Archive of Our Own

Jamie was having one of the worst fucking weeks of his life. It started with his dad’s relentless texts for tickets for the Wembley match and it ended with the looming prospect of his next heat. Somewhere in the middle of all that was the fact that Jamie was sad, and lonely, and fucking pathetic. Maybe that was why he did what he did.

The FA Cup semi-final match was a disaster. The excitement from beforehand – getting to play at Wembley as an adult, something he’d only done as a teenager at England’s U21 training camp – had been crushed so firmly, no stones about it, that it was embarrassing to even think about. Jamie had played particularly bad. Shaking hands with the City team after was torturous, and Jamie could barely meet Pep’s eye.

The mood in the dressing room was bleak. The first team was halfway to tears and the reserve squad looked right depressed. Jesus Christ, even Dani was sad.

Normally, Jamie didn’t mind the alpha stink in the dressing room after a match, not if they won. It could be a bit overwhelming, sure, but it was exciting too. An explosion of pride and happiness and success. What wasn’t to like? But after a loss, that was a different fucking story. He sat on the bench in front of his borrowed cubby – and how humiliating to see his name up over top of it, like he was actually worthy of playing in this stadium – and wrinkled his nose. Isaac and the other alphas on the team were pumping out pheromones like it was their fucking job, their blocker patches or deodorant sticks no longer so efficient after sweating so much. Anger swirled in the air, barely budged by the calm scent that the betas like Sam and Ted were trying – and failing – to fill the room with.

Jamie scratched at his own blocked patch on the back of his neck. It always got really itchy after a long match, but the stick-style ones didn’t do shit all for him. His scent just bled right through as soon as he sweated even just a little bit.. When he was still playing with City – even as just a young reserve squad player – this would have been the part where Jamie pulled off his patch, pumped out his own soothing sort of scent, and let the lads have a go at him. Work out all the frustration and anger of a (rare) loss on a willing participant. Everyone felt better after that sort of thing, even Jamie.

But it wasn’t like that at Richmond. So Jamie left his patch on.

Then, a security guard stepped through the door. “Uh, Mr. Tartt?”

Jamie felt his stomach sink. “Yeah?”

“You have a visitor. Says he’s your father.”

“Um,” he swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. He saw the coaches in the corner, and all of his teammates around him. All he could feel was panic bubbling up inside him. The last thing he wanted was for his dad to be here right now. For a wild moment, Jamie considered just saying no, don’t let him in. But fear filled him. It was for a good reason that Jamie hadn’t said no to his dad in a long time, so he gave a vague gesture, feeling sick to his stomach.

A moment later, James Tartt poked his head in through the door. “Are ye decent?”

He chortled, waltzing right in past the security guard. “I told ye. Prick.”

Jamie stood up quickly.

“Oh gentlemen, gentlemen. Aw.” His dad chuckled some more. He lifted his arms up as if to show off his sky blue kit. Jamie could immediately tell he wasn’t wearing a blocker. His dad rarely did. His scent was all too familiar to Jamie – thickly alpha, prideful, and angry – and as it washed over the room, all Jamie wanted to do was run away and hide. “Hey, it’s a tough one, lads. But no shame to it, ‘cause, ye know, we only ever beat, uh, everyone we play! So, you pups had no chance. Oh, and there he is, my son.”

His dad’s eyes locked onto him, victorious, and vicious in one. Jamie always felt like a pinned bug beneath his father’s stare. Like he’d been caught in the jaws of a predator, and there was no way out. Jamie looked carefully somewhere around his dad’s shoulder, not quite daring to meet his eye.

“My own flesh and blood. Poor Jamie, my son–” he bit out this last word out like it disgusted him, and Jamie flinched. “Aw, lad. None of these pups comforting ye, are they? I’m thinkin’ maybe your heart’s still in Manchester, and that’s why ye missed that sitter in the first half. Ah, you balled it. You absolutely balled it! No wonder your kit’s still on, eh? No one wants ye.”

The room was pindrop quiet. Jamie couldn’t fucking breathe. He was frozen. He should say something, but his mouth wouldn’t move. He should do something, but he couldn’t think of what. No one else in the world made him feel this way. He hated it. He really fucking hated it.

His dad got closer, still chortling. “Aw lad, I’m only kidding, hey.”

