see deleted texts here no u didn’t
But he doesn’t delete them just yet.
***
Despite his apology, and the knowledge that Roy will never even see any of those texts anyway, Jamie finds himself with a bit of shame brewing about his outburst.
He maybe sounded a bit…. well. Crazy? Ranting like that about something Roy had literally told him would be happening. He’s tried to get past it, but whenever he looks at the chat now, he finds himself unable to fall back into sending Roy his casual life updates. He just wants to keep pushing the issue, to get proof he’s not being ignored, even though it’s stupid and embarrassing.
Shame is by far his most hated emotion, the way it doesn’t leave space for much else while feeling it. It’s not a good place for him to linger. He knows this, and yet he keeps checking the chat late into the night, reading his messages over and over and holding himself back from saying anything else at all. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes on Thursday to find the phone under his pillow, totally dead.
It feels like a sign. He needs a break from Roy – or rather from the absence of Roy – to find his fucking chill.
So with great discipline, he decides to leave his phone on charge in his locker as he goes through his routine at the club. It’s a full morning: gym, various treatments, several new scans, and a long wait for the orthopedic surgeon to show up for a meeting about them. He’s still got his iPad, so he can watch stuff, go on all his socials and message his mum and pretty much everyone else he knows, but Roy’s still a Samsung loyalist, so it’s really just the lack of WhatsApp that makes the difference. By the time he’s been cleared to go out onto the pitch and test his mobility on the grass, and gotten waylaid by the media team to do another video diary about his progress, the manic compulsion has faded to a mere itch, and the massage and ice bath dull it almost completely. He can be normal about this. He can make it without looking at his phone until he gets home. And once he’s there, he’s deleting all that shit immediately.
***
Jamie spends his shower mulling over something Gail said about tendon alignment, and by the time he’s toweling off, he's solidified the idea. He sits down in front of his locker and pulls up old training plans on his iPad. It’s just a small drill modification, to work on his left-foot cross. Yeah, seems like it could work? Might be good to try. He dresses, packs up, and heads out to the car park with a nice sense of accomplishment.
He's just making a mental note to talk to Roy about that drill – properly, in person, once Roy gets back – when he hears a car in the distance. Sounds a bit like Roy’s car. Funny timing, that.
It’s only when the car rounds the corner and comes into view that Jamie realises it’s not a random similar-sounding Merc. It’s Roy’s, with Roy at the wheel, pulling into his usual spot.
Jamie’s previous train of thought is obliterated by a mixture of shock and joy. It pours into him, filling him to the brim. His legs take him to the driver’s side window without any conscious input on his part, and he can feel a mad grin forming on his face. “Alright, mate?”
He gets a grunt in return, which is usual enough, but it’s coupled with… some sort of glare. Not the usual death glare; a different variant. Roy’s in a black linen shirt, the rug on his chest peeking out by the open collar. It looks hot. It’s fucking lovely to see him.
Jamie rests his hand on the roof, leaning in. “Aren’t you supposed to be arse-up in downward dog on Crete right now?”
Another grunt, the kind that mostly means ‘yes.’
“Shit, Roy. Is something wrong? That why you came back early?”
Roy’s head turns slightly. “Nothing’s wrong.” Now he’s the one leaning closer to the window, towards Jamie. “Everything’s fine.”
“Ooo…kay? But like, what are you—”
Fu—
Fuuuc—
Fucking hell.
Jamie, very quickly, slides his phone out of his bag and steals a look.
Two blue ticks.
FUCK.
“Jamie.” Roy’s eyes are on him. “Everything’s fine.”
“‘Course, yeah. Sound,” he responds on autopilot. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
“What were you doing? Just now?”
It takes him a while to find his bearings enough to answer. “Going home. Saw the specialist, did my rehab, did some socials, so—”
“Can I come?”
“‘Course.”
“Okay.” Roy nods slowly. A beat passes, then another one. “Right behind you,” he says, bone-dry, when Jamie makes no move.
It’d be a daft time to get into a prang, so Jamie’s doing his best to drive safe. It’s hard, though. All he’s got eyes for is the black shape of Roy’s car behind him, with the black shape of Roy inside.
He can feel the shock wearing off, replaced with… Huh. A weird sort of gladness.
Maybe it’s that thing Ted said, in his last big speech. About going out with a peace of mind. He was honest with Roy, didn’t tell any lies, left it all on the pitch. Peace of mind.
