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”... And I still can't sign a real scholarship contract until I'm sixteen, but they're already setting up this agreement thing that I'm getting one, right. And they said I'm gonna get a squad number. Like a high one, 50-something, but still.”
He's proud of that. Yeah, it's gonna be a nothing number, but not all academy players even get assigned a shirt number. Being told this early that you're getting one means there's a future for you in the squad.
”50?,” Dad says. “Bloody hell. Well, guess that's all right for now, lad, gotta start somewhere, ain't ya? Be number nine before we know it, won't ya?” He's grinning, but there's an edge to his voice, too.
Nine is the magic number, Jamie knows that, always has. Just a couple of years ago he'd watched as Fernando Torres kept knocking them in for Liverpool over the season, his name sung by the fans on the telly, over and over. The spearhead, the main goal scorer. The spot where he knows he shines.
He straightens, tries to make himself taller.
“Yeah, I will. Gonna be City's number nine.”
“Too bloody right you will, that's my son.” Dad claps him on the shoulder, a little harder than he needs to. “All right, let's get a move on now, flight's in an hour. Amsterdam, eh, son?”
It's gonna be a good time, Jamie tells himself. Dad's trying. It'll be fun.
He's fourteen, and Amsterdam is not a good time.
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“And fucking Richmond?!”
Dad's marching up and down the room in a way that never means anything good. Jamie had known he wouldn't take the news well, and he's been trying to just keep his head down and let Dad get it out of his system.
“Fuck's sake, Jamie! Jesus has been a fucking pussy since coming back, and you STILL can't take his fucking spot? How shit are you playing if they're still picking that donkey over you? Fuck!”
He knows he needs to say something soon, find a positive, something to talk his dad down before he loses the plot completely.
“Look, I told them I'd only go if Richmond let me have the 9 shirt, all right?” Jamie tries to sound more confident than he feels. “I mean, yeah, all right, it's a shit club, I know, but I'm gonna be fucking banging them in down there and Pep'll be begging me to come back in a few months.”
He tries to add something about how more playing time is still more playing time, and Dad proceeds to let him know exactly what more playing time is worth when that time isn't at City.
His last week in Manchester is a bit of a blur. Mum hugs him before he leaves for London and tells him to be good, as if he's still ten years old, and maybe some part of him wants to cling to her as if he were still ten, too. Dad sends him a final text after seeing him off the night before, simply saying “Don't fucking embarrass me down there”, and when Jamie first sets foot at Nelson Road he does it with a bruised jaw and a sore rib that he passes off to his new teammates as a going-away present from a pissed-off United fan at the pub before he left Manchester, same as he told his mum. Unlike his mum, the lads seem to believe him and are impressed.
He's twenty-two, and he's the number one striker and the top scorer at AFC Richmond. The number nine. At the wrong club, but still, it's something. It's not enough for his dad, but at the same time his dad isn't there to be on him about it in person, and that's something, too.
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4-1. Four-fucking-one, and all right, today was just against Bournemouth who are on a bit of a poor run, but still – this Total Football thing feels like it might actually be working, for real. They've been climbing up the table steadily over the past couple of months, and their goal difference is getting better and better. Jamie's been having more fun out on the pitch than he's had in a while. Maybe the most since he was still a kid, honestly. Yeah, he’d only scored one of the goals today, on a free kick, but he’d assisted Dani on one and Sam on another, and honestly he’d pulled the strings on the attack that ended with Moe’s goal, too. Fucking brilliant, they were.
The celebrations in the dressing room are starting to calm down somewhat when Jamie notices Ted's eyes on him through their office window, and sees Ted give him a wave. He walks over and sticks his head into the office.
“You wanted something, Coach?”
Ted smiles at him. “Just wanted to say that was one heck of a game you played out there today. Nicely done.”
“Oh. Thanks, yeah.” He shrugs, feeling a little embarrassed, for some reason. “Felt good.”
“I'll bet. Sure looked it. Take it easy and we'll see you Monday, yeah?”
