Archive of Our Own

The hug has to end at some point.

With his face tucked into Roy’s shoulder, Jamie wants to stay there forever, hidden away and safe, but all good things must end. At some point, he has to face reality, and the longer he draws it out, the more embarrassing it will be.

It doesn’t stop him from stealing another minute. Just one more. Just until he can take a full breath, until his legs stop shaking so hard, until he can stand on his own.

Pulling back, he roughly swipes at his tears, as if the team hadn't all seen him break down sobbing already.

As he breaks the fragile stillness, the rest of the guys start moving all at once, going about as if nothing of note had happened at all. The only indications of strain - that his dad had ever been there - can be seen in how no one quite looks at Jamie. Like he’s invisible. He knows it’s out of kindness, but it makes him feel weird and panicky all the same, like they’re mad at him or something.

Roy squeezes his shoulder, before stepping away and determinedly marching out the door. Probably checking that his dad is properly gone. A small, bitter part of Jamie hopes he has lingered, that Roy gets the chance to scare the shit out of him. The thought it a bit surreal, like one of his teenage imaginings of Roy Kent from his bedroom poster come to life.

Jamie puts those thoughts aside and makes himself move. He goes through the motions, the familiar post game routine, showering the dirt off himself, pulling on his favourite tracksuit, smoothing his hair back from his face. He feels far away, fingers half numb as he ties his shoelaces.

He follows the rest of the lads onto the coach, choosing an empty row at the back, ignoring the seat beside Dani that’s probably intended for him. He puts his bag on the seat next to him. Sam pauses when he notices, looking like he might approach, but Jamie just glares at him until he takes the seat next to Dani instead. He’ll probably feel bad about it later, but as he sits in the bus, temple pressed to the cold glass of the window, he doesn’t have the capacity to care.

Blank faced, he stares out into the cool April evening. It’s dark out; the glass mostly just reflects his own face. It doesn’t look familiar to him. He thumbs at his bruised knuckles, wiggling his fingers to feel the ache travel along his bones, and thinks about his dad’s hands, about how they must have hurt after each punch. It’s weird to think that every time he hurt Jamie, he had hurt himself a little bit too.

As the coach pulls into Nelson Road, Jamie knows it must have been at least half an hour since they left, but the time seems to have slipped away from him. He shakes his head, tries to stay present, pushing against the creeping numbness.

Stepping off the coach, he keeps his head down, hoping to escape without notice. No such luck - Roy is only a step behind him. “Oi. Where’d you think you’re going?”

Jamie doesn’t stop, barely turning his head in acknowledgement. “Uh, to me car?”

“Fuck that. Come back to Keeley’s with me.”

This time Jamie does stop. He can’t resist turning, attempting to measure Roy’s expression, even if it’s the same as always, flat and slightly angry. “Why?”

Roy rolls his eyes, as if it’s a stupid question to ask. “Don’t be thick. Come on.”

Irritation prickles Jamie’s skin, his jaw grinding. “No, ta,” he says, fighting to keep his voice mild. “Think I’ll just go home.”

“Don’t be like that,” Roy says tiredly.

“Like what?”

Roy pauses, lips pursed. Eventually he just shrugs. “Fuck it, fine. Can’t say I didn’t try.”

Jamie watches, perplexed, as he stiffly walks away. Weird bloke, Roy is sometimes.

He’s still thinking about it as gets into bed later - mostly because it’s preferable to thinking about the match, or punching his dad, or the string of texts his dad has sent since being punched. He tries to put his dad’s words out of his head, tries to think about Roy, and his offer, the one that made no sense but seemed to be genuine anyway. As he lays awake, alone, with a chair under his bedroom door handle, twitching at every benign noise, he imagines it - saying yes. He imagines going somewhere warm and kind, somewhere that wants him, somewhere that feels safe.

Imagining it doesn’t make it real.

Another buzz from his phone. Ignoring every self preservation instinct, he checks the notification.

There among all the threats from his father, the missed calls, is a singular, kind message.

Sam: I am sorry that I did not attempt to intervene. I hope you are alright.

Jamie’s thumb hovers over the keyboard, but in the end, he doesn’t know what to say.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

Jamie wakes to his alarm.

He squints with confusion as he swipes it away, wiping at his eyes. The day after the match is always a rest day, which means a lie in; his only obligation is in the afternoon, when they go over the match footage with the coaches. He must have forgotten to change his alarm.

Except then he catches sight of the date. His stomach drops.

How is it still-?

He checks his calendar app, then googles the date just to be sure. It’s match day.

It must have been a dream, then, a freaky, vivid nightmare. Pre-match nerves. Jamie has always had a tendency towards nightmares, so it isn’t that surprising. Just… he has never had a dream feel so real before.

He looks down at his knuckles; they’re smooth and unbruised. He shakes his head, smiling a little at himself sardonically. Really, it wasn’t all that realistic, if he had dreamt of punching his own dad. After all, he’s had plenty of chances to, plenty of reasons to, but he’s never been able to so much as raise his voice against him, when it really came down to things.

With one last glance at his phone’s calendar, he gets out of bed and rushes to take a shower. Being late to training is one thing, but Roy would absolutely fucking murder him if he was late on match day.

He snorts, remembering his dream. Despite feeling disturbingly real in the moment of waking, it now seems blatantly surreal, thinking back on how Roy Fucking Kent (who’s spectrum of emotion ranges from Anger to Bigger Anger) had held him whilst he cried.

One thing his dream had got right, Jamie muses, is the colossal fucking size of Wembley Stadium. He’s been before, sitting in the stands, but it’s different from down on the pitch. He cranes his neck, blinking up at the thousands of seats, empty and waiting to fill up with fans. With his dad, and Denbo and Bug, no doubt booing Jamie and cheering on Man City.

Ted’s pep talk sounds pretty familiar, too, but Jamie doesn’t listen too closely, just lets his cheery voice wash over him. Jamie has faith in his team, and besides, it can’t go as badly as it had in his nightmare, can it?

It’s half time, and it is going as badly as Jamie’s nightmare.

In fact, it’s going exactly as badly as the nightmare, and despite never being particularly superstitious, he can’t help but wonder whether prophetic dreaming might be a real thing.

It’s stupid. He’s probably just misremembering the dream, changing it to fit. He’s not bloody psychic, or else Jamie wouldn’t have made so many stupid decisions in his life, would he?

Maybe they’re just that predictable; maybe, just from knowing the team's strengths and weaknesses, from knowing how Man City play, Jamie had subconsciously known how this would play out.

If that’s true, then shouldn’t he use it to his advantage?

The atmosphere in the locker room is bleak. Even Ted’s unflinching optimism can’t make a dent in it, not when they’re 3-0 down in the semi-final. When Ted’s last minute pep talk peters out, when Roy’s done swearing and Nate’s finished with his snide criticisms, the room falls into silence. They only have a few minutes left. Jamie wipes his palms against his shorts, nervous.

“Can I- Can I say something?” Jamie asks.

The team turns to face him. Despite his recent good behaviour, and how things have been going well, there’s a wariness on their faces. He wants to shrink back from it - the evidence that they don’t quite trust him yet - but forces himself to stay still.

Ted says, “Shoot.”

Jamie scratches at his brow. “Um. So, defence-”

“Stop playing like shit?” Jan Maas suggests, grimacing.

“No, no,” Jamie says. Then, “I mean, yeah, but specifically, like, you’ve got to stop crowding Zoreaux, or one of you’s gonna end up with an own goal. Trust him to do his job, yeah?”

“I think that’s sound advice,” Ted says.

Jan Maas and Winchester both nod, not arguing; Zoreaux gives Jamie a quick thankful look.

Nate questions, “Any more words of wisdom?” He’s smiling, but his tone is all wrong, sharp and patronising, like he thinks Jamie should just shut up and play. Jamie can’t get mad, though, can he, when he spent so long treating Nate like shit, so he tries to keep his expression neutral.

“No. Not really. I mean… no.” Isaac, sitting next to him, must hear the hesitation, because he bumps his shoulder.

“Go on, mate,” he says. “We can use all the help we can get.”

“Er, just thinking… like, I know we all want to win, but keep it clean, yeah? If we keep giving them free kicks, they’re gonna keep scoring.” He looks to Isaac, suddenly worried that he’s overstepped - he’s not the captain, after all - but Isaac just squeezes his shoulder, encouraging.

“You heard what Jamie said,” Isaac states, standing up. There’s a sturdiness to him, a surety, and Jamie isn’t the only one feeling it. The rest of the lads perk up a bit, stop staring down at their muddied boots. “We play clean and hard. Don’t let ‘em rattle us, yeah? We’ve still got a chance. Come on. Believe on ten.”

The team stands, shuffling into a loose circle, hands in the middle. Isaac counts down, and the lads all shout believe, Jamie loudest of all.

The second half is not as disastrous as the first, and it doesn’t match Jamie’s dream too closely either, so that’s something of a relief.

It’s still a loss, but to win against Man City would have taken a miracle, so it doesn’t sting too much. They had them on the defence in the second half, and Dani had even managed to score a goal, even if he’d strained his knee a few minutes later in a bad tackle, riding out the last twenty minutes on the bench. Jamie hadn’t managed to score with the resulting free kick, but Zoreaux had a couple of great saves, and there wasn’t an own goal like in Jamie’s nightmare.

As the team filters into the locker room, the vibe isn’t as somber as it could have been. Nobody is jumping for joy, but there’s a quiet relief in the air, the lads taking time to give Dani a congratulatory greeting as he ices his knee, to high five Zoreaux for his excellent saves.

Jamie is ruffling Dani’s hair, teasing him about being the new Roy Kent, bum knee and all (although keeping his voice low enough that the real Roy Kent isn’t likely to overhear him), when the sound of an all too familiar voice floats through the door.

Jamie’s blood runs cold.

It can’t be. It was just a dream, just a nightmare, wasn’t it? Nightmares are scary, but they aren’t real. It can't be real.

The impossibility of it all doesn’t stop it happening - just like it had before - his father’s loud voice, coming closer, and then the security guy stepping in, expression serious, to say, “Mr Tartt? You have a visitor. Says he’s your father?”

He freezes for a moment. The deja vu is so strong it’s dizzying, and he’s thinking of that punch, the punch that hadn’t happened. Dry mouthed, he stammers, “Uh. I- Um.” He shuffles closer, even if that puts him closer to his dad, because the whole team seems to have stopped their conversations to listen to Jamie, and he doesn’t want them to hear it, doesn’t want them to see. Voice hushed, he says to the security guard, “Sorry, can you- can you ask him to leave? I don’t want- uh, yeah.”

The guy looks at him for a moment, and there’s something a bit too knowing in it. Shame heats Jamie’s face. “Of course, Mr Tartt,” he says, all professional, before ducking back through the doors.

There’s a moment of quiet, and Jamie can’t make out the security guy’s words, just the low mumble of his voice. His dad’s reply, though, comes clear as day, pitched loud enough for the whole team to hear it. “Fuck off,” he says, in that half joking, half violent way of his. “You can’t stop me from seeing me own son.”

Jamie’s stomach swoops. He had hoped to avoid a scene, but now he wonders whether he’s just made it worse, ruining his chance to de-escalate. There’s a reply, but then the doors are bursting inward, and there’s his dad, grinning in a way that promises nothing good. “There you are, Jamie, me lad. This bastard here says you don’t want me in here, but he must be full of shit, right, Jamie? You wouldn’t do that to your old dad, would you?”

The security guard is quick on his heels, putting a firm hand on his shoulder, pulling him backwards.