Jamie held himself very stiffly as his dad got in his space. “Hey, look, do us a favor, and get Denbo and Bug past security. They want to go out on the pitch, and take a few pics, yeah?”

His dad’s scent surged when he said this. He always fucking did that when he wanted something from Jamie. Overwhelmed him with a dominant cloud of pheromones until he couldn’t think straight, could only do what his dad wanted. Jamie, usually, immediately folded. Better to do what he said when he said it and be done with it, than to risk the consequences. But just then, surrounded by his teammates, his coaches, fucking Roy, Jamie felt panic. He couldn’t just roll over this time. He couldn’t.

He swallowed. He tried to breathe through his mouth. He continued to look carefully over his dad’s shoulder. His voice came out very weak, but he said. “I’d rather ‘em not.”

Jamie almost immediately regretted it.

His dad got closer. His voice lowered now, down to a dangerous register. “What? You’re not gonna go all moody little bitch on me just cause you got your arse served to you on a plate, are ye?” Then, he glanced around again at Jamie’s teammates, and cracked a smirk. “Or, I guess ye didn’t, did ye?”

Jamie’s heart was hammering in his chest. “Don’t speak to me like that,” he whispered.

If his dad had been close before, it was nothing like it was now. He turned his head like he couldn’t hear Jamie. “Huh?”

“Don’t speak to me like that,” Jamie repeated.

“Huh?” His dad got right up in his face. His breath stank of beer. “Want to try again?”

Jamie flinched. “I said, don’t speak to me like that.”

“Okay, well let’s see if you can hear this, hm? You know that ickle TV show you made? Bending over like a fuckin’ slag for everyone who so much as looked at ye? Well, it only made it easier for Manchester City to kick you to the fuckin’ curb. No one wants a used-up O, do they? And look where ye are now–” James raised his arms again and gesticulated widely. “Twaddlin’ about with a bunch of amateurs! No offense, no offense!”

Jamie felt his heart in his throat. Maybe it was hypocritical of him, yeah? He’d said similar things about Richmond in the past. Amateurs, shit, mid-rate. Fucking name it, he’d said it.. It wasn’t anything new from his dad, neither. But hearing it right then, now, in front of the lads who he actually cared for, filled him with anger. With that anger, a surge of courage.

He turned away from his dad.

This choice felt good for only one fucking second, though.

“Don’t turn your back on me, ye pussy,” his dad roared at him, and then, a large familiar hand clamping right down over the nape of his neck, scruffing him. Fuck.

Jamie immediately crashed onto the floor on his knees. He barely felt the pain, staring straight down at the ground for one thick moment, his dad viciously gripping over his mating gland. Jamie’s ears rang, his limbs were heavy. He couldn’t fucking move.

And then, as soon as the pressure was there – it was gone again.

With his dad’s scruff removed, Jamie gasped for air like he had been held underwater for a whole fucking minute. The first thing he saw with any sort of clarity was O’Brien staring at him with wide eyes from the bench.

A hand on his shoulder from behind made him flinch. He scrambled up to stand. He turned around. His vision was blurry, and when he brought his hand up to his face, and felt wetness, he realized why. Rapidly, he blinked.

“– don’t you forget where you fuckin’ came from–”

That was his dad shouting, being shoved out of the room by Coach Beard. All around, his teammates were staring just like O’Brien – wide-eyed and stunned. Isaac was standing up now, fists clenched by his sides. Sam looked like he might fucking cry.

“Jamie,” a low voice said.

“R-Roy?” he gasped, looking. And there Roy was, standing right there in front of Jamie. It had been his hand on his shoulder. “I–”

Then he was being wrapped in warm, strong, solid arms. Roy’s scent, familiar and alpha, yes, but not at all dangerous like his dad’s, filled his senses. Jamie buried his face into Roy’s shoulder, clutching him back. A sob welled up, and crashed right out of him. Then another, and another.

Vaguely, somewhere beneath the embarrassment and the deep fucking shame, Jamie had just enough wits about him to remember how much he missed this. He’d had just a taste, more than a year ago. And he’d almost forgotten how good it felt – Roy’s arms around him, being consumed by his touch, his mouth, his attention.

. . .

