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Jamie knows that he won't be able to play for Richmond again and he has no one to blame but himself, but he can't bring himself to leave right away. He needs some time to breathe, to plan, to try to figure out where he goes from here. Lasso's rejection left him both aching and numb (it's fucking stupid, that that's even possible) - he didn't realize how hopeful he'd been about returning until it was denied. Despite initially thinking that it would take days to figure anything out, the bitterness and heartbreak (and the fear that he will never get a chance to play again) has led to the desperate conclusion that he'll have to move and play elsewhere. There's nothing keeping him here anymore, anyway.
Well...except Keeley. She had given him her number again, but not without making some horror movie-worthy threats for what she'd do if he deleted it a second time. Jamie would never disrespect her or Roy by trying to get between them (she deserves so much better than Jamie, anyway), but just the chance to talk to her again and maybe even be her friend is more than he could have hoped for. The fact that Keeley would give him the time of day is the lone bright spot in the months (years?) of darkness, and he is not going to take it for granted. Plus, she was fucking terrifying as she punched her number back into his phone, smiling innocently and making rhyming threats that were convincing enough for a fellow café-goer to pull him aside afterwards and ask if he needed help. So, yeah, he is not going to let Keeley down again. He even considered getting her number tattooed on his arm, just in case he lost his phone. The tattoo would be in Chinese - because it'd look cool - and it would be written with one digit off so that other people wouldn't be able to call her (he isn't that stupid). However, what was he supposed to do if he lost an arm? In fact, it seemed pretty likely that a catastrophic event that would make him lose his arm would also be a hazard to his phone, and then he would lose his phone, his arm, and his friend all at once. Plus, he didn't know how to read Chinese. So he'd committed her number to memory instead, which he typically avoided unless absolutely necessary. The thing is, he actually has a fucking fantastic memory and all phone numbers become permanent reminders of all the people who 1) hate him, 2) hurt him, 3) will never be able to talk to him again, or 4) some combination of the three. The only numbers he needs are Keeley's, his Mum's, his own, and 999. The numerous other numbers he's memorized over the years...he just does his best not to think about them at all.
Back to the point: as awesome as Keeley is, her friendship isn't enough to make him stay. Actually, it probably is enough (because Jamie's childhood had taught him to survive on a moment of attention and a hint of kindness), but it's not fair to put that on her. She has a life - a career, a boyfriend, amazing friends, even a niece by choice in Phoebe, by the sounds of it - and he's lucky to get even a morsel of her time. It's his responsibility to figure out his own life, and that's what he's trying to do. The first thing he realizes is that, although it was the truth when he admitted that he needed Richmond, the simpler statement is that he needs football. He loves it and he's fucking great at it (like, really fucking great at it), and he's going to figure out some way to make it a career. If nobody here or in Germany or Spain will take him, he could always go to America. In a way, that's almost a better situation because there's no way his "Dad" would ever travel that far. For alcohol or money or Man City or a woman? Sure. But not for Jamie. Never for him. Maybe he could convince Keeley to come sometimes. She doesn't even need to watch a game, he knows it isn't her thing. Just for a visit, go shopping, maybe go to a play. Roy and Phoebe can come, too, there's tons of touristy shit in America. Money isn't an issue for any of them but he'll offer to pay for it, buy them whatever they want. It would be worth it, to be able to spend time with a friend, even if she brings along a little girl he doesn't know and someone who hates him (Roy probably wants him dead, but Jamie's never been able to truly hate him back so he lands much further down the "people who I never want to see again" list than he'd probably think).