It plays out predictably from there - James ducking out from under the grip, shoving the guy backwards, hard enough to make him stumble a few steps. “Sir,” the security guard says, “if you don’t come with me, I’ll be forced to ask the police to remove you-”

“It’s alright,” Jamie cuts in. It’s stupid, but he can’t bear it anymore. He needs to salvage this. He needs to stop his dad from doing something bad. “It’s alright, he’s okay. He can stay.”

“See?” his dad crows. “Told ya, my son wouldn’t throw me out of here. Wouldn’t be such an ungrateful little bitch, would he?”

He knows he’s supposed to say something here, one of the phrases that Dr Fieldstone had helped him practise, create boundaries or whatever, but he’s past that now. He’s in survival mode, the animal part of his brain telling him to shut up, to stay still, to not provoke him.

In the background, the security guard is saying something into his walkie talkie, probably calling for backup, and there’s another security guard rushing in through the door, but Jamie can’t take his eyes off his dad, who’s stepping closer, a cold smile on his face. All Jamie can think is how there’s no rings on his right hand today, so that’s not so bad, it won’t be so bad.

“Would you, Jamie?” his dad is saying, getting up in his face, but the words are meaningless, just another warning sign. “Maybe you would. Maybe you’ve spent so much time around these pussies, you’ve forgot where you came from, eh?” His dads hands come up, shoving Jamie back a step. “Eh?”

It’s not like his dream, because he was brave in his dream. He’s not brave now, and his dad knows it. He laughs, stepping closer again, and the airs all gone out of the room, because he knows the way his hand is closing into a fist, knows what comes after it-

And his dad is being grabbed, a police officer on one side, a security guard on the other, dragging him backwards. His dad is shouting, but Jamie’s ears are ringing too loud to make it out properly. He’s there, and then he’s gone, the room left eerily quiet, frozen. Jamie is frozen.

Then, just like the dream, Roy strides across the room, and in his dream it was exactly what he wanted, what he needed, but now- he can’t now, because it’s different. He didn’t stand up to his dad. He didn’t set boundaries, didn’t fight back. He just let him. He didn’t do anything.

Roy reaches out, but Jamie shoves him back, harder than he deserves, and he knows it’s not fair, knows Roy doesn’t deserve it, but the shame is choking him, and he can’t let someone be nice to him, he can’t. “I’m alright,” he says, even though his voice comes out weird. “I’m fine.”

Holding his hands out in surrender, Roy doesn’t push him back, doesn’t yell at him or say anything cruel. He just says, “Alright,” all quiet like.

Jamie doesn’t know what to do. He just wants everyone to stop looking at him, because they can all see how hard he’s shaking, how he has to press his lips together to stop them wobbling.

He takes a sharp breath, and goes back to his cubby, shucking off his boots. He doesn’t look at anyone, just focuses on the task, hoping the rest of them would get the message.

They do, eventually, conversation starting back up, albeit more muted than before. No one approaches him, not as they filter out into the car park, not on the coach.

Roy doesn’t invite him back to Keeleys. It doesn’t matter; Jamie wouldn’t have accepted, anyway.

Jamie goes home alone, lays in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. No texts from his dad. He wonders whether he ended up being arrested - wouldn’t be the first time he had drunkenly assaulted a police officer. It seems more likely than his dad not having anything to say.

Eventually a text does come in.

Sam: I am sorry that I did not attempt to help. I hope you are alright.

Jamie ignores it. If he replies, then he’s acknowledging that it happened, that his dad’s a piece of shit and that he’s too cowardly to stand up to him. It seems easier to turn his phone off, and wait for sleep to come.

He wakes up.

It’s match day.

Jamie promptly runs to the bathroom, and throws up.

Jamie has never been particularly good at science, but he doesn’t think time loops are supposed to be normal, or, like, even possible. He wonders, vaguely, whether he’s maybe lost his head. Too many hits, too many rough tackles, something like that. Maybe he’s lost his shit, and none of this is really happening.

That might actually be the better option.

He still gets to the coach on time, mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do. He thinks about talking to someone, telling them what’s happening to him, but he’s pretty sure they’d just think he’s insane. Jamie half thinks he’s insane.

He doesn’t try to change anything, this time around; he doesn’t make any suggestions in the changing rooms, and doesn't try to adjust his strategy. It’s an experiment, sort of. He wants to see whether it really is the same. Wants to see the exact repetition. To prove it to himself, that it’s all real.

The only thing different about the game is that Jamie plays even worse than the first time. He doesn’t even feel bad about it, too dizzy and freaked out to really focus, to even care. He still misses the free kick in the second half, but he's numb as he watches it all go wrong. Jamie has lived his whole life for football, but now it seems ridiculously insignificant. He goes through the motions, and waits for reality to feel real again.

They lose 4-0, and he watches his teammates drop to their knees, devastated. He’s never felt so distant from them. It’s not the end of the world; maybe the world has already ended.

Blank and quiet, Jamie follows them off the pitch.

It’s only as they pass security that it occurs to him what happens next. That his dad is inevitably on his way here. That he could do something about it.

He pauses outside the locker room, waiting for the lads to finish talking to the press. His lingering ends up with him getting interviewed, but his responses are so vague and lifeless that it doesn’t last long. He’s too focused on the time. Each passing second is another chance lost. By the time it’s only Ted still talking to the press, Jamie decides he can’t wait any longer, even if he would have preferred a bit more privacy.

He approaches the security guard, guides him down the hall a little, far enough that the press definitely won’t catch what he’s saying.

“What can I do for you, Mr Tartt?”

“Right, uh. I think me dad might come down here in a bit.”

“Oh, sure,” the security guy says, “I’ll send him right through.”

Jamie swallows. “Actually… I was gonna ask you not to let him through.”

The guard’s demeanour shifts, smile fading. “Oh. Yes, of course.”

“Right. Thanks mate,” he says. “Just don’t tell him it was me, yeah? Like, just say he’s not got the right pass for this area or summat.”

“You got it.”

“Thanks,” says Jamie, taking a step back - only to almost step into Ted.

“Woah there,” Ted says, all friendly like, but something about his eyes says something else.

Jamie edges around him. “Hi, Coach. Just gonna go get changed.”

“You got it,” he says, hands in his pockets.

It’s only ten minutes later or so that he hears his dad’s voice from through the door. This time he doesn’t make it into the room, and whilst a few of the lads pause to listen to the muffled commotion, nobody looks Jamie’s way.

Well, all except for Ted. Ted, who’s heard his dad going at him before. Ted, who’d seen him talking to the security guard.

Ted, who’s watching him with an expression that makes Jamie squirm in his seat.

Naturally, because the universe seems to have in for Jamie Tartt specifically, Ted calls out to him as the team starts to filter out towards the bus. “Hey, Jamie,” he says, “mind if I have a word with you real quick?”

If it were another match, one that meant less, or hadn’t gone so terribly, the lads would have probably oohed, making jokes that Jamie was being sent to the head teachers office. As it is, they mostly just trudge out in silence.

Jamie tucks his hands under the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t want to see Ted’s face. “What’s up, Coach?”

“Couldn’t help but overhear you talking to security earlier. Figured I should check in, make sure everything’s okay.”

“Yeah, ‘s fine. Y’know what me dad’s like.”

“Yeah,” Ted says quietly. “Fathers… they can be complicated, can’t they?”

Jamie is reminded of his conversation with Higgins about fathers, a few days earlier, when he had said, ‘Mine's not complicated. He's just a dіck. Every situation, he does exactly what a dіck would do.’ Considering how that had only seemed to make Higgins uncomfortable, he figured it wasn’t worth trying to explain it to Ted, who only sees the best in everybody. “Yeah,” he says instead. “S’pose so.”

“Listen, I’m not trying to tell you what to do,” continues Ted, which in Jamie’s experience usually means the exact opposite, “and you don’t have to let him in here if you don’t want to, but… you never know. Maybe you should give him the chance to surprise you.”

“Surprise me?” Jamie echoes, sceptical.

“Sure. I mean, he came to watch you play. Lot of folks don’t have a dad who turns up like that. Now, I’m not saying that he’s perfect or anything, and you don’t have to talk to him if you don’t wanna,” Ted says, “but avoidance isn’t always the best strategy. Dad’s aren’t around forever, and I’d hate to think of you not getting a chance to say what you’ve gotta say.”

“Right,” Jamie says dully. He scratches at his brow, the slit he shaves in to hide the scar where the hair doesn’t grow back. Something hurt is clawing up his throat, and part of him wants to bite back, to make Ted hurt too. He knows it isn’t fair - knows that this Ted doesn’t remember yesterday, or the time before that, doesn’t remember all the things dear old dad had to say about Jamie - but it stings all the same. “Yeah. Alright.”

Ted pats his shoulder, almost paternal. It makes Jamie feel queasy. “Thanks for hearing me out,” he says. “And hey, good work out there today.”

Jamie blinks at him, searching for a note of sarcasm. “I played like shit.”

He hesitates at that, because he can't really deny it. “Well, we all have our off days.”

A laugh scrapes its way out of Jamie’s throat. “Yeah,” he says, “but sometimes those days last forever, don’t they?”

Ted doesn’t seem to know what to say to that, so Jamie just hitches his bag over his shoulder and walks away.

As they drive through the dark, the ball of hurt sitting in Jamie’s gut twists tighter.

And as he lays in bed that night, afraid it would be the same day tomorrow, the hurt burns down to bitter anger.

Jamie wakes up.

It’s match day.

He doesn't really plan on improving Richmond’s performance. He wakes up barely thinking of the match at all, really, too fixated on Ted's words from yesterday (or today, depending on how you think about it). He's wound up all morning. It’s almost a welcome distraction, compared to thinking about the impossibility of it still being match day. The team seems to sense it, giving Jamie a wide berth up until the match.

He gets on the pitch, and all the rage that he'd been bottling up comes flooding out.

As he runs, faster than ever, he remembers what Nate had said to Roy last season, that he used to run like he was angry at the grass. Jamie hadn't really understood at the time.

He understands now.

The anger, and the fear that feeds into it, burns through him. Pushes him forward.

He doesn’t speak at half time, and doesn't attempt to give anyone advice. It isn’t about winning. Does it matter if he wins, when he has to play the game again tomorrow? None of it sticks. Nothing matters.

So he doesn’t play to win. He plays to fight.

He’s aggressive, cocky, getting in players' faces and grabbing possession anywhere he can. He doesn’t pass, doesn’t communicate. He’s practically begging his ex teammates to get physical with him. If it were any other team, he thinks someone would have thrown a punch by now.

He gets yellow carded. Shrugs it off, even as his own team starts to look annoyed with him. They can’t get too upset, though, because he scores two goals before the game is over. They don’t win - the final score standing at 4-2 - but it’s a closer game than anyone expected.

Jamie should probably be happy about that. He should feel something about that.

The press try to talk to him afterwards, try to get a comment, and normally he would be all over it, with the paps all congratulating him on his goals, but he can’t muster up so much as a smile. He shoulders past them like they’re not even there. Normally he would be worried about unflattering articles about him being posted the next day, but there’s not going to be a next day, is there?

He doesn’t wait, this time, for the hallway to clear out before asking security to keep his dad out. Jamie doesn’t care if his teammates hear, doesn’t even care if some nosy journalist takes note. He’s done, he doesn’t care anymore. He wants today to be over. He wants a different day, a better one.

Ted still asks him to stay behind. Jamie knows the sensible thing would be to say no, tell him he’s too knackered, ask if it can wait until tomorrow. He knows that he’s in the wrong headspace for this conversation, still pissed over something that this Ted hasn’t actually said yet.