***
That attitude lasts him maybe three minutes. Four, tops. It falls apart piece by piece for the rest of the drive home, and by the time they make it to Jamie’s driveway, a jittery anxiety has fully taken hold. It’s only once they’re settled awkwardly in the living room that he’s able to break the silence. “Did you come back early because I…—?”
Roy, sat stiffly across from him on the sofa, nods ‘yes,’ then stops, then shakes his head ‘no.’ Before Jamie can even begin to interpret that, Roy starts talking. “I went on the fucking retreat because I needed to do some thinking.” His eyes are boring into Jamie. “Had to make up my mind about something.”
That’s interesting, because Jamie distinctly remembers Roy saying it was because Nicole had dropped out. “Okay?”
“Two things.”
“Okay.”
“Rebecca asked me if I wanted Ted’s job. The gaffer’s.”
“That’s great, man! Fucking hell. Fuck yeah! Congrats, seriously!” There’d been chatter in the dressing room, so it’s not entirely surprising, but it is the best news, all the same.
Roy looks away uncomfortably, clenching his hand.
Not the reaction Jamie expected. “Are you going to take it?”
“I want to,” Roy says tersely.
Jamie throws his hands up in the air in celebration. “Awesome! Fuck yeah!”
Not to slag Ted off, because the man did Jamie a solid taking him back when shit got dire, but Ted wasn’t a real gaffer. Roy, though. Roy’s going to make a great fucking manager, both for training and in the dugout during matches. Some of the shit Jamie’s pulled off, purely on the strength of a twitch of Roy’s eyebrow on the touchline… Roy’s eyebrows are very persuasive.
Except right now they’re all wrinkled up on Roy’s forehead, looking stressed.
Jamie remembers, wearily. “Two things, you said.”
“Mm.”
“Well, what was the other one?”
“It’s about a relationship.”
That’s—
About a—
The unfairness of it fully punches Jamie’s breath out of him.
First of all, there goes his fucking heart.
Second of all, it’s so fucking fucked up. He told Keeley he had feelings for her when she was in a relationship, and he learned his lesson not to fucking do that. And now with Roy of all people, when he didn’t have any intention to do it, didn’t even know, to have it turn out the same way—
Wait. How the fuck did Roy even manage to get into a relationship? Like, when did he even have the time? Unless… “Did you and Keeley get back together?” The words feel bitter on his tongue.
“No.” Roy shakes his head slowly. “It’s not about her.”
That’s a relief, but then how— “Did you meet someone in Greece?”
“No, I didn’t fucking meet anybody in fucking Greece. Jamie, shut up a fucking minute.”
No. Not gonna happen. “How long?” Jamie says insistently, because there he was, thinking that him and Roy— While Roy was—
Roy sighs. “Six months. Maybe longer.”
That’s fucking bonkers. “That long, and you never once mentioned that there was a girl—?!”
Roy, the fucking dickhead, starts looking like it’s fucking funny . “Not a girl,” he says.
“Fucking hell, Roy!” Twice as unfair, then. Un-fucking-believable. “So all this time, you’ve been in a relationship. With a bloke.”
There’s a twitch around the corner of Roy’s mouth. “No. Never fucking done that.”
Jamie shoots up out of his seat. He feels like a fucking hot-air balloon. The fire’s roaring, and the balloon’s going up. “So what, you fucked off to Greece to do yoga and realised you liked blokes, just like that?!”
Roy rises up too, more slowly. Takes the three steps up to Jamie, locks eyes with him and says, “No. I realised I liked blokes in fucking London, when I fucking fell in love with you.”
***
Jamie hears the words just fine. Registers them. Understands them clear as day.
He just can’t respond to them, because too much’s happening inside him. There’s this really big urge to whack Roy over the head, for being a wanker and not leading with that. Then there’s the whooping joy. Fire, starting up low in his gut. Relief so massive it’s making him lightheaded.
“Fuck’s sake,” Roy grumbles. “You okay? Don’t fucking faint or some shit.”
Jamie’s not feeling faint. He just needs a moment to land the balloon.
“I’m putting the kettle on. Sit the fuck down.” Roy stalks away, and moments later there’s the sound of the tap being run at full blast, then slammed off.
Two deep breaths and Jamie’s good as new. Good as it gets. “Not passing out, swear down.” He follows Roy into the kitchen.
He’s still coming up empty, so they just stare silently at the kettle together like a pair of knobs. Jamie’s starting to think it’s never going to boil when it finally clicks, the trance is broken, and he's free to move about.
“Did you read that stuff I texted you?” he asks the inside of his fridge.