Even with that tentative plan, he feels obligated to accept when Lasso texts him his address and invites him over to talk. Every perceived slight - being benched, being traded - had been deserved, he recognizes now, and maybe Keeley was right that everyone wasn't out to get him. Plus, Lasso's one of the few men in positions of authority who have never physically assaulted him (the locker room was all verbal, Jamie tells himself, Lasso would never hit him, and he deserved that verbal lashing), and God he seems like such a good father. Watching his little lad - Henry - burst into the locker room and joyously run into his arms, fearless, had been very telling. There was a time when Jamie had thought he could have a relationship like that with his father. Thought that his five-year-old self could bridge the chasm between them if only he tried harder, behaved better, showed more love. Believed that one person could love enough to build a good relationship with someone who utterly fucking despised them. That stupid belief had long since been beaten (and taunted, and punished) out of him, but there are still times that he aches for a father-son relationship, for someone other than Keeley that he can talk to without worrying about being hurt. It hits him at seemingly the worst moments, the childish desire strong enough to be physically painful and only getting worse with the self-reminder that he doesn't have that, will never have that, doesn't deserve that. That's why seeing how Ted was with Henry was enough to win Jamie's affection, even if he didn't want to admit it at the time. Maybe he still hasn't admitted it to himself, that the American gaffer has won him over, but he can't really deny it anymore because the moment he gets Lasso's text he finds himself at the best coffee shop in town, asking for whatever drink tastes the least like coffee and wondering why the hell he knows that's what Lasso likes.
"He doesn't want you." It's his "Dad's" voice that reminds him, hateful as always.
I know. He acknowledges furiously.
"All the coffee in the world isn't going to make him take a loser like you back."
I know that, too.
"Then why are you even bothering?"
He's a good man. I'm going to miss him. It's the God's-honest truth. Lasso has wormed his way into Jamie's heart, earned his respect and admiration like so few others had. What he wouldn't give to play for him again.
"He doesn't even like you, you know." That is another truth, Jamie knows, and it hurts, aggravating the decades-old wounds of a little boy who tries so hard to earn approval and affection and never, ever gets it (because he's a failure and he doesn't deserve it). If he's not even good enough for his dick of a "Dad", why would he ever think he could be good enough for someone like Lasso?
I know. He pays for the two coffees and eyes the bakery across the street. But I like him.
Several minutes later he's on Lasso's doorstep, scones and coffee in hand and apprehension pooling in his stomach because nothing good has ever come of a visit to a coach's house. Memories of fists and bruises and tears and blood and bone-deep agony have him shuddering in place, savagely biting his cheek and straightening up because they don't get to control him.
Lasso won't hurt me.
He knocks on the door, hates himself for the way his hand is shaking.
"Not everyone is out to get you." That's Keeley's voice, light of his life. He wishes he could send her flowers and chocolates and wine and shoes every day without it being taken the wrong way. Roy would definitely assume he has sinister intentions, and there's no way he could explain that they are just "thank yous" because her voice in his head is unfailingly kind. Maybe he could send a gift basket anonymously, once a week or something. Footsteps on the other side of the door interrupt his train of thought, and he sucks in a final fortifying breath as it's unlocked and opened.
Ted greets him with too much enthusiasm and ushers him inside with a familiar kind (please be kind) smile and some pop culture reference that Jamie doesn't even begin to understand.
He's going to be so out of place and lonely in America.
"Not too different from here, eh?" His father jeers, breaking into a cackle. He's always enjoyed watching his son suffer.
Ted guides him into the living room, and Jamie can't help but map out exit routes. Fighting back has always been hard, he feels just like a helpless little kid again, struggling and desperate and too fucking weak to ever get the upper hand, even though he knows he's currently stronger than almost anyone who'd hurt him. And yet...Jamie is weaker. Physically stronger, but weaker in all the ways that really matter. Running is much easier than fighting back, and it gets him out of there. Trying to fight back or overpower someone still leaves the question of how to retreat. Running solves both problems at once.
"Such a coward."
The hissed taunt doesn't even sting, rolls right off his back. He's been called worse. As Ted sits down on the couch, motioning for Jamie to join him, he tries to swallow the rising anxiety of not knowing exactly why he was invited. Ted Lasso may be a football coach, but he isn't Jamie's football coach. Not anymore. Why would he want to talk to him? If he tries anything (he won't hurt me), he can run out the door after the first blow because it's not like he'll be losing his place on the team anyway. Other coaches, teachers, his "Dad", they've always had something to hold over Jamie. His spot on the team, his starting position, his academic approval to play, his Mum. Lasso doesn't have that, so if he starts lashing out (he won't hurt me), it will be easy enough to leave.