He doesn’t say no. Maybe he wants it to go badly. Maybe he wants a fight.

“Couldn’t help but overhear you talking to security earlier. Figured I should check in, make sure everything’s okay,” Ted says, same as yesterday.

‘Yeah, well,” says Jamie, “not really any of your business, is it?”

Ted gives him a look of surprise, as if Jamie’s never said something rude to him before, as if hadn’t expected it. “Well, now,” he says, “I’m not trying to get in your business. I just wanted to know if I could help with anything, that’s all. Fathers can be… complicated.”

“It’s not complicated,” Jamie snipes, “and I don’t think I need advice about my dad from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” questions Ted, frowning now.

“Well, what do you know about parenthood? You left your kid halfway across the world. Hardly father of the year, are you?”

Ted looks stricken. “I-”

“Maybe you should spend more time thinking about your own parenting, before you start worrying about me, yeah?”

“That’s uncalled for,” Ted snaps, and Jamie feels something like relief at finally breaking through his happy-go-lucky mask. “I know things with your dad might be hard, but that’s no reason to go around being cruel.”

Jamie shrugs, lets the blow glance off him. “Don’t know why you’d expect anything else from me. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, yeah?”

It’s the wrong thing to say; Ted softens. “I don’t think that’s true. I know you’re not a cruel person, Jamie.”

“You don’t know shit,” mutters Jamie. For some reason, where everything else that day had barely touched him, that one sentence feels like it stabs right through him.

“Hey, maybe not. Maybe I don’t know you as well as I think I do,” says Ted easily, like it doesn’t cost him to say it, “but I know this isn’t you right now. I can see that you’re hurting. So you know what? I forgive you.”

Jamie shakes his head. “What?”

“I forgive you, for what you said. I know you didn’t mean it.”

“You can’t do that,” Jamie retorts. “I did mean it.”

“Well, I forgive you anyway.”

“Fuck off,” he shouts. “What’s wrong with you? Why’d you just take it? Why won’t you fight back?”

Ted smiles. Smiles. “I’ve always been more of a lover than a fighter.”

Jamie makes a noise of derision; his hands are tingling and numb. “This is why Nate walks all over you, y’know,” he sneers. “Why don’t you stand up for yourself? Why do you let people treat you like shit?”

“I don’t know,” Ted says heavily. Looks at him, eyes full of pity. Jamie imagines punching that look off his face. “I don’t know.”

Jamie wants to throw something, wants to kick something, wants to scream. He doesn’t; just stands there, vibrating with rage.

“I’ll give you a minute, alright?” says Ted. “Come join us when you’re ready.”

He waits, alone, for the shaking to stop - for the violent feeling to pass - before he follows him onto the coach.

By the time he gets home, he’s drained, exhausted, and deeply ashamed. He wonders whether Ted is okay. Whether he’s really forgiven him; whether forgiveness is even possible.

He types out apologies, a hundred different ways of saying sorry. He can’t bring himself to hit send. To pretend he’s deserving of forgiveness.

For once, he’s glad that this will all be erased tomorrow. He just wishes he could forget, too.

Jamie decides to take Ted’s advice.

He can’t apologise, not for something that Ted won’t remember, so he figures that this is the next best thing. Besides, Ted is usually right about things, even if Jamie doesn’t always see it at first.

If he can’t make it right, he can at least try to be the version of himself that Ted sees. The one that isn’t cruel. The one that’s worth forgiving.

So this time he works with his team, gives them all the advice he can come up with, knowing which strategies Man City are going to use. He plays hard, but not in the selfish, aggressive way that would make his dad proud. Jamie makes the extra pass, supports his teammates, the way Ted had taught him to.

He knows, in all likelihood, his dad is mocking him from the stands, but he tries to believe there’s a chance, a small possibility, that he’s not. That maybe his dad could still surprise him.

By the end of the match, the score stands at 2-0. It’s a loss, and most of the team look pretty disappointed, but Jamie knows how much worse it could have gone - has gone, previously - so he considers them pretty lucky.

He feels pretty good about his decision right up until the walk into the locker room.

Jamie has a pretty good sense of the timings, of how long he has left until his dad inevitably makes his appearance. With every passing minute, any chance to change his mind is ticking down. He could still talk to security, ask them not to let his dad in, tell Ted to shove his opinions.

But he’s tried that before; there’s no surprises to be found there.

So he sits and waits, practically vibrating with anxiety, knee bobbing up and down furiously. He must look pretty distressed, because Dani hops across the room - Jamie really needs to figure out a way to prevent that bad slide tackle from Hendrick in the second half, or at the very least figure out how to actually score the resulting free kick - and sits down next to him.

“Are you okay, Jamie?”

“Yeah, muchacho,” he says, though his voice is all thin and wobbly the way he gets when he’s panicking. “I’m alright.”

Dani puts a hand on his shoulder. “I know it did not go how we were hoping,” he says, “but it will be okay.”

Jamie takes a deep breath. “I know,” he lies. “It’ll be okay.”

“I’m glad you were playing on our side, this time,” he says kindly, more concerned about Jamie’s discomfort than his own injury. Jamie reaches over and adjusts the ice pack, balancing it more firmly on Dani’s knee.

“Me too,” he says, and this time it’s the truth. “You’re a good friend, Dani.”

He smiles, eyes crinkling. “You are easy to be friends with.”

Jamie laughs, just a little.

In the distance, a loud voice, coming closer. He’s out of time.

He stands. “Just gotta sort something out. See you on the coach?”

“You got it,” Dani says.

The thing about his dad, Jamie thinks regretfully, is that he doesn’t like being told what to do.

He does, eventually, allow Jamie to herd him into an empty side room, one where they can talk in private. It’s the look in his eyes as he shuts the door that tells Jamie this was a mistake.

“What is it, son?” he asks, deceptively jovial. “Didn’t want your pals to see your old dad? You ashamed of me or something?”

“No,” Jamie says quickly. He wants to sound confident, strong, but his voice gives him away as always. He can barely bring himself to speak above a whisper. “I just wanted to talk to you.” Even as he says it, he can feel himself slipping into a sense of panic, that familiar desperation to keep his dad happy. He’s fallen into a careful, upright stance, eyes dead ahead.

His dad snorts. “You sound like you’re about to break up with your boyfriend. Alright, then, what’s all this about?”

“Um,” Jamie starts, trying to remember the words he’s been rehearsing in his head all day, “so I’ve been having a bit of a- a weird few days, and it’s made me think a bit more about, like, family an’ that. So, uh, someone said to me about… saying the things you want to say, like, before it’s too late-”

“Christ,” his dad blurts, laughing, stepping into Jamie’s space. “That Lasso’s gone and turned you into a girl. No wonder you played so shit, all delicate like, missed that free kick. Forgot how to play like a man, didn’t you?”

Jamie turns to the phrases he’s practised with Dr Fieldstone, as if they worked so well last time. “Don’t talk to me like that.”

“What’s that?” his dad asks loudly, face inches from his own, and it’s all happening again - not just the day, but this conversation, looping over and going nowhere. No surprises here.

“Don’t speak to me like that,” he repeats. He wants to say something different, something new, find a better path, but he can’t think, choking on fear.

“Or what, huh?” A hand whips out, grabbing him by the collar, pushing him back until he almost over balances, his shirt cutting into his throat, making it harder to breathe. “Just you and me, boy. Didn’t want none of your friends knowing where you come from, and now it’s just us. What you gonna do, huh?”

Nothing. He’s going to do nothing, and his dad knows it. He smiles, all smug.

“That’s right,” he says. He lets go with one hand to smack Jamie’s cheek, lightly, like it’s a joke. “‘Cause deep down, you’re a fucking pussy, aren’t you? Always have been.”

Jamie feels like he can’t breathe, can’t move, but he manages to find a little spark of courage somewhere, just enough to mutter once again, “Don’t talk to me like that.”

His dad’s expression turns ugly. He knows as soon as he’s said it that he’s pushed too far. He only has enough time to close his eyes before the smack of his dad’s hand rattles against his teeth. Jamie stumbles back, balance lost.

It was his right hand. No rings on that hand. It’s okay, he tells himself. No rings. Could have been worse. He’s had worse.

“You pathetic little bitch, mouthing off at your own flesh and blood,” his dad sneers at him. “Fuckin’ waste of space. Don’t know why I fucking bother. You’re a fucking embarrassment.” He must decide that’s enough for today - or maybe he’s just got better things to do than smacking his kid around - because he wrenches the door open and leaves, just like that.

Jamie just stands there, taste of blood in his mouth, lip hot and throbbing in a way that promises swelling. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. All he can do is stand there and swallow that copper taste down.

The tears come, eventually. This time, there’s nobody to hold him through it.

With trembling hands, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, and types out a text to Ted, telling him the coach should leave without him. He throws in some excuse about seeing a girl, just to sell it.

He waits a long time, there in that unused room, to be sure that the team has left already. He doesn’t know what he would say if they saw him like this again, even if they didn’t remember the first time. He couldn’t live through that embarrassment twice.

Later, as he gets into an uber, his phone chimes. Jamie's stomach sinks violently. It isn't unusual for his dad to text him after an incident, sending him nasty messages and threats of further violence. Sometimes he even makes those threats a reality.

He pulls his phone out, ready to assess how serious his dad is this time, only to find a message from Sam.

He shouldn’t be so shocked; it’s not the first time Sam has texted him on this day. Still, those other times had only been on the bad loops, the ones where his dad had made it into the locker room. It makes sense to Jamie that someone as deeply kind as Sam would feel obliged to check in after seeing that. From what Jamie has gathered about Sam’s upbringing, he can guess that he’s not used to seeing that kind of thing. Today, though, Sam shouldn’t have seen anything out of the ordinary.

As he opens up the text, he wonders whether Sam might have been out in the hallway, close enough to overhear what his dad had said. Maybe he had seen his dad leaving the room, seen the anger that was rolling off of him, and guessed what it meant. Humiliation churns through him at the thought.

Reading the text, though, reveals nothing of the sort.

Sam: Ted says you are not coming back on the coach with us? I hope everything is okay.

Jamie doesn’t feel like he should respond - doesn’t feel he’s done enough to earn this kindness, after how he used to treat the guy.

He types out a reply anyway. No one has ever accused him of being selfless. Besides, it feels good. To know that someone cares, even a little bit.

Jamie: All good. See u tomorrow?

Of course, he won’t be seeing him tomorrow, but see you in the next today doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

Jamie wakes up. Probes at his lip, feels the absence of swelling or pain.

It’s match day.

He screams into his pillow until he goes lightheaded.

It’s finally dawning on him, that thing he’s been trying not to think about it.

What if this goes on forever?

What if it never ends? Just loop after loop, day after day, unable to really change anything because nothing sticks, and if nothing sticks, nothing matters.

It’s like that guy with the boulder, the one whose name sounds like an STD or something. Rolling that rock up the hill, forever. Endless fucking suffering.

Jamie doesn’t know what to do with that, so he goes and gets ready for the match instead. It’s better than thinking about this day, forever. It’s better than thinking about how long it’ll take for him to go mad.

He can’t keep doing this.

He has to keep doing this.

He has a coach to catch.

Whilst the rest of the lads take a look around the stadium, Jamie discretely corners Ted.

Jamie’s seen Dr Fieldstone a few times now, and she has been pretty helpful, if slightly terrifying. It's like she’s psychic; she always managed to cut through all of Jamie’s bullshit and find what he’s really worried about. Considering how reality has flopped on its side recently, he’s starting to think he should reconsider the psychic thing. Jamie is beginning to realise he knows fuck all about the universe and how it works.