“Yeah, cheers.”
”Jamie.”
This time it’s coach Beard’s voice, and he turns back. “Yeah?”
Beard’s not looking at him, his eyes on the page in whatever book it is he's reading – which, Jamie feels like that must be for show, because honestly, why the fuck would he be reading a book right now? They've just come off the pitch.
“Think you're wearing the wrong shirt,” Beard says, still without looking up.
“What?”
Jamie pulls on his shirt, confused, trying to get a look at the back even though there’s absolutely no reason why he’d have the wrong shirt on when they’ve literally just played a match where someone would’ve pointed that out a long time ago.
“Uh. Don't think so, Coach,” he says.
“No, I'm pretty sure.”
Jamie's pretty sure that Beard is fucking with him, although he's not sure why. To be fair he's rarely sure why Beard does the things that Beard does, but he does usually seem to be doing them for a reason.
“Got my name on it, Coach.”
“That it does. Wrong number, though.”
He gives in and pulls the shirt over his head to look at it properly. Tartt. 9. It's his regular shirt. He holds it up, showing Beard the back. Ted’s not saying anything, but he’s looking from Jamie to Beard as if he’s watching a fucking tennis match, and it's making Jamie nervous. Beard closes his book and leans back in his chair, nodding.
“Like I thought. Wrong number.”
“All right, I'm not really following – ”
“You're not a nine anymore, Jamie,” Beard says.
It's like a punch that knocks all the air out of him.
“What?”
“You haven't been for a while now.”
Panic rises in his throat. Fuck. Fuck. He knows he hasn’t been scoring as many goals as he used to, but he’s also been playing some of his best football ever, he knows that, too, and Ted literally JUST told him he'd done well today. Are they really going to take his fucking shirt away from him after all this?
“We're thinking maybe Dani should take it,” Beard says, his tone as casual as if he's talking about a fucking corner, while Jamie feels as if someone’s thrown a bucket of ice water over him.
“I don’t – what did I –“
“We don't have a 10.”
He can’t keep up. “What?”
“Zava took the 10 when he came. No one wore it before, and we didn't have one after he left. Now we do.”
“Sorry, I – you – what, are you saying you want me to be a 10?”
“No.” Beard's tone is patient. “I’m saying you are a 10.”
Well, that’s fucking stupid.
“You just said we don't have one.”
“Well, we do. Just no one who's wearing it.”
Jamie is trying to think of some way of bowing out of this conversation and leaving without straight up being a dick to the coaches, but Beard isn't done.
“Jamie, name me three players who’ve worn the 10. Go.”
His mind is blank, and all he can do is stare.
“Go,” Beard says again, and Jamie snaps out of it.
“Uh, Aguero, Messi, Rooney.”
“Three more.”
“Modric, Coutinho, Ozil.”
Beard nods. “Pretty decent bunch. You left out Zidane, Ronaldinho and Maradona.” There’s a hint of amusement on his face when he adds, “And Zava.”
Jamie rolls his eyes.
”You're getting homework,” Beard says, turning away and opening his book again, and this time Jamie's positive it's just for show.
“Homework,” Jamie repeats. “What homework?”
“Do a deep dive, watch some player highlights. Watch the 9s. Watch the 10s. And then watch yourself from the past couple of months, and tell me on Monday what you are.”
“Hey, Jamie, look – no one’s gonna take your number if you don’t wanna give it up,” Ted chips in. “It’s up to you, so don’t go worryin’ about that, all right?” He shoots Beard a quick look. “And you don’t have to tell us anything on Monday. It’s just something for you to think about. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says. Anything for this to be over. “All right, yeah. If you say so.”
Yeah, fuck that, he thinks as he stands in the shower afterwards.
It’s not that the, like, typical no 10 position is bad or anything. Obviously not. Some of the greatest fucking players he’s ever watched have worn that shirt, it’s true. He’s seen Aguero score a fuckload of goals, including THAT one, the one that was the start of City becoming the powerhouse that they are now, while wearing that shirt.