Roy huffs and holds out his hand for the milk. “A wet fucking arsewipe, am I?” Fridge closed, two mugs on the counter, teabags in, water poured, milk added, and they’re finally able to look at each other again. “Was it true?”
“Yeah.”
“All of it? Wanting to suck me off in fucking Portugal?”
Leave it to Roy to get hung up on the details. “In London’s fine too. Doesn’t have to be a blowie either. I just meant sex.” He wonders what else might need clarifying. “I’m in love with you too. Been in love with you for a while.” That about it sums it up. “Can we kiss now?”
Roy’s hand settles on Jamie’s waist. His mouth finds Jamie’s lips.
It’s mostly just an ordinary kiss, which could’ve been a let-down, but instead it simply feels nice. It’s lovely, and hot, and Jamie immediately goes back for more when they split up for air. The beard doesn't scratch; he had wondered. Jamie feels the giddiness rising up in him again, expanding in his chest and escaping into Roy’s mouth.
“What.” Roy, sounding offended, shifts backwards.
“Nothing!” Jamie pulls him back in by the nape of his neck. “You’re hairy. Feels nice.”
When they eventually move apart, Roy’s looking pink-cheeked and dead cute.
Jamie, involuntarily, goes, “Awww.”
“And fuck you too,“ says Roy, but there isn’t any heat in it. “Drink your fucking tea.”
“Yes, Coach,” Jamie shoots back – and immediately has to regret it, because now Roy explains how he can’t in good faith take the gaffer’s job without clearing it with Jamie, and forces them to sit down at the breakfast table and “discuss it like fucking adults.”
***
“You should take the job,” Jamie says right off, because what is there to discuss?
“What about—” Roy’s chin goes up and down, pointing to Jamie and then himself. “If we do this. You sure you’ll be okay with me being the manager?”
Jamie takes a moment to put it into language that Roy will understand. “Roy, mate. I always wanted to play with you. Didn’t properly happen before, because we—”
“Lacked the insight and capacity and shit, I know,” Roy interrupts.
Jamie’s mouth clicks shut, because okay, wow, that sounds like therapy shit. Roy doesn’t do therapy. Jamie would know. Maybe the retreat hired some sort of guru? He swallows the question. “Yeah. That. But now that's all sorted. I get to play on Roy Kent’s side. You’re off your nut if you think I’m passing up on that.” Roy’s eyebrows rise up, so Jamie amends, “Or on being in a relationship with you. I’m not passing up on that either.”
Roy, the stubborn bastard, gives him the death glare. But Jamie is sure. He is so sure. He is absolutely, completely, dead certain – and eventually Roy nods, relenting.
Which brings them to the stuff that Jamie thinks actually needs discussing. “Six months?! Why the fuck didn’t you say something sooner?”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey Jamie, fancy a shag?’” Roy pauses stiffly, then gives him the real answer. “Wasn’t ready.”
“So what changed? What happened?”
“Janice happened,” Roy says with a shudder. “Maureen and Rachel and Nicole and Lauren happened.”
“Yeah?” Jamie chuckles.
“Mmmm.” Roy looks sheepish. “I trained you, spent every fucking day with you that I could, cooked for you, fucking thought of you for most of each day, and then I fucking thought of you most of the night too. But when they first fucking told me that it wasn’t… That we weren’t just friends, you and me, I didn’t want to believe them. Didn’t want to hear it.”
“Because you weren’t queer?”
“Nah. I wasn’t fussed about that. Rebecca had already made me the offer. I was trying to make up my mind when they ambushed me with that extra bit of fucking news. I thought, no way in hell I could handle that. ‘Cause I already had shit going on. But they made me realise that if I hadn’t already started something with you before I took the job, it’d never fucking happen. Made me sick to my stomach, that thought.” Roy pushes the mug tightly away, then back. “So they sat me down. Said how the retreat was a perfect opportunity to sort myself out. How lucky it was that Nicole had to stay behind. I went. Ate fucking rabbit food for every meal. Woke up at fucking five every day to do sunrise fucking yoga. Had to leave my phone switched off in a designated fucking wicker basket.”
“Yeah? So what made you snap?”
“Didn’t snap. Had a fucking revelation during fucking sunrise yoga today. Which was that I can’t decide any of it without asking you what the fuck you want. So I stole my own fucking phone back out of the fucking basket. Switched it on. Saw your messages.” Roy shrugs. “Got myself on the next flight out.”
“Yeah?” Jamie takes a happy second to bask. “What about Janice and the others?”
“Broke out their fucking phones too, I’d say.” Roy holds out the offending device, where a chat called Yoga 2022 Going Strong! shows 179 unread messages.