He hopes it will be easy to leave, anyway, because sometimes the shock and terror of an attack is still enough to make him freeze up, to bring him right back to his childhood, to the reminder that resisting or fighting back only makes things so much worse. Swallowing the screams makes things a bit better though, because the worst pricks get an adrenaline rush from vocalized hurt. Plus it gives him something to focus on - quiet quiet quiet don't cry out - and in some stupid way it helps. So either he's going to make a run for it, or be unable to do anything other than take the punishment.
"Worthless."
"I brought you a coffee." The words come out smoothly and Jamie forces himself to relax, to stop trembling as he holds out the offered cup, to look at Ted's face like a normal human and not whatever damaged (useless, worthless, weak) soul he is, brokenness and neglection propped up with desperation, cobbled together with sheer resolve and masked with arrogance and bravado. That resolve is starting to crumble, bravado morphing into something closer to dread, and it's worrying that he's already teetering on the edge when they haven't even started talking yet. Part of the reason is probably due to the fact that he isn't on Lasso's team, which is a threat all on its own. His "Dad" and coaches may hate his guts, but they've also needed his talents and typically avoid doing so much damage that he can't play for extended periods of time. They've threatened him with career-ending injuries before, but have yet to inflict one. Sure, he's played multiple games that he probably shouldn't have, suppressed limps and blinked through hazy vision to avoid another punishment (that would always come anyway, because he was never good enough), but it has never been career-ending. Back to the point, though: Lasso has no motivation to avoid catastrophic damage. If Jamie's wrong about him (he won't hurt me), this could end very badly.
They sip the coffees (Lasso would never slip something in the drink, but he'd watched for it anyway), with Lasso prattling on about pigeon sweat while Jamie concludes the so-called coffee has about twenty times more sugar than he's allowed to have during the season and resigns himself to simply holding the cup for the rest of this interaction. At least his hands have stopped shaking.
"Listen, Jamie," Ted leans forward, still holding his coffee with both hands, and Jamie suppresses the urge to shrink back. It's probably not hot enough to burn, not after all the sugary additions, but he can't help the fleeting wave of panic as his subconscious reminds him how much burns hurt. "The reason I invited you here is because I talked to the Diamond Dogs about bringing you back." Jamie doesn't move, doesn't breathe. He doesn't know who the Diamond Dogs are but feels the significance of the statement, wonders if he dares get his hopes up.
"You did?"
"Yeah, and it was a split vote, I mean just dead even. I know ya'll are fine with ties in your sports but I gotta say, it makes vote-based decisions impossible. I asked what we should do for a tie-breaker and Nate and Higgins thought I was just being clever talking about how to untie knots, which got real ugly because Beard knows more knots than a former Boy Scout leader working as a shoe salesman."
"Oh." Honestly he should be happy it wasn't a resounding "no", that this hasn't devolved into an attack on his playing abilities or his (lack of) character.
"Anyhoo, I also talked to some of the players and they didn't want nothing to do with you coming back." That is another line to add to the ever-growing list of voices repeating I don't want you, they don't want you, no one wants you in his head. He wonders if everyone has a list like that, how his list would compare to someone else. Lasso is still talking when he zones back in, "But you know what? Not a single one of them doubted your ability as a player. It was all about your actions off the field. Well, and on the field too, but not in the context of football, you know what I mean?"
This is one of the nicest ways anyone has ever put him down, and it hurts like it always does but the gnawing fear is quieter than usual. Because Henry had run into his arms without prompting, without hesitation, without fear, without punishment. Because he likes Lasso, even if he can't completely trust him. Because Lasso didn't tear him down, even though he dumped him. Because people with authority usually do so, so much worse than that.
"Yeah, that makes sense." It's instinct to accept the criticism, and he takes another sip of the liquid sugar just for something to do, mentally adding extra kilometers to his runs for the next week because that's the kind of healthy relationship he has with food and exercise. Just another thing he can thank his "Dad" for.
"Pathetic."
"Now I'm a believer, Jamie. Ever since I saw her face." Ted laughs, and Jamie's pretty sure it's at one of his bizarre references and not at him, because he hasn't done anything funny. "And I believe that you can flip that switch from "me" to "us", and I believe Richmond would be happy to have you back if you did that." Just like that, Lasso has leverage over him. Dangling a spot on the team in front of his eyes, so close yet out of reach, he can't have it unless Ted gives it to him. Hurt and frustration and fear and longing bubble up his throat, and Jamie knows this could just be a cruel joke because he's heard this punchline (and absorbed these punches) before.