The thing is, because she’s always been right there in her office, he’s not got her phone number in his phone. He thinks she gave him a card when he first saw her, all professional like, but that card is probably still in a random jacket pocket somewhere.

So now here he is, trying to figure out the least concerning way to ask Ted for her number. He seriously considers, for a moment, feigning a crush and telling him he wants to ask her out - but then he doesn’t want to get her in trouble, and knowing his luck, this would be the day that stuck.

In the end, he tries to keep it as truthful as possible: “Hey Coach, could I get Dr Fieldstone’s number? I’m feeling a bit stressed.”

Ted’s eyebrows furrow. “Sure, bud. Is everything okay?”

“Ah, just… y’know” - an existential crisis triggered by some kind of Groundhog Day fuckery - “always weird playing against my old team.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” says Ted, shuffling through his pockets for a mobile. “I don’t know if she'll pick up, though. She was in an accident yesterday.”

“Shit, what?”

“She’s alright! She’s just a little banged up, minor concussion,” Ted reassures him. “Just not sure if she’s gonna be up for work, that’s all.”

“Right, okay, maybe start with that,” says Jamie. At least it was yesterday, or else he would feel obliged to go save her every loop.

“Will do,” Ted says, giving him a little salute. “Anyway, here’s her cell, give her a call. You sure you’re okay?”

“All good, Coach,” he lies.

Jamie ducks into the gents, which is thankfully empty, and dials her number. Pressing the phone against his ear, he stares blankly at his pale face in the mirror. No wonder Ted had looked so concerned; he looks like utter shit. Even his hair is flat and depressing looking.

The phone rings. Rings.

Absently, his tongue probes the inside of his lip, as if trying to find any hint of the pain from yesterday.

Voicemail.

He hangs up, guessing that any message he leaves her would sound fairly alarming. Lips pursed, he scrolls through his contacts for a moment, finding Keeley’s name there, recently replaced after he deleted it last time.

She answers with a slightly confused sounding, “Hello?”

“Keeley, hey,” he says, “it’s me, Jamie.”

“I know,” Keeley says, slightly amused now. “I didn’t delete your number.”

There’s a sound through the line, the low rumble of an engine. “Sorry,” he says. “Are you driving?”

“Just getting in the car now,” she confirms. “Can’t miss the big match, can I? Don’t worry, I’ve got you on speaker.”

“Oh, right,” Jamie says. It makes sense that she would attend the match - she was usually up in the club seats with Rebecca and Higgins - but he hadn’t been thinking of her watching his varying shit to mediocre performances.

“Is everything alright? Pre-match nerves?”

“Um. Y’know, I just…” he trails off, tilting back against the wall. “How’d you know if you’re going crazy?”

“Well, when I pour out a bottle of sprinkles and start sorting them by colour, that’s usually a red flag.”

Jamie laughs. His voice cracks, sounds wet and thick. He’s not sure how long tears have been streaking down his face.

“Oh, babe,” she says, with a softness that he doesn’t deserve, that doesn’t belong to him. He feels guilty, suddenly, for calling her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Keeley cajoles him, “Come on, I know you better than that. You can talk to me.”

“I- Look, I appreciate it, but I should go. Gotta start warming up.”

“Aw, dont,” she says. “I’ll be worrying about you all day.”

He feels warm, hearing that, and then worse, for enjoying her worry. “Don’t. I’m alright. Just wish me luck, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course. Call me if you need me, right? If you need anything, or if you just want to talk-”

“Okay, cheers. Bye, Keeley.”

He hangs up before she responds; he can’t bear to hear her say goodbye.

Jamie slides down the wall, feeling sick and dizzy, as he comes to a grim realisation: there isn’t a soul in this world that Jamie trusts enough to tell them about the time loop.

Jamie plays the match. He tries, not wanting to give Keeley any more reason to worry, at least until the loop repeats and she forgets this ever happened.

Even trying, he’s still off his game. They finish up 3-0, barely any better than the first time he played.

After the match, he’s quick to talk to security, keeping his dad out of the room. He thinks that if he has to deal with him today, he’s going to lose whatever tenuous grip he has left on his sanity. Ted still tries to talk to him afterwards. Jamie is quick to brush him off, firmly telling him that he doesn’t want to talk about it, and Ted accepts surprisingly fast. Turns out, the whole setting boundaries thing Dr Fieldstone was talking about was pretty good advice - at least, when it comes to people who respect boundaries.

Exiting the stadium, Jamie’s just relieved to have escaped talking about his feelings any further. He feels fragile. Like he’s lost a layer of skin. Cut loose from himself.

Of course, that’s when he notices Keeley, lingering by the coach. Waiting.

Her eyes lock on him, and she smiles, but it’s close mouthed, nervous. His legs lock up. He takes a slow breath, and tells himself to stop being such a coward.

“Told you not to worry,” he says as he approaches, pasting his most cocky smile on his face.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Keeley retorts, smile breaking into something more genuine.

Jamie shrugs. “Yeah, silly of me,” he says. A couple of the lads pass by towards the coach, and they fall silent for a moment, waiting until they’re out of earshot. “Enjoy the game?”

“You were good,” she says, which isn’t what he asked, but whatever. “Still feeling crazy?”

“I dunno. Ask me tomorrow?” he replies, smirking a little at his own private joke.

Her smile fades, turns serious. “I’m asking you now. I know you, Jamie Tartt. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

“Well, I’m living the same day over and over,” Jamie says, “and I’m… I dunno, Keels. I’m tired.”

“Is that a metaphor?” Keeley questions, forehead creasing.

It’s only a reasonable assumption, but it’s still… isolating. The instant disbelief. He can’t hold it against her, not when he would have assumed the same thing, but the reminder still hurts.

“Yeah,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, it’s metaphorical, innit.”

The lie doesn’t seem to soothe her. She looks at him, face all pinched with a puzzled sort of worry. “Are you-”

“Oi!”

Jamie twitches, imagining his dad lurking somewhere, ready to make a scene, but it’s just Roy, striding over. His expression is hard to read, and he wonders whether he’s angry at Jamie, maybe for talking to Keeley when she’s his girlfriend or whatever - which would have been bullshit, because Keeley can talk to whomever she wants - or angry at him for the loss or something.

When he reaches them, he just pulls Keeley into a hug, so maybe not. She greets him with a soft, “Hey, babe,” and he thinks that it sounds right, when she says it for Roy.

Turning around to Jamie, Roy says, “Good job today.”

Jamie scrunches his nose. “We lost, though?”

Roy rolls his eyes, irritated, and it's comforting, like they’re back on familiar ground. “I’m trying to give you a compliment, you prick.”

“Don’t, like, patronise me, or whatever. I played shit. Missed that free kick.”

“No, you didn’t,” responds Roy, vaguely perplexed. “You were right where you needed to be though, like, ninety percent of the match. Pretty sure Ted thinks you're psychic or something."

"Oh." Jamie hasn't really considered how it might look from an outside perspective. He's played the same match enough times now to get a pretty good grip on Man City's tactics. The hard part is communicating that to the rest of the lads, getting them to trust Jamie's plays. "I'm not psychic."

Roy grunts, the kind that indicates frustration, so Jamie figures that the psychic thing hadn't been a serious consideration, probably went without saying.

"Do you want to come with us, Jamie?" Keeley asks. "We'll probably just have dinner in front of the TV, catch up on Taskmaster."

Jamie turns her down, before Roy has the chance to voice his displeasure. "Nah, I'm good, ta. Got a hot date."

"Whatever," says Roy, marching off towards Keeley's car without so much as a goodbye.

Keeley watches him go fondly. "He means well," she says.

"Right," Jamie agrees uneasily.

She turns her gaze on him, eyes sharp. He feels horrendously transparent. "You can call me, if you wanna talk, yeah? Any time."

Jamie smiles. Wishes he could hug her, without it being weird. "Yeah. Appreciate it."

With one last smile, she follows after Roy.

Jamie climbs onto the coach, the space already loud with lads all discussing how they plan to drown their sorrow. He keeps his head down, finds a space for himself, puts his headphones on. He knows that some of the guys would let him tag along if he asks, but he’s got his own plans tonight.

It’s simple. He just won’t go to sleep.

“What can I get you?”

“Uh. Just a coke, actually. Diet.” Jamie doesn't want anything alcoholic, nothing that might make him sleepy.

Mae nods at him. Most pub owners are kind of weird and overbearing when Jamie steps in, but Mae is cool. If he didn't know she is a die hard Richmond fan, he'd assume she didn't recognise him. She passes over the drink.

“Hey, Mae,” Jamie says, “if some bloke ever comes in saying he’s me dad, can you ban him?”

She tilts her head consideringly. “What team does he support?”

“Man City.”

“Then he’s already banned, love. No need for special treatment.” Her smile isn't judgemental in the slightest, and if he were a few years younger, he’d probably be wishing she would adopt him. Maybe she’s what nans are meant to be like. He’s only met one grandparent, his mum’s father, and he was a right bastard up until he died, so he’s never really had the proper grandparent experience.

“Cheers to that,” says Jamie, lifting his drink in her direction.

“Don’t get along, then?” The question is mild, almost distracted; her eyes are on the bar as she wipes it down.

Jamie considers whether he can be bothered lying about it, and decides he can’t. “He’s a bit of a dickhead, to be honest.”

“Mm.” She flicks the rag over her shoulder, a well practised motion.

“What are your parents like?” Jamie asks. He doesn’t really want to be alone with his thoughts.

“Decent people. Just not very chatty. Y’know, on account of being dead for a couple decades.”

He shifts in his seat. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she says, smirking a bit. “Not like you killed them.”

“Um. No, I would have been about four years old, so...”

“Jesus. I forget how young you all are,” Mae says, shaking her head.

“I guess.” He smooths his thumb over his glass, absently wiping away condensation. “Could you tell that lot to stop taking photos?”

Mae turns her eyes on the group of lads in the corner, taking some not very subtle pictures. He thinks he’s seen them before. Regulars, probably.

“Oi, you lot! Fuck off.”

“Yes, Mae.”

“Sorry, Mae!”

“You got it, Mae.”

Jamie snorts a little. Mae is tiny, but she has fully grown lads terrified of her. “You’d think they’d have got enough photos of me by now.”

“I don’t think you realise how much they love you.”

“They don’t even know me,” says Jamie, nose scrunched up.

“Do they have to?” she asks. Old people are so wise, Jamie realises.

He shrugs. “I dunno.”

Mae hums, thoughtful, before ringing the bell for last orders. “Where are you going to end up tonight, then? Thought you’d be out with the team, drowning your sorrows.”

“Not feeling sociable, I guess,” Jamie says. “Probably just go home.” It wasn’t exactly a lie; he would, eventually. As much as he doesn’t want to be around the team, he doesn’t exactly want to be alone either.

“Well, don’t be too hard on yourself,” she says. “You played well today. Just win next time, eh?”

“Anything for you, Mae,” he teases with something close to his usual humour. She laughs, swats at him.

His phone buzzes.

Sam: Hope you are okay. You seemed upset today.

Huh. Jamie had gotten used to these texts on days when his dad was around, or if Jamie didn’t make it to the coach. He must have been acting weirder than he realised. That, or Sam is more observant than he’s given credit for. He wonders, for the first time, whether Sam is okay himself, after such a shit match. Jamie feels bad; on all these loops, all these kind texts, he’s never checked in with his teammate.

Jamie: I’m alright. U?

Three dots - he’s typing. They disappear, and Jamie thinks he might be left on read, but they come back a moment later, followed by a message.

Sam: I am okay, just disappointed in myself.

Jamie: Don’t be, it was a hard match.