The coach ride back to Richmond was awkward. Jamie was one of the last to get on, and had to deal with them all staring at him with looks of… fucking pity or something. He ignored them (or he tried to), making a beeline for the back of the bus. It wasn’t a long ride, just a half hour, but it felt like an eternity. Jamie couldn’t remember being so embarrassed in a long time. He tucked his hands in his shirt sleeves and felt dirty, even though he had washed off at Wembley with the rest of the lads, after. His dad had a way of making him feel like a piece of soft shit smeared on the bottom of someone’s shoe.

When they arrived at Nelson Road, Jamie was able to slip off the bus, a bajillion pairs of eyes boring into the back of his skull, but otherwise mostly unbothered.

Sam – of fucking course, Sam – was the one who stopped him.

“Jamie,” he started tentatively, as they all walked off in the direction of their cars. “Are you okay?”

“What?” Jamie said. His head had been perpetually buzzing since his father had scruffed him like that. “Oh. I’m mint, mate. Don’t worry about me.”

“I do worry,” said Sam, all earnestly. “I’m sorry I did not intervene.”

Jamie blinked at that. “You don’t gotta be sorry, Sam. You didn’t do nothing wrong.”

Same gave him a dubious look.

“Swear down,” Jamie promised, and clapped him on the shoulder. He turned in the direction of his Aston, and said, “Have a good night, yeah?”

He reached his car and was looking forward to just going home and pretending this entire fucking day never even happened, when he closed his hand around the doorhandle and remembered that, actually, he couldn’t go home.

Fuck, he was such an idiot. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the roof of the car, no matter that a lot of his teammates were still milling about and pretending like they weren’t still staring at him like he was some freak zoo exhibit. His heart pounded, and his breath came short and sharp. The panic felt like hands in his chest that wanted to claw their way out and, at the same time, squeeze the fucking life out of him.

“Oi,” a rough voice said, surprisingly soft. “What’s the matter?”

Jamie turned to find Roy staring at him with an alarmed look in his eyes.

“Do you need a ride?” Roy asked. “Not because you’re an omega. Because you just had a shitty fucking night.”

“Um,” Jamie said. He must not have been thinking straight, because he agreed. “Thanks.”

Ted came over before Jamie could climb into Roy’s G-Wagon. “Hey boys,” he said, sounding more subdued than Jamie’d ever heard him. “Everything alright?”

“Gonna give this muppet a ride home,” Roy growled.

“That’s–” Ted nodded rapidly. “That’s good of you. Um– Jamie–”

“‘m fine, coach,” Jamie murmured, rubbing at his chest. He just wanted to get away. “Promise.”

“Okay– well,” Ted frowned. Jamie might otherwise have been weirded out by how odd Ted was acting, if only he could get his own head out of his arse and calm down. “If you’re sure. Have a good night.”

“Yeah–” Jamie choked. “You too.”

In the G-Wagon, Jamie waited in the passenger seat as Roy cranked the heater. “What’s your address?”

“No– um. Can you actually, just take me to a hotel, or sumat? The Petersham’s close, I think. Please.”

Roy looked across the seat at him, and frowned. “A hotel? Why?”

Jamie swallowed. He looked out the window just in time to catch Colin’s bright green Lambo peeling out the car park. “Me dad– he… knows where I live, don’t he.”

“And, he’s likely to show up?” Roy growled, gripping the steering wheel. “Tonight?”

“More ‘an likely,” Jamie muttered. “Gettin’ dragged out like that, and gettin’ backtalk. He’s gonna be pissed.”

Jamie hadn’t looked at his phone since before the game, because he knew exactly what kind of messages were waiting for him there. His throat closed up. “He’ll– Fuck, Roy. He’ll kill me.”

“Shit. Okay. Okay. We’re going to my house, then.”

“Yeah,” Jamie said, weakly. “Wait. What?”

But Roy was already pulling out of the car park. “My house,” he grunted.

“Ah, mate,” Jamie said. “That’s dead nice, but a hotel’s fine, swear–”

“You’re not staying at a fucking hotel,” Roy growled.

“But–”

Roy gripped the steering wheel harder, and glanced at him. “If you feel fucking… uncomfortable… that’s a different story. But let me take you to one of the lads’ houses, at least. Call Isaac, or Sam, or whoever. Shouldn’t be fucking alone.”

“Oh,” said Jamie.

A moment passed, where they both stared out the windshield, watching the road disappear beneath them. The last time Jamie had been in Roy’s car was back before Lasso started as gaffer. Early in the season, just after the first time Roy had got his hands on him. Jamie, remembering this, felt his ears go hot.