"You're not fucking with me?" It's supposed to be a lighthearted question but comes out quieter and rawer than he intended. Lasso has the power here, and like so many times before, Jamie does not. He's given Lasso that weapon, confessed his need for Richmond, and now he's going to be attacked with it because that's all anyone ever does when he gives them that opening. Fuck.
"I...no, Jamie. I mean that." Lasso seems taken aback that he'd even ask, like he'd never lie to someone like that. A small part of Jamie wants to believe that's true, but personal experience shows that most people eventually enjoy hurting him like that. He supposes that reflects poorly on him, that almost everyone he meets will someday enjoy watching him suffer (physically, mentally, emotionally, all of the above, whatever). "You asked about coming back to play for you, and I'm saying I can give you that chance." Jamie wants that chance almost more than life itself, but he tries to bite back the hope and joy because there's a catch, there's always a catch. "I just need you to agree to a few conditions first." There it is. It's almost easier to breathe now that it's out in the open. He takes another sip - another kilometer.
"Yeah, Coach. What do you need?" He doesn't meet Lasso's gaze, can't bring himself to see the familiar victorious glean that people get when they realize that he knows he's powerless, too broken and too alone to do anything other than their bidding. He was stupid to think Lasso was different, idiotic for giving the other man this power.
"Well first of all, you can't do any kind of bullying or talking down to anyone. Not to Nate, not to Sam, not to Derek. The guy who mows the pitch." he adds, apparently seeing Jamie's look of confusion. He appreciates the clarification, but actually he's mostly confused about the fact that it is a reasonable expectation.
"All right."
"No, Jamie, I'm serious. You cannot act like you did before, like you're above anyone else, or the deal's off. This will be in your contract, do you understand me?" Ah, yes, the ongoing threat to hold over him, the gun against his back whenever Lasso decides he wants more (and people always want more). Jamie hates himself for being so desperate (so useless) that he has to agree to it. Hates himself even more for starting to believe, however tentatively, that Lasso was different. Was trustworthy. Wouldn't hurt just because he could, and he doesn't know why he believed that to begin with because being shipped back to Man City without warning (or explanation, or even a goodbye) had hurt more than a lot of beatings. It fucking sucks to admit it, but he wishes the coach had just gotten physical with him instead, had Coach Beard smack him around a little, sicced some of his teammates on him, clipped him with a car, anything other than shipping him back. Playing for Man City - his "Dad's" team - had been even more hellacious and nightmarish than he could have imagined (and he hadn't exactly had high hopes to begin with). Lasso may or may not be the type to physically injure him with his own hands, but the man definitely has the capacity to hurt him.
"Yeah, Coach, I know. I get it. I'll be better." Accept criticism. Express understanding. Promise improvement. Show respect.
"Okay, good. Next one is training, you cannot be faking injuries whenever your pride is too hurt to practice."
"I didn't fake an injury!" The words come out before Jamie can stop them because he's Jamie fucking Tartt, he has never faked an injury in his life and he didn't get from a council estate to the premier league by skipping trainings. Even when he's mildly hurt he almost always trains through it, because injuries make you soft and softness makes you weak and weakness has been mocked and punished his entire life.
"Are you kidding me?" Lasso sounds agitated now and Jamie can't help but hunch his shoulders, curl into himself just a little. That was stupid, choosing to argue with a superior like that. He should know better. Once again his pride won out over self-preservation, and he's going to pay for that outburst with blood and bruises or losing his spot on the team or both. The fact that Ted's a good dad doesn't mean anything, because Jamie isn't his son.
"You really are worthless, you know?" He can't dispute that, even in his own head.
"See, I don't get you sometimes Jamie. I am doing my darndest to give you another shot at this game that you're darn good at, this game that I know that you love, and you're lying to me and making excuses before we even get to the pitch. Why should I bring someone like that back to my team?" Lasso isn't yelling, but that will probably change any moment because he's done it before and something about Jamie makes people irrationally angry and violent. There's a hard edge to the American's accent, all-too-familiar frustration and disappointment in every syllable. Jamie's already resigned himself to some kind of assault now, trying to soothe the dread and fear with acceptance (you deserve it) and reassurance (this has happened before, you'll be fine). Waiting for the attack is almost the worst part, because he's gotten really good at deciphering just how angry and ruthless someone is based on their initial moves, and can then prepare for the rest of the experience accordingly. When they have enough restraint to wait this long, it typically means they're going to drag it out, really make him pay, and he fucking hates that.