Jamie: What u up to?

“We’re closing, love,” Mae informs him. He blinks, tucking his phone back in his pocket.

“Aight, cheers Mae.”

“Night, take care.”

Jamie steps out into the cool night air, wanders over to a nearby bench.

Sam: Something stupid, I suppose. Yourself?

Jamie frowns down at his phone. Even when he hadn’t liked Sam, with his modest nature and ridiculous sincerity, he’d never thought the bloke was stupid.

Jamie: Wdym?

Instead of a text, his phone starts ringing. It might be the first time Sam has ever called him. Jamie answers with a cautious, “Alright?”

“Hello, Jamie.”

“What’s this about doing something stupid, then?”

The sound of Sam’s sigh comes through the phone. “I am walking over to see someone I am not supposed to see.”

“Well, why aren’t you supposed to see them?”

“I don’t know if I can tell you without revealing who it is.”

Jamie chews his lip for a moment. “Is it a secret, then?”

“Yes. Well, in a way.”

“Hm.” Jamie’s not sure what to say, but he thinks that if Sam called him, maybe he’s looking for someone to talk him out of it. “Wanna come have a kick around at the park instead?”

“It’s almost midnight,” Sam says, loud with surprise.

“So?”

“... Okay. I'll go grab a ball.”

Jamie gets there first, ends up waiting for Sam a while, long enough to doubt he'll show. He has to keep reminding himself that Sam doesn't remember the other loops, seeing his dad and all that. Whilst Jamie feels like Sam knows him better, understands what he's come from, today’s Sam hasn't experienced any of that, just knows him as the twat who was rude to him last season, and has been marginally less of a twat this season.

When Sam arrives, he does so with a wary expression, like he's not sure what he's doing. Jamie nods at him, tries to look approachable. "Alright, mate?"

Sam waves with the hand not holding the ball. "Hello, Jamie."

"Come on, then," says Jamie, gesturing towards the ball. Sam tosses it over, and Jamie stops it with his knee, letting it bounce down to his feet. Without stopping to check in with Sam, he starts dribbling the ball towards one of the nets. The park isn't as big as an actual pitch, but it's a decent size, so Jamie has a fair distance to go. He heard a laugh behind him, and then Sam is running behind him, darting in to swipe the ball.

From there they're off. Talking has always been hard between them, too much history between them, making things awkward, but this comes easier, feels natural. Dani might be onto something with his whole football is life thing.

With no one around to observe, there's no pressure to win, to dominate. Jamie breaks out some of his fancier footwork, more technical stuff that he doesn't always have a chance to try out.

Sam, on the other hand, pulls out some dirty tricks. Jamie stops dead when Sam first pulls him back by his shirt - Sam is probably the cleanest player on the team - and Sam takes full advantage of his surprise, racing forward to sink a goal. He turns around with the cheekiest grin on his face, and Jamie can't help but laugh.

Soon enough, they're both exhausted from their kick about, particularly considering they'd played an actual match today. The coaches and physio team would probably tell them off for it, but Jamie can't bring himself to feel guilty, particularly when he remembers it will all be erased tomorrow.

At the thought, he checks his phone. It’s definitely past midnight now, so the loop doesn’t restart at the end of the day. Maybe it’s as soon as he falls asleep?

So he just needs to stay awake.

How long can someone stay awake for again?

The unpleasant thought must show on his face, because Sam catches the ball in his hands and sits down next to him, patting the grass in invitation. "Tough day, hm?"

Jamie drops down. "Yeah. A bit."

Sam gives him a curious look, opens his mouth to ask something, but he's interrupted by the chirp of his phone. He checks it, and his face goes complicated.

"Who's that, then? Your secret mystery person?"

With a quick glance, he admits, "Yes. She's asking to meet me."

"Is this your Bantr match?" Jamie guesses. Sam's expression is the same as when he was messaging her; half excitement, half nervousness.

Sam lets out a long breath. "Yes, actually.'

"So why can't you see her exactly?"

"It's… it might be considered inappropriate," Sam says carefully.

Jamie thinks for a moment. Then, "Is it Rebecca?"

Sam's eyes blow wide. He turns, checking around as if someone might be lurking around them, despite the park being empty. "How did you know?" he demands, all panicked. Jamie feels a bit bad for guessing.

"Well, inappropriate usually means it's your boss, right? Plus, she is fit for an older woman."

"She's not that old," defends Sam.

"Mate," Jamie says, "she's got to be twice your age."

"Well. Yes."

"And she's your boss."

"She is."

"Yeah, that's fucked. Sorry mate."

Sam groans, flops back into the grass. "But I really like her. She's so smart, and funny, and beautiful… and when we kissed-”

“You’ve kissed?” Jamie echoes, eyebrows raised.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Sam says suddenly.

Jamie holds his hands up. “I won’t. I swear.”

Sam nods after a moment, seemingly taking Jamie at his word, which seems a bizarre choice; Jamie hasn’t given him many reasons to trust him, has he? “Thank you, Jamie. Honestly, it is good to talk to someone about it. Keeping it a secret has been hard.”

The words make Jamie’s stomach twist. He knows the feeling, and it’s one that Sam shouldn’t have to deal with. “You deserve someone who you don’t have to hide with,” he tells him seriously. “With Rebecca, there’s a, like, power imbalance. That shit isn’t healthy, and it’s gonna put you in an awkward position if you then break up.”

“Y’know, you’re a lot smarter than I thought,” notes Sam.

“Nah, Keeley’s smart. I just liked listening to her talk about feminism and all that smart shit.”

“Give yourself credit, Jamie,” Sam insists. “And thank you. I think I needed to hear that.”

“Yeah, any time,” he says, shyly pleased with himself.

Sam gets to his feet, brushing grass off his joggers. He holds out a hand to Jamie. For a moment, he eyes it, not sure whether Sam is planning to mess with him, lift him and then drop him back to the dirt. He has to remind himself that Sam is a fundamentally good person, and that he probably doesn’t hate him anymore. Jamie takes the hand, allowing himself to be helped up.

“If you ever want to talk about whatever you’re struggling with,” Sam says, “I hope you know you can talk to me.”

“Ah,” says Jamie, shrugging, “I’m doing alright.”

“At least talk to someone,” coaxes Sam. “We’re a team, yes?”

Jamie tilts his head, lips pursed. “Yeah, okay. I will.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, whatever, promise,” Jamie says, rolling his eyes. Still, it makes Sam smile, so it’s worth it, even if he’ll feel bad later for lying.

Collecting the ball, Sam says, “See you tomorrow, Jamie. Get some rest.”

“You too,” says Jamie, watching him walk away.

With nowhere else to go, Jamie turns towards home.

As he makes himself a coffee, Jamie realises the kick around was a stupid decision. He’s exhausted, and it’s only one in the morning. If he’s gonna stay awake long enough to see what the morning is like, he’s going to need some help.

He chugs the mug of coffee, and starts making the next one.

He just needs to stay awake. How hard can it be to stay awake?

A couple hours later, and the coffee may have been another bad decision, Jamie muses as he observes his shaking hands. Is he having a caffeine overdose? Is that a thing? His heartbeat is rapid, and his head hurts, and he feels like he’s breathing too fast. Is he breathing too fast?

What if he’s dying? Like, a heart attack or something. Will he still loop if he dies? Or is that it? The end?

Jamie paces his house, agitation creeping up his spine.

He has a horrible thought then, that maybe he’s been dying this whole time. Like, maybe this is all one long, strange coma dream, and his heart is stopping in real life. Maybe his dad broke into his house on that first day, after Jamie laid him out in the locker room, and beat the shit out of him, broke his brain or something. Maybe none of this is real - just the last sparks of panic, before the end.

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, and he needs-

He needs help. He needs help.

Pulling out his phone, he tries Sam. Listens to it ring out, wishing desperately for him to pick up. Voicemail.

He scrolls down to Ted. Listens to it ring. Voicemail.

Scrolls back up. Tries Keeley. Voicemail.

Fuck. It’s almost four am, everyone is asleep, and he’s alone. He’s alone, and he can’t be alone right now, he just can’t.

His legs are shaking too hard; he drops to the floor, puts his head in his hands. His throat is closing over, his chest is tight. He can’t breathe. He can’t-

His phone rings.

With clumsy hands, he scoops it off the carpet, and answers.

Keeleys voice comes through, words fast and worried. “Jamie? Is everything alright? Why’d you call me?”

“I-” He chokes.

“Jamie? Babe, are you hurt? Should I- Should I call an ambulance?” There’s a low murmur in the background. Roy, it must be. He shouldn’t have called, waking them both up, all over nothing.

“No, no,” he says. “I’m- I’m okay, I’m okay-”

“You don’t sound okay,” Keeley frets. “You need to breathe, yeah? Deep breath.”

Jamie tries to obey, sucking in a shuddering breath, nodding as if Keeley could see him. He’s rocking in place, knees tucked up under his chin.

“That’s really good, keep doing that, yeah?”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Sorry.”

“Don’t have anything to apologise for,” Keeley says. “I’m glad you called, you know. I was worried about you.”

“Didn’t mean to-” He stops, trying to catch his breath. “Didn’t mean to worry you.”

She says, “I’d rather be worried than not know what’s going with you. Whatever you’re going through, you don’t have to go through it alone.”

Jamie’s eyes sting. He’s so sick of crying.

“Jamie? You still there?”

“Yeah,” he says wetly.

There’s an indistinct rustle. “I’m coming over.”

“Don’t-”

“Don’t tell me what to do, remember?” she says, just to hear him laugh, strained as it is. “Look, if you tell me not to come, I won’t, but don’t say no just because you don’t want to inconvenience me. I want to be there.”

He rubs his palm over his mouth, trying to quell the nausea bubbling up. He sucks in a breath through his nose. “Okay,” he says eventually.

“Good. Listen, make yourself a cup of tea and get comfy on the sofa, and I’ll be there before you finish the tea. Yeah?”

“Okay. Thank you, Keeley. I’m sorry for waking you up. Can you tell Roy I’m sorry, as well?”

Roy’s voice floats through, vague and distant but unmistakably his. “Apology not necessary and not accepted.”

“Put the kettle on, Jamie,” says Keeley. “Hold tight.” With that, she hangs up.

Jamie tries his best to do as she says, shuffling to the kitchen and brewing a cup of tea - lemon and ginger, since more caffeine probably isn’t the best idea. He takes it back over to the living room, walking slowly as not to spill it with his trembling hands.

He pops it on the coffee table and flops down onto the sofa, tucking his feet up. Panic receding, Jamie feels like his limbs are made of lead, still shivering every so often. His eyes are itchy and tired.

He just has to wait. Keeley will be here soon, and she always knows what to do, how to make things better. Not long now.

His eyes drift shut.

He just has to stay awake.

He just has to...

Jamie falls asleep before Keeley gets there.

The loop resets.

Jamie wakes up. Stares at the wall across from him.

He wasn’t supposed to sleep.

He’s still so tired.

The coach will leave without him if he doesn’t get up soon, and then the team will have to play the match without him. Jamie wonders if they’ll be worried, or just pissed at him instead.

He could call Keeley again. He should do that.

He should do something. Anything.

Time skips by him.

His phone buzzes.

Drowsily, he unlocks it, staring blankly at the influx of texts.

Ted: Are you nearly here?

Ted: Don’t text back if you’re driving. See you soon.

Dani: Jamie!! Are you running late???

Isaac: mate where are you

Sam: Are you on your way? The coach is meant to have left already.

Roy: If you make us wait any ducking longer I'm going to punch your teeth out.