And Messi, of course. Best player in the world.
That thought makes him pause. He never would’ve said it out loud in front of his dad since it would’ve earned him a clip around the ear, at the very least, and a lecture about him being United scum, but when he was younger Jamie had always been on the Ronaldo wagon in the debate about who was the best, him or Messi. Because Ronaldo was just a fucking beast, wasn’t he? (Although Jamie had still been certain that Roy Kent would beat his arse in a fight.) At United, at Real Madrid, always there up front, always scoring, always just being a fucking superstar. A dick, yeah, but a superstar. Everything he’d wanted to be. Best player in the world.
When had he stopped thinking that?
Well, it doesn't fucking matter, does it, because 9 is his number. He's been working towards that since he was a kid and they're not fucking taking it from him. And he's not doing any fucking homework.
He pointedly avoids YouTube completely all evening.
…
The banging on his door starts at 9AM the next morning, like it usually does when they've played the late game on Saturday. Roy does tend to go easier on him the day after a match these days, but when he opens the door he's still a little relieved to see it's just Roy, with no bike for Jamie to pull. Roy gives him the grunt that Jamie has learned means “good morning”, and they're off.
Their steps pound on the pavement while Beard's words keep playing on repeat in Jamie's head, like they have since he left Nelson Road yesterday.
You're not a nine anymore, Jamie.
Maybe he hasn't been, lately. Doesn't mean he can't be again. Roy fucking Kent is basically his personal trainer, they can fucking fix this. He can fix this.
“Coach, can I ask you something?”
“Yes, your hair is worse than it was last season.”
“Fuck off,” he says without any heat. “Come on, man, I'm – I'm being serious here.”
Roy grunts. “Fine. What?”
“Ted and Beard told me they want me to change my shirt. Give the 9 to Dani.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean, they said I don't have to, but... I dunno, I guess I just – look, I need to start scoring more. So, can you help me work on that?”
“No.”
Jamie stops.
“What the fuck? Just 'no', just like that?”
“Yeah. 'No.' Your scoring's good.”
The way Roy says it, all matter-of-fact like it's ridiculous to even suggest otherwise, pisses Jamie off.
“Well, it's not fucking good enough if they want me to give the 9 to Dani, is it?,” he snaps.
Roy stares at him like he's speaking French or something.
“That's not – fucking hell. Didn't you have this conversation with them?”
“Yeah, I just told you, and they told me I'm not a nine anymore.”
“Right, but – ” Roy groans and shakes his head. “Jesus. Bet the fuckers did this to me on purpose. Why do you think I wasn't there?”
“How the fuck would I know?!”
“I wasn't there because having to compliment you to your face still gives me acid fucking reflux. Prick.”
Jamie has no idea what Roy is talking about, and apparently it shows on his face, because Roy groans again.
“Oh, for fuck's sake. Fine.” Roy takes a deep breath. “The fucking point isn't that we want to give Dani the 9, it's that we want to give you 10 and Dani's your natural successor up front. You're a fucking great 9, but you're a better 10 and that's what you're playing like now anyway.
“Last season, when I said Lasso made you average because he got you to pass and shit? I was – ” Roy grinds his teeth for a moment before continuing. “I was wrong. The problem was that you were passing for the wrong reasons, just trying to prove you weren't a prick. Now you're passing for the right reasons and the whole team is better for it. You've become a fucking playmaker. And it's fucking stupid that we've got no one wearing the 10 when – while we still have you.”
Jamie catches the pause and the “still” and its implications, and doesn't really know what to say.
“You've been playing midfield since Arsenal and you're fucking killing it, and you know it,” Roy says, looking at him squarely now. “And I feel like a fucking arsehole for letting you be wasted up front this whole time.”
At some point they'd started moving again – not running, like before, just kind of... Well, strolling, really, which is honestly kind of ridiculous. What are you doing? Oh, nothing much, just out for a walk with Roy Kent on a Sunday morning.
“Why's the 9 so important to you, anyway?” Roy asks suddenly.