"Coach," Jamie gnaws on his cheek because he isn't going to cry and he can't back down now, not about this, and not when he's already earned a punishment anyway. The worst thing Lasso could do is withdraw the opportunity to be on the team. As long as he doesn't lose that, he doesn't care what else happens. "I really was hurt. I didn't fake an injury." Lasso doesn't believe him, he can tell, but he does think for a moment before responding.
"Okay, then. What was the injury?" Nobody ever does this, he's never given the chance to explain himself. The only person who's ever given him that luxury is Keeley, and even then her generosity only went so far. For a minute he's too shocked to even respond, and then he thinks about begging for Lasso to just start hitting him already, stop dragging it out and just get it over with and let him know if he can still be on the team. He's going to tell Lasso the truth, but the truth is fucking embarrassing and opens a massive hole in his defensive walls that is going to be exploited. It would be cruel to force him to admit this, to draw such a humiliating and revealing confession out of him and then kick him to the curb (again). The memory of Lasso's face as he embraced Henry comes to mind - a joyful smile, radiating love and pride (Jamie remembers it perfectly because nobody has ever looked at him like that) - and he doesn't think Lasso's capable of that level of cruelty. Not even to Jamie, who is such a fucking disappointment that he always brings out the worst in people. If he's wrong about this, and Lasso won't let him back even after he accepts the punishment, then he'll just go back to his plan to move to America. True, he'll be more hurt and jaded than before, but not in a significantly different situation, all things considered. He bites his cheek hard enough to taste blood, works his jaw and sets the coffee on the table so he can tuck his hands into his sleeves.
"My Dad, uh, watched the game that weekend. Against Watford." He gazes at the coffee unseeingly, replaying the scene in his head.
His living room carpet is suddenly splattered with blood. There are four different cleaners for it in the cabinet, though, so as long as he's coherent enough to clean it as soon as they leave, it probably won't stain. The blow wasn't even that hard, enough force to draw blood but he's sure his nose isn't broken, might not bruise badly enough for concealer. It's smart, avoiding too many injuries to places he can't easily hide with clothing.
"Do you know," he's roughly forced to the floor and wrestled to his back, one body pinning his legs down, hands like vice grips dragging his wrists above his head. Bug and Denbo, respectively, always eager to join James on his visits. Jamie doesn't know why there needs to be three of them, it's not like he ever puts up a fight. Not when he deserves it.
"How embarrassing it is," a flash of something above his head - a cricket bat? a golf club? it doesn't matter. Whatever it is is slammed into his side. It's definitely metallic, cold and unyielding against his ribs. He tries to disassociate, imagining the new plays they'd covered in training. Where he needed to be on the pitch, what he needed to do, how hard he was going to work to earn his starting spot back.
"To watch," This blow lands on his other side, enough force behind it to drag his mind back to the present. It's starting to feel like he's breathing shards of glass, lungs protesting by burning with every breath. The pressure on his wrists is definitely going to bruise, but it's fine because he was planning on wearing long sleeves anyway.
"Your own son," Two hits in quick succession, the pain is so much sharper than before and he has to choke back a scream.
"get BENCHED?" The next impact is a crack and his left side is in agony, he tries to curl around it, to shield it from the next attack, but it isn't a fair fight and he's already so tired. One knee is across his forearms now, the other an uncomfortable weight on his throat. Rough hands paw carelessly at his throbbing ribs, and he tries to writhe away from the contact. There's instantly sharp, cool pressure against his right leg, pressing threateningly against his Achilles tendon. It barely draws blood but the message is clear and he freezes, breath hitching, forcing himself not to recoil from the harsh probing.
"They aren't even broken, you fucking baby!" The pain of the next hit is so intense that it drags something akin to a scream out of him despite his best efforts, and the pressure on his neck increases from uncomfortable to suffocating before the next blow comes.