Roy: FUCKING. NOT DUCKING

His phone starts ringing, and it’s finally enough to provoke him into action; he turns his phone off. He stares at the dark screen some more.

Some time later, someone knocks at his door. He stays in bed, waiting in silence as a fist hammers at the door. They leave, eventually, and silence is all that remains.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that. Time is an alien concept to him, something that occurs around him but not to him. He has forever, and no reason to move.

At some point, though, a thought occurs to him. He knows where he needs to be. He knows what he needs to do.

Jamie knocks at his mum's door, a sick anticipation twisting his stomach. He catches sight of himself in the glass, hair unwashed, eyes a bit manic. He looks like shit.

He hadn’t ever told his mum about it, about what his dad had done, what he was doing to Jamie. The violence. At the time, he had a plethora of reasons. In his mind, it might have been worth it, because his dad made his mum happy. Made her smile, the way she didn’t often. With him around, she didn’t have to work so hard, with his dad making money, the way Jamie couldn’t. Besides, he was scared, wasn’t he? Scared what his dad would do if he told, embarrassed that he didn’t fight back, worried that his mum wouldn’t believe him.

Scared that his dad might leave.

Now, at 24 years old, he has shed most of those concerns. His dad had left his mum years ago, and Jamie made sure she would never have to work again if she didn’t want to. It’s simpler, now, why he still keeps it a secret. You see, he had realised at some point that he hadn’t kept the secret that well - that anyone who looked close enough should have seen the signs - and now he wonders whether she had known all along.

He doesn’t tell her, because if she already knows, then he doesn’t know how he would forgive her. If she had seen it, the damage, if she had seen and done nothing, that would hurt Jamie more than his father’s fist ever had. So he doesn’t talk about it. They talk about everything else - the smaller hurts, the ones that feel safe to talk about - and he lets her soothe him, accepts her fierce kindness, her strong hugs and fond words. That way, they can keep up some sort of relationship, even if there’s an abstract, shapeless distance between them; even if he can’t let her within arms reach of the bigger hurts.

After living through this day over and over, the logic of it doesn’t make sense to him anymore. All the lying, the secrets and avoidance, for what? To see her twice a year or so, for one wonderful, difficult day? So that he can tell himself that he still has one parent who doesn’t hurt him?

He takes a deep breath.

The door opens.

"Hello, mum."

She looks older. That's the first thing he thinks. He hasn't seen her since he was playing for Manchester, which doesn't seem that long ago. Maybe it's because she hasn't got any makeup on, still in her dressing gown, slippers on her feet. Her hair hangs loose and shapeless. Her face is creased in a mask of surprise, but she quickly smooths it out into a broad smile. Jamie still isn't sure if she's happy to see him.

"Jamie! I wasn't expecting- don't you have a match today?"

He shrugs. "Can I come in?"

She shakes herself. "Of course. Come on, then." She pulls him in for a quick, tight hug, and then leads him through to the kitchen.

He follows her inside. The house hasn't changed much since he bought it for her. She's probably just too used to renting, to not having control of the space. It’s small, modest; Jamie had wanted to buy her something nicer, bigger, but she had insisted that she didn’t want to move away from his childhood home, and all the good and terrible memories it held. It was plenty enough room for her and Simon, she had said, and enough spare for Jamie if he ever wanted to stay over. He never did. His childhood bedroom felt claustrophobic to him now, like he’s outgrown it.

"I'll put kettle on, shall I?"

"Yeah, ta."

He follows her through to the kitchen. The teacups she pulls out are dainty and impractical, with little matching saucers; a far cry from the mismatched chipped mugs he had grown up with, out of place in the tiny kitchen. She looks properly fancy, pouring the water in them, like a rich lady. It's her accent that gives it away, the rough Mancunian that Jamie shares.

She passes over a cup. It looks comically fragile in his hands, the miniature roses on the handle obscured by his wide fingers, like he might shatter it just by holding it too hard. He carefully sets it down on the kitchen table, and watches his mum do the same.

They never spent much time around the kitchen table, back in the day. Too busy, usually. Dinner was in front of the telly most nights, his mum tiredly catching up with Coronation Street, digging into cheap meals, like beans on toast, or whatever was reduced at the local Tescos. He only used to use the table for homework, and even that was a sparse and fleeting event.

“How’ve you been?” Jamie asks tentatively.

“Oh, fine,” she says. “Can’t complain. Yourself?”

“Fine,” he echoes. “Well. I dunno.”

“Something wrong?” she asks, thin brows pulling down, a frown line appearing between them.

"Can I talk to you about something?" He takes a sip of his tea, and quickly places it back on the saucer, hoping she didn't catch how severely his hands are shaking.

"Of course," she says. "You know you can always talk to your old mum."

"I saw dad recently."

His mum's face closes off. "Oh right," she says. She stops looking at him, starts fussing with her cup, angling it just so.

He swallows thickly. "I just… I need to know. Did he hit you?"

She springs up from her seat. "Now, why would you want to talk about that?" Turning away, she starts filling the sink, bringing out the washing up liquid. He had bought her a washing machine, but she still does the washing up by hand. "It's in the past, Jamie. Aren't there nicer things we could talk about? Like, how's the football going? Have you got a girlfriend?"

"Mum, I want to talk about it," he persists, knee bobbing furiously under the table. "Did he hit you too?"

The ‘too’ wasn't supposed to slip out.

Or maybe it was. Maybe it was time.

Her hands still for a moment. Just a moment. Then she's off, rigorously attacking a plate with her sponge. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"Um," he says, "the truth would be a good start."

"Look, you don't know what it was like," his mum says, still cleaning that stupid plate. "Being a single mum, trying to make ends meet, keep up with all your football stuff. The training, the kits, the boots, it wasn't cheap, you know."

"I know."

"Not that- not that you were a burden, or anything, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I tried my best. I really did."

"I know," Jamie says again, voice hollow.

"And it's not like you told me anything! I didn’t know for certain, did I? If you’d have said to me, if you’d have asked me to kick him out, I would have-”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” The declaration comes out firm, taking them both by surprise. He hadn’t known it, not until he said it, but he found it to be true. “I was a kid. You knew what he was like.”

Her hands finally stop, the sponge falling from her grasp, leaving her hands dripping with suds. “I wasn’t all bad, was I?” Her voice trembles, and he suspects that if she would turn around, her eyes would be wet with tears. It makes something deep in his stomach rebel, triggers an instinctive need to fix, to make his mum stop crying. He barely holds himself in check. “We had some good days. Movie nights, and feeding the ducks, and- and Amsterdam, remember?”

It’s true; there were good days. Days where she made him laugh, made him feel loved, adored even. But just like Amsterdam, the shining, happy days were only half of the story. The shadows were always there.

“Yeah, mum,” he agrees sadly. “We had some good days.”

She nods. Doesn’t turn. Jamie takes a deep breath, steels himself, and walks around the table, stepping in behind her, and wrapping his arms around her. She’s small, in his arms, tucked under his chin. She still smells the same. Her shoulders shake. She doesn’t turn, but she doesn’t push him away, either.

“I love you, mum,” he says. “I love you, and I’m really upset, and I think- I think I’m going to need some time after this.” It’s easier, saying it like this, when he can’t see her face. He thinks he understands why she can’t turn around. He really hopes he can forgive her, someday.

She doesn’t say sorry. She just says, “Love you too, baby.”

He steps back, leaving the tea on the kitchen table. Leaving his mother crying.

He starts to drive home. Home isn’t Manchester anymore. He’s not sure it ever was.

As he drives, a phrase comes to mind: at a crossroads.

Jamie had never really understood the saying before. After all, there are hundreds of decisions to make a day, from small ones, like what to have for tea, to big ones, like whether he would tell the truth about how he got his bruises.

Now, though, as he drives away from his mum, he thinks he finally gets it. Jamie himself is at a crossroads.

As he sees it, he has three choices.

He can follow in his dads footsteps. Get angry. Get drunk. Get bitter towards the universe for dealing such a shitty hand. Hurt people, until he feels a bit more powerful, a bit more in control of his life. Not care about the people around him.

He can keep being like his mum. Avoiding his problems; brushing them off as unimportant, leaving the past in the past. Unable to talk about the ugly things, unable to face his own mistakes. Tell himself that he’s not accountable, that it’s the universe making his decisions for him.

Or maybe there’s a third option. Not one he had grown up knowing, but a newer one. It’s scarier, in a way. A risk. But better, maybe.

He could be like Ted. Be the man Ted wants him to be, the one that Keeley sees in him, the one that deserves to be friends with people like Sam and Dani.

He could believe. Believe in his team, and put his trust in them, in the people who try to help him. Believe that things can be better. That he deserves it, deserves happiness, deserves to be treated with kindness.

Jamie doesn’t want to become his father. He doesn’t want to keep making the same mistakes as his mother.

So when it comes down to it, the choice isn’t as complicated as he thought it was.

He chooses to believe.

He wakes up.

It's match day.

Today, he's going to be with the people he cares about.

If this is the only day Jamie gets, he may as well make it a good one, right?

He bounds on to the coach, the team still filtering in, at various levels of wakefulness. Colin is already half asleep against the window, whilst Jan Maas is alert and playing chess on his phone.

Jamie bellows, "Who's ready to beat Man City?"

There's a few cheers, but mostly groans. Roy tells him to shut up. Jamie just grins, unaffected, not allowing it to touch his good mood.

He sits next to Dani, who's eternal cheeriness is only mildly dampened by being cramped into a coach in the early morning. "Hey, muchacho," Jamie says. "How are you feeling?"

"I am feeling good, my friend," he says, smiling. "And I see that you're also feeling good this morning?"

“Yeah,” Jamie agrees. “You know, I’m feeling optimistic.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Dani says, before offering him one of his earbuds. Jamie thanks him, and accepts. The music isn’t something he recognises - the singing is in Spanish, he thinks - but it’s upbeat and catchy all the same.

Even though it’s only a half hour drive to Wembley, he dares to slump down in his seat and rest his head on Dani’s shoulder. When he’s not pushed off, he relaxes into it. A deep sigh is pulled from his chest. Privately, he smiles to himself a little.

Jamie doesn’t wait until halftime. In the locker room, he shouts oi, and stands up on the bench. “A'ight,” he says. “I’ve got a few last minute bits of advice, if you guys want it.”

“Who died and made you king?” Isaac calls out, prompting scattered laughter.

He doesn’t let it deter him. “I’m not king, and I’m not captain neither, but I was playing with Man City last season, weren’t I? Know how they play, what kind of tactics they favour.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not exactly the truth either; Jamie’s knowledge of Man City’s tactics aren’t as easily explained. White lies aside, Jamie can see faces change at that, interest piqued. “Do you lot want to hear it or not?”

Isaac looks at him for a long moment, considering. “Okay, go on then.”

Jamie nods, tries to keep his expression open, not smug. He begins, “Okay, so it’s like this-”

It’s a draw.

A fucking draw. Against Man City.

The whole team practically bounce their way into the locker room, cheering and hollering. A draw against anyone else would have led to a mild discontent feeling at most, but this game? In Wembley Area? They’re fucking elated.

And Jamie, who had truly believed that nothing mattered, that he didn’t care about the game at all? He’s just as thrilled as the rest of them, carrying Dani on his back as he runs through the halls. Which isn’t just for celebration; Dani still managed to injure his knee, even though Jamie had tried to get in between the tackle. Despite his bad knee, Dani is just as ecstatic as the rest, almost deafening Jamie with his rendition of Richmond Til We Die.

There are more cameras and press this time, but after dropping Dani onto the locker room bench with an ice pack on his knee, he manages to get a word in with the security staff, requesting his dad not be let in. Ted still manages to overhear, the nosy bastard, but even that can’t tarnish Jamie’s good mood.