That's a stupid question, he wants to say. Why wouldn't it be important? It's his shirt. Would Roy have been fine with someone telling him he couldn't wear his 6 anymore? Not fucking likely, Jamie thinks.
But at the same time, 'why wouldn't it be?' isn't really an answer. And he's not sure he can put into words how that shirt has felt like – like an armour, almost, since the first time he put it on. How even though it was the wrong colours the number on its back was some sort of protection, confirmation that he was holding up his end of some deal he'd made a long time ago. How going back to his old 51 when he was sent back to City had made him feel like he was fucking naked out on the pitch.
No, Jamie doesn't know how to tell Roy that, so he shrugs.
“Dunno. Just... Always wanted it, y'know? It's the 9, everyone did. Be up front, score all the goals.” He hesitates, and determinedly doesn't look at Roy when he adds, “The more chances I got up front, the more I scored, and – and the more I scored the easier things were with my dad, y'know?”
He hears Roy hiss something under his breath that sounds a lot like “shitfucker” before he sighs, and Jamie thinks Roy might understand what he hasn't said.
“Look, you want to keep the 9, keep it. It's just a fucking number, it doesn't change anything about your game or where you play. Just... Don't keep it because you've got some fucking idea in your head of what you should be.”
Well, this a lot to try to wrap his mind around in a short time. Jamie tucks it away for now and just says, “All right. Thanks.”
“This could've been a fucking email,” Roy mutters. “Now I need an antacid.”
Jamie laughs. “We'll stop at Boots and get you some when they open, Granddad.”
“Okay, that's enough fucking talking. RUN!”
They run.
…
Later that afternoon, Jamie's scrolling through Instagram when he hears coach Beard's voice in his head.
Watch the 9s. Watch the 10s. And then watch yourself.
“Fuck's sake,” he mutters to himself as he pulls up YouTube on his phone.
He's an hour in, watching a compilation of Ronaldinho's best assists when a notification pops up with a text from Ted.
Heya Jamie! Just wanted to check in and make sure we were on the same page about yesterday. Didn't mean to make you feel like we were ganging up on you. You've earned the right to wear whatever number you want, no one's gonna make you change it if you don't want to. There's no pressure. All good?
Jamie wonders if this is Roy's doing. It seems like the idea should annoy him, them thinking he needs to be reassured, but for some reason it doesn't. Well, all right, maybe it does a little, but that's mostly because it actually does make him feel better.
And don't worry about coach Beard, he just got real excited about the 10 idea once he'd floated it, Ted writes.
It's hard to imagine coach Beard, probably the most poker-faced man Jamie's ever met, getting “real excited” about anything, much less something to do with him, but the thought makes him smile.
Don't worry coach, all good. Thinking about it, he writes back.
There you go, all we're asking. 👍
Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again, blinking on the screen for what feels like a very long time before the message comes through.
You've turned that me into us and then some, Jamie. I'm darn proud of you.
He can feel his cheeks grow hot, and yeah, he gets why Roy wanted their talk before to have been an email, because he's very glad he's not face to face with Ted right now.
Thanks, coach, he writes, and hits send.
Looking at it, that – really isn't enough, is it? Like he's saying thanks for, what, Ted handing him a bottle of water?
Really, he adds, and it's still not enough, but he doesn't really know what would be.
A little heart pops up on both messages almost immediately, and the sight of them makes him twitchy enough that he needs to get up and walk it off. God, feelings are fucking stupid. Even in writing.
He then spends another couple of hours watching player highlights, and at some point – okay, he gets it. He's still not sure he wants to let go of his 9, but he can see where the coaches are coming from. And he finds himself watching the midfielders more than the forwards, watching how they run the game, how they find the spaces, and when the ball from Iniesta reaches Suarez who scores, Jamie, to his annoyance, finds himself admiring the pass more than the goal.
He's twenty-five, and starting to realise that maybe he's not the player he thought he was. And maybe that's okay. Maybe he's a better one.