Jamie forces the memory back, swallows hard.
"You saw him after the Man City game. He was, um, even more worked up than that. Because I was benched." He drags his eyes back to Ted's face and thinks (hopes) the expression is more like horror than satisfaction. Before he loses the nerve, he grabs his phone and pulls up photos, scrolling to the doctor's note he'd gotten because he'd been trying so hard to do everything right. He offers it to Ted, grateful when the older man takes it wordlessly instead of ripping it away and throwing it (that's what people usually do when they're given proof of an injury, proof of his innocence, proof of his effort - ignore it).
"They, um. Two of 'em were cracked enough that they were worried they would break if I wasn't careful. And I always get tackled in training, so I thought it was smart to, you know. Sit it out." Ted is looking at the screen, at the doctor's note that said "five cracked ribs" and "bone contusions" and "no strenuous activity" and "weeks" and a hundred other things that Jamie didn't bother reading because he knows how to deal with cracked ribs, he's had them before, he just wanted to make sure they weren't broken because God it was the worst they'd ever hurt. Even months later he can feel the phantom pain of twisting, of breathing, and subconsciously wraps his arm around them.
"I was going to tell you," (but I thought you'd believe me without proof,)
"but I didn't have a chance," (you got in my face and reminded me of my "Dad",)
"and I had to leave the next day." (you shipped me back to Man City.)
Ted is silent for too long. Jamie can't help but wonder if he's going to crack his ribs again and force him to train, because that's the kind of shitty punishment people usually come up with when it comes to him.
"That first game back with Man City, though. You played good minutes. Scored a goal." Jamie is stupidly touched that Ted had cared enough to pay attention, to care how he did once he wasn't on his team.
"He probably watched to root against you."
"That was only two days later, you wouldn't have been cleared for that kind of activity yet."
"No, I wasn't." Jamie agrees easily, because it's true. And the teeth-rattling tackle he'd taken in the 68th minute had been an excruciating reminder of that. He had gotten up instantly (because staying down is weak, it makes it worse, he'll just hurt me more if I stay down) but it felt like someone had driven a knife through his lungs and was twisting it with every breath. At least one rib had to have broken, because nothing else would explain the horrific pain he felt for weeks afterwards. They screamed when he jogged, black spots swarmed his vision when he ran. The relentless jabbing, throbbing, burning only got worse with every match and training. Extra strength paracetamol hadn't touched the pain, and he doesn't remember how many nights he spent propped against his bathroom wall, shivering in agony, praying that the nausea would stay at bay long enough for him to doze off. He's probably lucky they healed at all under those circumstances. "I just..."
"Tell the truth." Keeley's voice nudges gently. Fuck it, she's getting two anonymous gift baskets a week. Even her imaginary voice hasn't turned on him, yet, and it's a fucking novelty to hear some sort of encouragement. It doesn't compare to actually talking to her, though, which is why he'd deleted her number in the first place. The combination of losing Richmond and being forced to constantly endure his "Dad" was a low point, and he was afraid he'd call her and beg her to talk to him while he was delirious with pain and exhaustion. Knowing that he would be able to call her again now, after this conversation, is reassuring enough to tell the truth.
"I care about Richmond." The words are frightening, because now that he's said them they can be used against them. "I wanted us to do well, and the team needed me to be able to play as many games as possible." Because he was their best player, even with Dani, and they always had trouble scoring without him. He was special. Having him sit out a few trainings to avoid an injury that would keep him out for weeks or months was just good strategy. "Man City didn't mean as much to me, and they could actually score without me. Once I wasn't with Richmond," he realizes this is the first time he's admitting it out loud, but it's too late to chicken out now, "I didn't really care if they got broken or not." He shrugs, not adding that the relentless physical pain distracted him from the emotional hurt of being dumped right as he started trusting Lasso, started liking his teammates, started believing that enduring his "Dad's" wrath would be worth it to help these people succeed.
Ted is quiet for a few seconds, and Jamie does his best not to fidget because people hate it when he does that, and yeah he's a little afraid of Ted still, not positive he can fully trust him, but at the same time he just doesn't want to disappoint him. Not again.