With the rest of the team so loud, he doesn’t even hear his dad get turned away - unless his dad didn’t show? Maybe, now that Man City hasn’t won, he doesn’t have enough to gloat about, nothing to rub in Jamie’s face. It doesn’t particularly sound like him, though; his dad has never needed an excuse to be shitty.

He’s tempted, for a moment, to get changed as fast as possible and run out before Ted has a chance to get a word in, but then he steels himself, and decides to give Ted a chance. An opportunity to surprise him.

After the rest of the lads file out, Ted starts with the familiar line, “Couldn’t help but overhear you talking to security earlier. Figured I should check in, make sure everything’s okay."

Jamie tries to smile, tries to hold onto the joyful confidence he had been feeling earlier. A nervousness is creeping up his spine. It's silly, because this will all be rewritten tomorrow, and it's not like Ted is a mean guy. All that doesn't change how Jamie cares what Ted thinks. It still matters to him, permanent or not. "Thanks for caring, coach," he says.

Ted's eyebrows raise, a surprised little smile playing at his lips. "Of course I care," he says. "Listen, I know dads can be… they can be complicated. Maybe you don't want to chat with an old guy like me about it, but I hope you don't mind me saying-"

"I do want to," Jamie blurts. Ted just stares, uncomprehending, so Jamie adds, "Talk to you about it, I mean. If you want to. We could… go for a pint?" It ends a little weak, a bit more helpless than he would have liked, but he's mostly just pleased to have gotten the words out.

"Well, sure thing, Jamie! Hell, I'll do you one better. Why don't you come over mine, I'll cook you dinner."

“Uh…”

His hesitancy must be obvious, because he adds, “Or we can order some take out, if you’d prefer.”

“Yeah, alright,” Jamie accepts, pulling his sleeves down over his hands. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

They end up picking up food from some local Indian place. The staff greet Ted like he’s family, and Jamie just sort of hides behind him like a shy child. He only speaks up when Ted goes to order, and the waiter suggests the chefs special, asking whether Jamie likes spicy food (which Jamie does, but he also suspects that when he says spicy, he means you will burn your tongue out of your mouth).

The food is definitely incongruent with Jamie’s diet plan, but he figures it’ll all be reset by sunrise, so why not?

Ted’s place is smaller than Jamie had imagined. It’s strange to think, but maybe Jamie has gotten a bit too used to being wealthy, to being surrounded by wealthy people. Ten years ago, he would have looked at the space and been amazed that it was all for one person. The lighting is warm and soft, and he has photos of his kid scattered around the place.

Ted suggests they eat in front of the telly, all casual like. He asks Jamie if he’s alright with watching an old Bake Off episode - apparently Ted has been steadily going through the series as a way to get more acquainted with British culture or whatever - so they eat their (surprisingly good) take out to the sounds of Mel and Sue presenting. Despite knowing that they need to have a serious talk, Jamie finds himself enjoying the evening. He’s too distracted by Ted’s woefully misinformed commentary to be too anxious.

Of course, it can’t last forever. Eventually, the episode ends, and they’re left with empty plates and a pregnant silence.

Ted puts the plates in the sink. Jamie offers, “I can wash up?”

“Hm?” Ted says. “Oh, that’s not necessary.”

“Come on,” says Jamie, “I wash, you dry?”

Ted smiles a little. “Aw, hell, why not?”

Jamie quickly finds the washing up liquid and fills the sink. He’s always quite liked doing the washing up. There’s something soothing about the repetition of it, taking something and making it clean. Maybe that’s why his mum still does it by hand, too, despite the dishwasher he bought her. He still feels hurt, thinking about her, but maybe it’s okay if they’re alike in some ways. Maybe he can learn to emulate the good parts of her, and let go of the bad habits he had inherited.

“Hey, about earlier,” Ted begins as Jamie passes him a dripping plate. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, and you don’t have to see your dad if you don’t want to, but… you never know. Maybe you should give him the chance to surprise you.”

“Can I be honest with you?” Jamie asks, focusing on the sponge in his hands.

“Sure thing.”

Jamie takes a breath. Reminds himself that he’s allowed to have boundaries, to have feelings. Tells himself that Ted should respect that. With an anxious haste, Jamie blurts out, “I feel a bit hurt that you’ve said that to me.”

Ted's hands freeze. From his periphery, Jamie can tell that he’s being looked at, but he finds he can’t meet his gaze, so he just keeps cleaning. Ted doesn’t immediately reply, so Jamie adds, “Just, like, you saw me and my dad, back when I got Richmond relegated, yeah?”

“I-” Ted’s voice crackles, and he stops to clear his throat. “Yeah, I saw you. I didn’t want to, uh, assume anything-”

“He- He abused me. When he came back into my life when I was a kid, he started yelling at me. And then he started hitting me. He still does, whenever he gets the chance - which is less, now, because I’m not in Manchester anymore. You saw it, right? You had to have known.”

“I think…” Ted trails off for a moment. “When I saw you that day, I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to run in, confront your father, but I didn’t want to make things worse, y’know? Except after I walked away, I felt- I felt awful, to tell you the truth. Like I’d let you down. Since then- fuck.”

Jamie startles, turning automatically. Ted’s never been one to swear, or shout, or be angry. When he looks at Ted, though, the anger visibly drains out of him, and he just looks sad.

Ted puts down the plate he’s holding, mostly dry already. “This was selfish of me, but I think I was hoping that I was wrong, that I’d misread the situation. Maybe I convinced myself… I don’t know. I’m sorry, Jamie. There’s no excuse. I’m just real sorry.”

There’s a pause as Jamie considers this, looking down at the plate that was long clean by now. “Okay,” he says, and passes the plate to Ted. “I forgive you.”

“Now, Jamie, I hope you know you don’t have to say that. I really messed up here-”

“Well, I forgive you anyway,” Jamie interrupts.

Ted stares at him openly. “You know,” he says, “you’re a good man, Jamie Tartt.”

Jamie snorts, starting to clean the forks. “Thanks, Ted.”

“No, I mean it,” says Ted, earnest. “It was brave of you, saying all that.”

“Dr Fieldstone’s been helping me, actually. With setting boundaries, and talking about feelings, and all that.”

“I’m glad that she’s been able to help. Scary smart, isn’t she?”

“She’s wicked perceptive,” Jamie agrees, unstopping the sink and allowing the dirty water to drain away.

“So, I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I don’t actually have any on account of it being disgusting. How about a cup of coffee?”

“Yeah, alright.”

They settle back onto the sofa with their mugs, and Ted clicks on the next episode of Bake Off, but he immediately pauses it. He doesn’t say anything, but his expression is complicated, like he’s deep in thought, so Jamie decides to wait him out.

Eventually, he says, “I was pretty close with my dad, growing up. We used to go play darts every Sunday, and that was our special time together, just us. Then as I got a bit older, we started drifting a bit - you know, I was busy with school and friends, and I didn’t always want to spend my Sunday at a sports bar with my old dad. And we started arguing, sometimes, too, nothing important, just stupid stuff.”

Ted’s hands are shaking, Jamie realises, the same way Jamie’s do whenever he gets anxious.

Ted pauses, so Jamie makes a noise that he hopes sounds encouraging.

“Anyway,” Ted says, “when I was sixteen, my dad, he killed himself.”

“Oh,” Jamie says. He hadn’t expected that. Whenever Jamie had imagined what Ted’s life has been like, he tends to assume it was some idyllic, smalltown childhood, where nothing really bad ever happened. He finds it hard to reconcile the knowledge with the man he knows Ted to be, his constant optimism and perpetual smile for everyone he knows.

“It was hard,” murmurs Ted. “I felt really- guilty. For not… I don’t know. Being enough? For making things harder for him, when I could have been helping?”

“You were just a kid, though,” Jamie points out, voice hushed.

“Yeah, that’s true,” Ted admits. “I just struggle remembering that, sometimes. Anyway, I wanted you to know. What I said earlier? That was about me, not about you.”

Jamie frowns. “What do you mean?”

“When I said, about giving your dad a chance. I think I just didn’t want you to feel like I did - like I didn’t get the chance to say what I needed to say. The thing is, my dad, for all his faults, was a good man. It’s not the same for you, and I failed to see that.”

“Right,” says Jamie. “I… yeah. Thanks for saying that.”

“You’re welcome, Jamie. I just want you to know that you don’t owe him anything, and if you never want to see him again, you don’t have to. Hell, I’ll kick him out myself next time he tries to see you, if that’s what you want.”

“Thanks,” he says again, and this time it comes out a little choked. He blinks away a sudden prickle of tears. Ted reaches over and squeezes his shoulder, until Jamie feels a bit calmer, breaths coming smoother.

“Say, how about we put the next episode on?” Ted suggests.

“Yeah,” Jamie says.

A few minutes into the episode, Jamie remembers to pull out his phone and send a text.

Jamie: Are you out with the lads?

Only a second later, he gets a response.

Sam: Yes, we are out celebrating. Would you like to join us?

Jamie smiles, quietly pleased by the invite, and relieved that he doesn’t have to talk Sam out off seeing Rebecca this time.

Jamie: Sorry, already got plans. Next time, tho?

Sam: Sounds good.

Tucking his phone back into his pocket, he sinks lower into the sofa, and sips his coffee. He wonders whether it would be weird to sleep here, rather than making the trek back home. After all, he’ll probably wake up in his own bed in the morning. He suspects Ted wouldn’t mind.

A couple of hours later, he doesn’t get a chance to ask permission; he dozes off half way through the technical challenge.

Ted just about gets the chance to drape a blanket over his sleeping form, before the loop begins again.

Jamie wakes up just where he always does. It’s match day.

He gets ready, allowing muscle memory to get him where he needs to be on time. He’s still thinking about yesterday, about everything Ted said to him. He feels a bit bad, in a way, for knowing all this stuff that he’s not supposed to know. Ted won’t remember all he revealed. It’s frustrating, but he can’t bring himself to regret last night.

Since the third loop, when Ted had first heard him deny his father’s visit, the memory of Ted’s words had lingered like a bad taste. As hard as he had tried to put it out of his head, the feeling of being judged by Ted, a person whose opinion was so important to Jamie, had been weighing on him. Last night's conversation had taken the sting out of those words. Jamie no longer felt obliged to take Ted’s thoughts on his dad seriously, and allowed himself to put those doubts and fears to bed.

Today’s Ted might not remember, but Jamie knows that if he talks to him, explains the situation and expresses how he feels, Ted will support him, even if he starts off on the wrong track.

Jamie feels, for maybe the first time, that he can trust himself to make the right decision. He knows his situation best, and he knows what he needs. It’s time to let himself have it.

Before the match, he once again asks the team for their attention. “I’ve got a few last minute bits of advice, if you guys are interested.”

“Who died and made you king?” Isaac calls out once again, to the team's amusement.

“I was playing with Man City last season. I know how they play, what kind of tactics they favour. I figured if it might help, then I should share it,” says Jamie. “If that’s alright with you, captain.”

Isaac gives him a nod. “Okay, go on then.”

“Cheers,” he says. “And before I go into it, I had one other thing I wanted to say.”

There’s a few boos and dramatic groans, but it’s all good natured, and only makes Jamie smile.

“I wanted to say thanks to everyone, for letting me back on this team. You guys didn’t have to forgive me, and it just- it means a lot to me that you did.”