“Well?” Roy demanded. “Where am I taking you?”

“Um. Your place is– is good. If you’re sure. Er, thanks.”

Roy just nodded, eyes directly focused ahead. The drive wasn’t that long. It turned out Roy’s neighborhood was only a bit further out than Jamie’s own. As Roy pulled onto some posh street, Jamie realized he had never been to Roy’s house before – every time they’d hooked up, it had always been at Jamie’s.

Soon enough, Roy pulled into the drive of a gated house. Jamie gave a half-hearted whistle. On another day he might have made some sort of comment about how posh it all was, or some crack about the two of them, council estate boys, look at them now. But he was fucking dead tired and drained, so he just followed Roy out of the car and up to the door.

The inside wasn’t as he expected. He wasn’t entirely sure what he expected exactly. In his head lived a vague sort of idea of the legendary Roy Kent’s house, first imagined when he was just a wee lad. Those early fantasies consisted mainly of the kind of mansion with high ceilings, an indoor pitch, and medals and trophies and FIFA World Cup kits glittering on every available wall and surface. As he got a bit older, and that poster on his wall started to glare down at him with a different sort of meaning, his imagination had shifted a bit. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that, when he was just fifteen, he had wanked furiously to the idea of Roy Kent, notorious hot-headed alpha, stringing him up in some leathery sex-dungeon in his basement and fucking his brains out. But not before giving him a kiss! Or a pat to the bum. Jamie wasn’t picky.

(Not that Jamie would admit any of that out loud. Not to the real Roy Kent. The real Roy, who he knew, and who he had had sex with, but who was now his coach, and who had just comforted him while he cried.)

The house did indeed have tall ceilings, but the similarities ended there. Aside from his Chelsea number nine kit framed above the mantle, there were no other indications of his football career, at least not in the living room or kitchen. Instead, there were framed photos of Roy’s niece, and a woman Jamie assumed was his sister (they had the same dark hair and crazy eyebrows). There was a fucking enormous pink dollhouse in the corner by the sliding doors to the backyard. In the kitchen, shining pots and pans hung from a rack over the island like it was the set for a cooking TV show, and there was a huge block of all sorts of shining knives. Fancy cutting boards too. And the furniture was all muted neutrals – not black, or leather, or whatever else wee Jamie had imagined. Soft and cozy looking.

“Wow, um,” Jamie said. “Nice place.”

“Sit,” Roy grunted, and pushed him into a stool at the kitchen island. “Tea?”

It seemed Roy wasn’t really looking for an answer to that, because his back was already turned and he was already putting the kettle on when Jamie hummed an agreement.

Jamie looked around at the kitchen some more. He himself had a nice kitchen, not like he really used it. It looked like Roy actually used his. Oh, and yeah, Keeley had mentioned something of the sort on one of their recent coffee “dates.” Jamie ran his index finger along the edge of the counter. “D’ye cook a lot, Coach?”

“Hm. But I’m ordering in tonight. What do you want?”

“Oh, I–” Jamie’s mind fizzed like a telly switching between channels.

Roy had his phone in his hand now, thumb scrolling. “Kebabs? Curry? Fish and chips?”

“Fish and chips on takeaway?” Jamie wrinkled his nose. “Er– whatever sounds fine, honest.”

“Kebabs, then,” Roy said seriously.

And it was odd. Ever since Roy had agreed to coach him properly, and had come up with the signal, things had been good. Better. It wasn’t like they were friends exactly, but there was an easy acquaintanceship, or whatever you wanted to call it, between them. No longer did they bite each other’s head off for any kind of perceived insult, and no longer did Roy ignore him on the pitch. And they hadn’t once mentioned whatever it was that had gone on between them last year – at least, not since Roy’s awkward first day as coach when he’d fucking got Lasso and HR involved all because he was weirdly panicked about abusing his power.

If Jamie thought of it sometimes, that well of hurt somewhere buried deep down inside him rising up, well. That was no one’s business but his own. Having Roy Kent as a coach was honestly a dream come true – his younger self would be simultaneously shouting for joy and jizzing his pants – and it was better than anything Jamie could have hoped for. Anyway, Roy was in love with Keeley these days. Jamie couldn’t blame him, really. He was still half in love with her too, not that he was about to say that.