"Your father cracked your ribs," Ted's tone is calm but there's something lurking behind those words, "just because I put you on the bench?" Jamie can't quite get a read on all of the emotions but anger is definitely there, and he's uncomfortably unaware of whether it is aimed at him or not (it usually is). It sounds like maybe a hint of guilt as well, which is surprising but it shouldn't be because Lasso is a good man, nothing like his father and his mates. Hopefully, anyway.
"I deserved it." Jamie responds, unable to suppress the flinch when Lasso whirls at him furiously as he hurriedly adds "To be benched, Coach. I was being a prick, I deserved to be benched. And me dad..." he exhales carefully, "he would've found another reason, anyway. He always does."
"He's not allowed at Richmond anymore." Ted is seething now, but for once it isn't directed at Jamie, "I promise you, okay?" He meets Jamie's eyes, and he looks so earnest he could almost cry.
Protectiveness, he recognizes dimly. The last person to look at him like that was Keeley (but he always hid the worst from her). Before that, it was his Mum (and he hid even more from her). He's not sure why he's told Lasso so much, probably because he's desperate and has nothing to lose, but he's starting to feel like maybe he really can trust the rodeo clown.
"I lied to you." Jamie blurts suddenly, because apparently he is an idiot. "Before," he swallows "at the Crown." Ted blinks at him but his eyes don't darken with anger, don't flash with violence, so Jamie feels safe enough to dig in his pockets, trusting he won't be throwing his arms up defensively in the next few seconds. He clasps his fingers around the plastic, the little figurine somehow almost as meaningful as his Mum's jewelry around his neck.
"He was named after you." The army man is in both hands now, cradled as it has been so many times over the months (before every match, after every match, after every beating, covered in blood and sweat and tears and then carefully cleaned as soon as his vision cleared). It's strangely important to him that Lasso knows the truth, that he is honest. "I didn't say, before, because I was worried. That you'd think it was, um..." Pathetic. Weak. Ridiculous. "...weird." He clutches it closer, unable to meet Lasso's gaze anymore, "I know I was no good for the team before, but I'm trying to be better, Coach, I really am. Actually, you know I was good for like, the football things, scoring points and all that, everything but me left foot cross, really, but that's not..." He sighs, "I'm working on the teamwork, passing, everyone be nice," ("bullshit", his head finishes helpfully) "uh, strategy. And I'm gonna be good at it, because I'm awesome at football, and I think I could build those bridges again. I don't care what the other conditions are, I'll agree to them. I just want-" so many things come to mind, most of them too depressing for him to voice out loud, "-I just want a chance."
It's as close to begging and pleading as he can bring himself out loud, even though his head is a constant string of 'please please please Coach, I'll do anything, I need to play, life without football is driving me mad'. He remembers full-blown begging his father, like literally on his knees begging, the whole clasped hands shit and everything. If he ever forgets, he's got scars to remind himself how that went. Lasso already has more than enough to hurt him, he can't bring himself to give any more. The coach is staring at him, probably assessingly, probably coming to the conclusion that Jamie is inadequate at best. It's hard not to shrink under the gaze, everything is too hot and too cold and his racing heartbeat is so loud that he's sure Ted must be able to hear it too. The seconds of silence are excruciating, and he can't help but glance at the door. It's not too late to make a run for it.
"You know, Jamie," Ted shifts a little, reaching for a stack of folders on the coffee table, "I had a feeling you might say something like that." He grabs the one on top, which is clearly emblazoned with the familiar AFC Richmond logo and is all in team colors. "And that's why I spoke to Rebecca earlier today, and she had this contract written up, and it has your name on it." He holds it out slowly, eyes bright and a huge smile on his face, "I mean, literally, your name is on it, that wasn't just a figure of speech. All's you gotta do is sign that puppy, and you'll be a Greyhound again."
"I-" his throat seems to have swelled up, shock and hope and adrenaline fighting for his attention, and when he reaches for the contract, he pretends not to notice that his hand is shaking again, "I don't know what to say, Coach." He flips it open, sees his name and the offer and suddenly he wants to hug it. "Thank you. I can't-" his voice is embarrassingly rough and he swallows, eyes stinging. There's a pen clipped to the contract, which he barely skims before signing his name. His agent isn't going to be happy about that, but the inevitable lecture is worth it. He doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until it suddenly feels like he can breathe again, almost dizzy with relief. He offers the contract back, he hates to see it go but obviously the team will need to keep it on file. "Thank you, Coach. I won't let you down." Ted is smiling but his gaze is a little dimmer, more thoughtful than before.