There is quiet in the locker room, and it seems that everyone is a bit wrong footed by Jamie’s honestly. He knows that it’s unlike him, the old him anyway, and he starts to worry that he’s said something stupid, that maybe the team hasn’t actually forgiven him, and now they’re all going to laugh at him for thinking that-

But then Colin steps forward - Colin, who usually blends into the crowd, who Jamie has always judged to be more of a follower than a leader - and declares, “You’re part of the team, now. We’re glad you came back, aren’t we, lads?”

There’s an instant chorus of agreement, and Jamie can feel himself flush, face hot and grinning. “Alright, alright,” he says, until the room quiets down a bit. “Okay, so about Man City’s tactics. It’s like this-”

They're down to ten minutes left, and the score sits at two all.

There's a buzz of determination in the air. Man City are getting desperate, playing a bit rough, and Dani has possession, running fast, and then Hendrick is close by. This is the moment, Jamie knows, where the slide tackle happens, leaving Dani injured and unable to play.

This time, Jamie is close enough, fast enough, to make a difference.

He’s tried and failed before. Jamie has come to the conclusion that the only way to prevent Dani from getting injured, to make the resulting free kick worthwhile, is to steal the ball for himself first.

It’s a dick move, something he would have done before Richmond and Ted and Believe, and he knows it won’t go down well, making him look selfish. He’s surprised to find he doesn’t care too much, as long as it prevents Dani from getting injured again. He’s tired of watching his friend being hurt.

Jamie speeds up, gets beside him, and deftly gains possession with a poke tackle that Dani obviously hadn’t been expecting from his own teammate. Jamie keeps going, pulling the ball away and Dani out of the range of fire. He only gets a few steps away before-

He’s going down, leg swept out from under him, and there’s pain, his right knee burning, and the whistle goes, and Jamie just keeps breathing.

Dani is crouching over him, expression incredulous and stunned. “Are you okay? Why did you do that? Are you injured?”

“I saw Hendrick was going to tackle. This way you get the free kick,” Jamie says through gritted teeth.

“You’re hurt,” Dani realises.

Jamie says, “Just strained my knee.” At least, he hopes that’s all it is - that’s what Dani gets every time - but if not, he figures it should disappear by tomorrow.

Sam arrives then, face torn between anger and worry. “What happened?”

“Trust me,” says Jamie. “It’s for the best. Dani gets the free kick.”

Shaking his head, Sam says, “We should get the stretcher over here.”

“No, no, not necessary,” Jamie insists. “Come on, help me up.”

Dutifully, Dani takes one hand, and Sam takes the other, bracketing him between them, taking his weight as he half limps, half hops off the pitch.

The team doctor is there, then, fussing over his knee, but his attention is still on the game, watching as Sam and Dani jog back onto the grass, and Dani gets ready for the free kick, the one that Jamie always fucks up, even on the better days.

He holds his breath.

Dani takes a couple of measured steps back from the ball, whole body focused, ready. Jamie thinks to himself, like a prayer: football is life. Dani launches himself, and he kicks-

The ball soars through the air, all power and precision-

It sails into the net, and the stadium erupts into noise. Jamie half jumps out of seat, screaming with joy, until his knee twinges with pain and he forces himself to settle back down.

The last few minutes tick down, stretching out long, tense, as the team battles to keep possession, preventing Man City from getting an equaliser in, but eventually the timer ticks down to zero, and the match is over, and they’ve won. They finally did it.

Dani races over to him on the bench, lifts him into a bear hug that Jamie returns with gusto. The rest of the team follow, congregating into a mess of limbs and sharp elbows and hugs and cheers.

Sam gives him a piggyback ride back to the changing rooms, and Jamie laughs, barely managing to keep the ice pack on his knee (which the doctor has confirmed is only strained).

Settling on the bench, Jamie can’t stop grinning. He had expected at least a bit of wariness, after stealing the ball off Dani like he did, but no one seems bothered. Maybe it’s because Dani himself has clearly already forgiven him; maybe they just trust that Jamie did it for a good reason, that he was trying to help.

Ted comes over to shake his hand, and then Beard too, even though Jamie had never felt like the coach liked him.

“You did great out there today,” Ted says.

“It’s like you knew what was going to happen before it happened,” Beard muses. “It’s like you’re in Groundhog Day.”

Jamie’s mouth drops open. He blinks wordlessly at Beard, who just looks back with an unreadable expression.

Misinterpreting Jamie’s silence, Ted adds, “Groundhog Day is this tradition where a furry animal makes a weather forecast, which as I’m saying it, sounds a little nuts. Anyway, there’s this movie about it where Bill Murray gets caught in a time loop-”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, voice coming out a little high. “Yeah, I’ve seen it.”

“Oh! Well, anyway,” says Ted, “good job today. Hope your knee isn’t too bad.”

“Doc says it’s only a strain,” Jamie says.

“Good, good,” Ted says, before they move on to congratulate someone else.

Jamie checks the time. Only a few minutes left before his dad usually arrives.

He still has time, if he wants, to talk to security, to prevent his dad from coming inside. That’s if his dad still plans on coming down here, now that Richmond has won, and he has less to criticise him for.

Today, though, he doesn’t want to avoid him, doesn’t want to listen to him shout outside the doors and watch his team listen to the commotion with raised eyebrows. He doesn’t want to pretend he doesn’t know who it is, and doesn't want to lie about what his dad is like. He doesn’t want to feel scared of him anymore.

So Jamie doesn’t talk to security. He waits, breathing slowly, surrounded on all sides by his teammates.

The security guy steps into the room. “Mr Tartt? You have a visitor. Says he’s your father?”

Jamie stands, weight resting unevenly to take pressure off his bad knee. “Yeah,” he says, voice louder and surer than last time. “Let him through.”

Then his dad is careening into the room, that hard smile on his face. “Are ya decent?” Then, under his breath, he says to the security guard, “Told ya. Dick.” His dad turns to face the room, which is rapidly falling into an uncomfortable silence, and says, “Gentleman! You lot must be shocked, eh? No one thought you could do it, considering you usually play like shit. But hey, better enjoy this fluke whilst you can, eh?”

“Don’t talk to them like that.”

His dad stops still, eyebrows shooting up. “What did you say to me?” he asks, sauntering closer.

“I said, don’t talk to them like that,” Jamie repeats. He can feel his breath shake, uneven inhales as his chest tightens with fear, but his voice is strong.

“Oh, I see,” his dad says, “so you win one match and now you think you’re better than me, is that it?” He takes another step closer, pushing into Jamie’s space. “Say it again. Go on.”

“If you keep speaking to me and my team like that,” Jamie says, “I’m going to ask you to leave.”

His dad laughs, teeth bared. He’s practically bouncing in place, violent energy spilling out of him, suffocating. “Think you’re a big man now, don’t you? What’re you gonna do about it, eh?” He pushes Jamie, just lightly, a promise of what’s to come, making Jamie shuffle back to keep his weight on his good leg. “Eh? You think you can take me?”

“I don’t have to.”

“How’s that?”

Jamie lets himself look away, eyes scanning across the room, before falling back onto his dad. “You’re outnumbered.”

He makes a harsh, derisive noise. “You fucking pussy-” His hands fly up, and Jamie barely has time to flinch, breath catching-

But Jamie’s words seem to have unlocked something, broken whatever spell that was keeping the other lads silent and passive, because the team move as one, shoving themselves between Jamie and his dad. Between one breath and the next, his dad is removed from his view. He can still hear his dad’s voice, spitting vitriol, but it gets progressively more distant as they collectively shove his father out of the room, until he can’t hear him anymore.

With the immediate threat dealt with, they fall quiet again, unsure how to proceed. Well, except for one person, because in every iteration of this, he knows what Jamie really needs.

Roy strides forward and pulls him into a hug.

This time, Jamie doesn’t flinch, and he doesn’t push him away. He grabs him back, and holds on tight as he shivers with adrenaline. His eyes sting, a few tears escaping, but he’s not sobbing like the first time. He’s sad, but it’s bittersweet. His dad might be shit, but his team isn’t, and they came together to protect him. He’d been so scared, not just of his dad, but that he had misjudged, that the lads wouldn’t intervene, that they might not care enough to stand up to him. After all, they wouldn’t be the first.

It was hard to believe that they would help, that he wasn’t alone, and the team cared about him as a person, and not just Jamie Tartt, star striker.

It’s a little easier to believe, now.

When the shaking starts to subside, he lets go of Roy, although not without one last squeeze. “Thanks, Roy.” Then, turning to the rest of the team, “Thanks everyone. Really. I-” He stops, throat tight with emotion.

“There is no need to thank us,” Dani says.

“We’d do it again, wouldn’t we, lads?” adds Isaac.

Jan Maas says, “Any of us would be happy to physically remove your terrible father again.”

There are a few groans at his lack of tact, but it just makes Jamie laugh, warmed by his frankness. “Appreciate it.”

Things feel a bit more normal, after that; conversations develop, until the room no longer sits in unnatural silence, and they begin their post-match routines, showering and changing.

When it’s time to go, Jamie leaves surrounded by his team, helping him limp out to the coach. Just as he’s nearing the doors, he hears a loud oi, and startles, thinking it might be his dad, back for round two - but no, it’s just Roy, standing there with his arms crossed and his face all stormy like it gets when he’s thinking too hard. The team parts around him. Apparently, taking on Jamie’s father is one thing, but Roy Kent is another.

“What’s up, Coach?”

“Come back to Keeley’s with me.” It sounds less like a question, more like a statement, but Jamie’s starting to get that his voice always sounds like that.

“I really appreciate the offer, but I think I’m gonna get the coach with the lads. Want to celebrate with the team,” explains Jamie.

Roy’s eyebrows do something complicated. “Keeley will be disappointed.”

“Tell her we’ll hang out soon,” he says. “We can go out for lunch or something, the three of us, if you like.”

Despite his expression looking vaguely annoyed, Roy says, “Fine. Tomorrow.”

Jamie smiles, a little sadly. Maybe he can find a way to keep the promise, and they can hang out in the next loop. “Deal.”

As Roy walks away, Dani quickly sidles up next to him and helps him up the steps, before taking the seat next to him and offering him an earbud. Jamie smiles gratefully, and then in a moment of bravery, dares to lift his bad leg and rest it across Dani’s lap. Dani puts a hand on his ankle and keeps scrolling through his music.

As he sits there, Jamie’s phone buzzes.

Sam: I hope you’re okay. I am sorry I didn’t stand up for you faster.

Jamie: Nah mate, you were there right when I needed you.

Then, after considering what Jamie’s evening would look like this time through, with his sore knee, and wondering whether Sam might attempt to see Rebecca, he types out another message.

Jamie: Wanna come over and play FIFA tonight?

A reply comes quickly.

Sam: That sounds fun. I look forward to it.

Jamie quickly finds out that Sam is insanely good at FIFA. He’s trying so hard to win at least one game, Jamie forgets to feel bad about his dad.

At some point, Sam ends up confessing about the situation with Rebecca, and Jamie doesn’t mind talking about it again. It’s actually quite nice, feeling useful. Feeling like he’s helping his… friend? He thinks they might be actual friends now. Maybe they have been for a while, and it just took Jamie this long to notice.

Sam doesn’t leave until well past midnight, and Jamie crashes into his bed, exhausted. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.

Jamie wakes up.

It's not match day.

He stares at the date on his phone for a long moment, wanting to be sure, until a laugh bubbles up out of his chest. He thinks he might be crying, a bit, but it’s a good kind of crying, like all his fear is escaping him, leaving him dizzy with relief. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

Then, wasting no more time, he gets out of bed, and texts Keeley about grabbing lunch together.

He finally gets to find out what tomorrow is like.

He knows he's going to make it a good one.