Roy finished placing the order, with a little input from Jamie, and served the tea. Jamie fiddled with the cup for a moment. He wanted to ask if Keeley knew that Jamie was there, in Roy’s house, all alone with him, but that seemed like a leading question or something. Like, implicating, or whatever. He felt bad, too, thinking of how Keeley and Roy had probably been planning to spend the night together, but instead Jamie had a huge public meltdown in front of his whole team just because his dad – who was a dick, that was nothing new, Jamie knew he was a fucking dick – acted like he had always acted. Jamie sipped at the tea, feeling sick to his stomach.

Roy sat across from him, also drinking from his tea. The silence was awkward, like neither of them knew what to say. Eventually, Roy set his cup down and grumbled a bit, “Does your dad always treat you like that?”

Jamie’s mouth went dry. He couldn’t look Roy in the eye.

“He’s a fucking shithead. You don’t deserve that.”

“I– should be used to it by now. Dunno why I talked back like that. Just makes it worse.”

“What’s he going to do?”

Jamie shrugged. “Next time he finds me, he’ll slap me around extra, I guess. Whatever.”

“There’s not going to be a next time,” Roy growled.

“I dunno.” Jamie remembered his phone, then, and dug it out from his bag. His throat immediately tightened. As expected, there were five missed calls from his dad and a whole slew of demeaning texts. One in particular stood out to him, chilling him to his bones: youre going to regret this jr.

“Has he contacted you?” Roy demanded.

“Yeah,” Jamie said, and left it at that. “So has Keeley.”

There was a single text from her, sitting kindly among all that abuse: Jamie, I hope you’re okay. Let me know if you need anything! I’m here for you always. ❤️💕💗💓💖🥰

Roy grunted.

The question finally burst out of him. “Did you tell her I was here?”

Roy gave another grunt, the fucking caveman. Jamie rolled his eyes and shoved his phone away. They returned to an awkward sort of silence, but luckily the food came not long after. They went to sit on the sofa to eat, and Roy put some documentary on that Jamie only half paid attention to. The food was delicious, and maybe Jamie shouldn’t have had much of an appetite after the whole thing with his dad and all, but he’d also played a long hard match – all ninety minutes – and so he devoured six kebabs and a fuckton of pita chips. Roy also got him an electrolyte drink from the fridge, putting it down in front of him, all concerned like. It was weird.

It was also really nice.

The food was gone, like, not even ten minutes into the documentary, and Jamie sat back against the sofa watching the screen with half-lidded eyes. Roy sat only two cushions away. Jamie was very aware of him, more than he had been in a while, if he was being honest. There was a thick, tacky feeling in his chest, leftover affection that had never quite gone away. And Jamie might be an idiot sometimes, but he wasn’t a complete fucking bellend. He kept his mouth shut, and appreciated that Roy was a maybe-sort-of-friend to him now. That was honestly more than Jamie ever expected.

It was Roy who eventually broke the silence. “Do you want another Lucozade?”

“I’m good, thanks.” Jamie shot Roy a small smile. “Listen, thanks. For–all of this.”

“Don’t mention it,” was the reply. Then, stiltedly, “Jamie. I need to apologize to you.”

Jamie’s eyes blinked fully open. “What? Why?”

The documentary was still playing, its colors filling the darkened room. Roy looked uncomfortable, but gritted his jaw in a familiarly determined look. “Back when you were first loaned out at Richmond–”

Jamie had only a moment to feel the shock that Roy was even bringing anything like that up, before Roy barreled on, with something he did not expect: “When I– fucking scruffed you like that, in front of the team. After that match. I shouldn’t have fucking done that. I’m sorry.”

Jamie blinked. “Oh.”

Roy’s fists were clenched on his lap. “It was a shit thing to do, and I’m no better than your dickhead father. You don’t have to say anything back. But–I’m sorry.”

Jamie stared for a moment. “You don’t need to be sorry.”

Roy’s eyebrows raised. “Like fuck I don’t. That was, like, dynamic abuse–”

“Oh, fuck off,” Jamie said, laughing a little incredulously. “Really, Roy. That shit doesn’t bother me. I mean, I was a little embarrassed in the moment or whatever, but wasn’t that the point? I mean, I deserved it. I were being a massive prick, yeah? Anyway, the City skipper did that sort of thing all the time. I don’t mind, honest.”