"I know you won't." He states, standing up as he takes the folder and sets it back on the table. Jamie starts to stand but Ted stops him with some wild gesturing that could be interpreted as 'don't move'. "Wait right there, Ray Hare. I've got something I want to show you, too." He bustles out of the living room and the continuing footsteps suggest he's running through multiple rooms and maybe even upstairs. Jamie can't tell for sure, slightly worried that it could be something bad but too thrilled to be back on a team to really care. Hell, the words "will get beaten upon signing" could have been in the contract, and he still would have signed it.
"Okay, here it is!" Lasso returns with the exuberance of someone who found a missing pet, which conflicts with the fact that he's just holding some blue fabric.
A shirt, Jamie amends, as Lasso starts to unfold it.
An AFC Richmond shirt, he realizes as he catches a glimpse of the red stripe and bright yellow collar. Ted shakes it out the rest of the way and turns it around, revealing the number "9" and bold lettering "TARTT" across the back, and Jamie is happy to see it but a little confused at the presentation because he kind of assumed being on the team would entitle him to the uniform again. He's not sure what he's missing.
"That's great, Coach. Um, thanks. I-"
"It's your old jersey." Ted interrupts, and all Jamie can do is stare at him. "Oops, I mean shirt. It's your shirt from before you went back to Man City. It was still hanging on your locker," he pauses to smooth a nonexistent wrinkle "and I had to keep it." The way Lasso is holding the shirt - like it means something to him, smiling at it as if it wasn't an inanimate object - makes Jamie's throat close up. Nobody has ever looked at anything related to Jamie like that before. Fuck, he feels like crying all of a sudden. Ted approaches slowly, setting the shirt on the table next to the contract. "I can't explain to you exactly what happened, but, Jamie, I did not initiate your transfer. You were always a part of my team in my book, and not being able to stop that transfer was really, really hard to be a goldfish about." Jamie hardly dares to keep listening, already on the verge of tears, but he can't help but hang on Lasso's every word. "Now, I get the feeling that, maybe, folks aren't always honest with you about things like this. And I understand that can make it hard to believe me now. But I hope that this Grand Theft Polo situation makes it a little bit easier to believe me."
"I-yeah. Coach." Jamie nods like an idiot, his brain apparently short-circuiting at the unexpected combination of praise, understanding, and sympathy. It has almost no experience processing any of those, much less all three at once. "It does."
"Well, how about that?" Ted smiles, "You believe that I wanted to keep you, and I believe that you won't let me down. We are already off to a better start." The American holds out his right hand and Jamie can't stand up fast enough, lurching to his feet to return the handshake, "Oh, and Jamie?"
"Yeah, Coach?" He meets the older man's gaze now - he knows it is fine for a player to do that with his coach, that it shows he is paying attention. He hasn't had enough time to get the tears out of his eyes, yet, but somehow it isn't humiliating to know they are probably still glassy. Ted raises his left hand slowly and lets it hover above Jamie's right shoulder for a few moments, giving him plenty of time to pull away. When Jamie doesn't, Ted clasps his shoulder and the touch is grounding, firm but gentle.
"I won't let you down, either." There are a hundred unspoken promises in his eyes, glistening with sincerity and understanding. I won't hurt you. They seem to say. I won't use you. I won't do what they did. Jamie's breath catches in his throat. So many people have let him down, have gotten a thrill out of it, and trusting someone is always a gamble. He's always listened to his coaches, though, even when it seems like he's ignoring them. Anything they say that might make him better, might make them win easier, even when advice is interspersed with violence, he listens. He might not always take the advice, but he does listen. This time, he decides he's going all-in. He's going to prove that he's the best athlete Ted's ever coached, and he's going to embrace "The Lasso Way" starting right now, by committing to its ideals. The teamwork, the goldfish, everything. Of course, the main ideal is the one proudly displayed above Lasso's door.
Believe.
So he manages to return Ted's smile, sets his own hand on his coach's shoulder, and chooses to believe.
"I know you won't."