“Holy shit. You… gonna read that?”
“Not a fucking chance. Done enough of that for today.”
“You can’t leave them hanging!”
Roy looks stuck.
“Here, give us that.” Jamie reaches out for Roy’s phone. He lifts it up high, leans in, and strikes a pose, resting his cheek against Roy’s. “Okay?” At Roy’s grunt of approval, he sends the pic into the chat. “Done. See? Wasn’t so bad.”
Roys hums quietly, conceding. Then, decisively, he shoves his chair back to stand and extends a hand to Jamie. Jamie takes it and lets Roy pull him up out of the banquette, and Roy’s arms come around him, bulky and snug. This time, when their lips meet, Roy immediately presses his tongue deep into Jamie’s mouth, aggressive and dirty. Keeping his arms locked around Jamie, he bodies them across the space, the force of it nearly sending Jamie off-balance. Roy hauls him right again though, and, having gotten him backed up hard against the kitchen island, he moves his mouth to Jamie’s neck. Sucks a hungry kiss on the side. Another one above it. Murmurs very low, around a smile, “Hey Jamie, fancy a shag?”
***
The moan in Jamie’s throat gets trapped there by helpless laughter. Roy’s laughing too, huffing warm breath into the crook of Jamie’s neck. His thigh’s pushing between Jamie’s thighs, doing very nice things to his dick—
—which is why it takes Jamie so long to fully get what Roy said and come back with, “Actually, no?”
Roy’s hands drop off.
“Fuck’s sake, don’t be a div. Not what I meant.” Jamie clasps their hands together, then leans back to look straight at Roy. “A quickie against the counter won’t do. We’re doing it proper.”
Roy tugs him closer again, then unclasps one hand to start rubbing circles into Jamie’s chest. “Fucking romantic, are you?”
“Yes,” Jamie says. “I am. We are.” He runs a finger back and forth between them to drive the point home. “This? Is very, very romantic.” His taps a nail against a button of Roy’s shirt. ”I mean, as much as a wet fucking arsewipe such as yourself can—”
He’s not able to finish before Roy’s on him again, interrupting. It’s another tackle of a kiss; feels fucking brilliant. Jamie lets himself ride the buzz of it for a good while before wiggling out of Roy’s arms. Hands firmly on Roy’s shoulders, he says, “Your suitcase’s still packed, yeah? So, finish your tea while I grab some shit and then we’re off. To Ibiza.”
Roy’s reaction is, predictably, “You’re shitting me.” He gets more creative with profanity once he clocks that Jamie’s serious. It tails off into a grumbly, “What happened to ‘London’s fine,’ then?”
That’s a fair point, Jamie’s got to admit. He cocks his hip and has a think, leaning into the island as he tries to pin it down. “We had some shitty firsts, yeah?” he says, figuring it out as he goes. “First time meeting – the less said about it, the better. First fight – shit, man, I don’t even remember, there were so many of them. First time we went out for drinks we ended up in a fucking fight too. So let’s do a first shag that we’ll be happy to remember. Yeah? Let’s do flowers. Let’s do champagne.”
“Can we do steak, before any of that?” Roy grouses.
“‘Course we can. We can also do yoga after,” Jamie jokes. “I’ve been hearing great things about sunrise yoga.”
Roy’s eyes narrow.
The next moment, he’s sidestepped Jamie and gotten in behind him, pivoting him and pinning him into the counter. Jamie’s back is flush against Roy’s front, and one of Roy’s hands grips his waist tightly. “You’re telling me” – Roy’s chin digs into the meat of Jamie’s shoulder – “that this shag is so colossally fucking important” – Roy’s voice rumbles, half dangerous and half amused, straight into Jamie’s ear – “that it requires leaving the fucking country.” Roy’s other hand slides under Jamie’s t-shirt, unerringly finds a nipple, and starts to rub it with the exact perfect roughness. “Do you seriously believe that I’ll bungle the job so badly” – Roy’s fingers pinch the nipple; Jamie can’t hold back the gasp – “that you’ll want to do fucking sunrise yoga instead?”
Jamie’s got literal fucking goosebumps. Heat’s flaring up his spine. But he’s helpless against the laughter again.
“Eh, we’ll see how it goes,” he says, light as he can, wriggling around – and this time, when their mouths crash together, mixing the growl and the laughter, the love between them breaks out of the nooks they’d kept it crammed into, cascading into a wild river that carries them forward, and it’s nothing like an ordinary kiss.