What Jamie didn’t add was that, after the immediate embarrassment had settled, he’d gone home and wanked for so hard and for so long that his dick actually chafed. He hadn’t been able to fuck Keeley for a whole twenty-four hours after that. It was the first time he’d gotten a real rise out of Roy, and he’d been fucking exhilarated.

“But,” Roy growled, looking like he’d been walloped around the head. “Your dad–”

Jamie shook his head. “That’s different, innit. Me dad… he only does it to, like, hurt me, yeah? He knows I’m bigger an’ stronger than him these days, even if it fuckin’ kills him to know that, but if he scruffs me, there’s not much I can do about it, you know? Not like I usually fight back, anyway,” he tacked on that last with a resentful mutter.

“Still,” Roy said. “It was wrong.”

Jamie rolled his eyes. “If it means so much to you, granddad, I forgive you. Feel free to do it again.”

And – oops. Maybe that was a step too far. Or too revealing, or something. Roy’s eyes were dark when they met his, and a loaded moment passed. Jamie cleared his throat, and hastily turned to the television.

A couple minutes passed before Jamie found himself talking again, “Me dad, he– wanted an alpha son, you know? He hates that I’m not like him. He’d probably treat me better if I were an alpha, or even a beta, right. But, I dunno. Sometimes I think it’s just me he doesn’t like.”

“That’s shit,” Roy declared. “It’s not about you. Parents should love their kids no matter what.”

“Yeah, well,” Jamie said. “He made me tough. Dunno if I would have made it this far without him, right. Playing in the prem and all. Or not the prem anymore, I guess, but you know. S’not exactly easy. As soon as I presented, everyone started, like, quietly encouraging me to quit. But my dad, he wouldn’t let me. Taught me how to, ye know, dominate on the pitch, so all o’ you alphas couldn’t walk all over me. And it worked. That’s a sort of love, ain’t it?”

“Fuck that,” Roy said. “You got here because you worked hard for it. Don’t give that fuckface credit. It’s your fucking talent, Tartt.”

If Jamie had been feeling embarrassed at all by the guts he had just spilled, this from Roy was enough to have him warm all over. His pleasure must have shown on his face, because Roy just grunted. “Don’t let it get to your head, muppet.”

“Yeah, alright,” Jamie smiled. “Thanks, Roy. Seriously.”

That was apparently the cap on sentimentality for the night; they both turned back to the television, Jamie smiling, and Roy basically smiling even if the grumpy fucker tried to hide it. It was a nice evening after that. The documentary played on, and Jamie dozed a bit on the sofa. Neither of them spoke, but they didn’t need to. When the film ended, Jamie blinked back into existence and helped Roy with cleaning up the coffee table and packing up the leftover food (not that there was much of that).

Roy spoke the first words in an hour, after this was done. “Come on.”

So Jamie followed him up the stairs. The second floor was dark, but Roy led him down the hall to a guest bedroom. “There’s an ensuite,” Roy told him, gesturing to the open door to the bathroom. “There are towels in the cupboard, and shampoo and stuff in the shower. I’ll get you a change of clothes. Be right back.”

Jamie sat on the edge of the bed while he waited. It was a simple enough room, similarly neutral and cozy as the downstairs. It was unlike Jamie’s own guest bedroom, which was all white, sharp lines and modern touches. Most of his house was like that, actually. Real sleek. That’s what he’d told the interior decorator he wanted when he first hired them, but looking around now, touching the soft blanket, clicking on a lamp that shimmered, he felt it might be time for a redo. Maybe he ought to move entirely, anyway, to a place his dad didn’t know about. That would be mint.

Roy returned with a small stack of dark, folded clothes. He set them on the foot of the bed. “Here. Is there anything else you need?”

Jamie shook his head, standing up. He tucked his hands in the front of his shirt, and felt shy. “This is perfect. Thank you.”

“Alright,” Roy said. “Get some sleep, you muppet. Night.”

“G’night, Roy.”

. . .

After an altercation with his father, Jamie could usually count on a rough sleep. Tossing and turning and generally just being unable to relax on account of the fear and anxiety that his dad was somehow going to get to him. But the next morning Jamie woke up delightfully warm and rested, and for a whole minute or so, he didn’t even remember where he was or why he wasn’t in his own bed. When the memory did seep back into his brain, the sheer comfort of Roy’s guest bed was enough to pad the blow.

Sunlight filtered softly in through the window curtains. Jamie stretched. He was sore from the match the day before. Today would be a recovery day – a short jog, some stretches, lots of rest.

His ears perked when he heard sounds from somewhere downstairs. Probably the kitchen. Jamie’s heart rate sped up a bit as he thought about walking downstairs and finding Roy there. It was a pleasant sort of prospect.

Jamie basked in the feeling for a couple more minutes, before rolling out of the bed and trodding off to the connecting bathroom. He took a piss and then observed himself in the mirror. His hair was floppy and soft from air-drying after his shower overnight. And he was due for a shave, but he didn’t have his kit with him, so it would have to wait. Roy kept his house cold as fuck so Jamie’d slept in all of the clothes Roy had provided – all black sweat pants, a t-shirt, and a hoodie. It was all just a smidge tight on him, but he looked hot as fuck, so Jamie didn’t mind. He brushed his teeth with the extra toothbrush he’d found the night before and washed his face.

Jamie glanced at his phone briefly, but was relieved that no more messages from his dad had come through.

There were a couple from the lads, though.

From Isaac: You good, bruv?

From Dani: Stay positive, amigo! Remember, futbol is life!

And from Sam: Jamie, let me know if you need anything. We are here for you.

Really, it should be Jamie checking in with them. He’d played like absolute shit. Sure, they all kind of had. But when Jamie had first been loaned out to Richmond, Cartrick always relied on him to score the goals. To win. If Jamie could have just got his head out of his arse, he probably could have scored a couple times, at least make the loss a little less humiliating. Fucking 5-0. It hadn’t really set in before, but now it did. At the FA Cup Semi-final of all things, against City, Christ.

Jamie shoved his phone back in his pocket; he would respond later. Leaving the privacy of the guest room felt a little nerve-wracking, but he steeled himself.

He had just reached the landing for the staircase, when a glint through a cracked open door caught his attention. It was the last door before the stairs, almost entirely closed, but not quite. Jamie hadn’t noticed it the night before, with the darkness and all. Jamie inched closer, curious.

He pushed open the door and peeked through. Then, he gasped in excitement, and hurried the rest of the way in.

It was Roy’s fucking trophy room.

Jamie stared in awe at the medals and photos and World Cup kits and trophies glittering all around him. Now, this was one thing he’d imagined as a lad, and the reality wasn’t all too far from what he’d thought up. Roy Kent had had a long, successful career, and of course his trophy room only went to show for it. Jamie found himself entranced, taking it all in.

“Oi,” a voice broke in.

Jamie jumped. “Fuck!”

Roy stood in the doorway, looking amused. He held a steaming mug in each hand. “Sneaking around, are you?”

“Shit. Sorry!” Jamie winced. “I just– I was about to come down, and–”

“It’s fine,” Roy said. “I heard the water running, and made you a coffee. Do you drink coffee?”

Jamie felt his face go a little warm. He accepted one of the mugs from Roy. “Mint, thanks.”

He took a sip, for lack of anything better to do. They stood there for a moment, looking at each other, until Jamie broke eye contact and faced the most decorated wall. “This is…”

But Roy appeared overall uninterested in his surroundings, which, fair play. He was probably well used to all of it. He fixed Jamie with an intense look. “How did you sleep?”

“Good, yeah,” Jamie replied. “Your bed’s proper soft.”

“Come on,” Roy said. “I’ll make breakfast.”

Jamie trailed after him downstairs – but not without one last longing glance at the trophy room. He hovered by the kitchen counter as Roy pulled ingredients from the fridge. It wasn’t often that Jamie felt shy, but it also wasn’t often that he watched his childhood hero slash current coach slash previous fuck-buddy slash… actual friend (?) make him breakfast after comforting him about his dick of a father.

He shifted a bit. “Erm. Can I help?”

“No,” Roy said, and nodded to the stool at the counter. “Sit. Relax. More coffee?”

Roy topped off his cup and Jamie sat back, watching him make breakfast, feeling a bit like he was in a dream. It was moments like this that Jamie thought back to his first loaned season at Richmond. The fiery hot intensity of the way Roy had touched him. Had kissed him. Had made sure Jamie felt comfortable and cared for and safe in his arms. The way Jamie had hoped, well… He felt his throat grow a bit tight.

That didn’t matter. If all he could get was Roy as a friend, now, then Jamie would be grateful for that.

Soon, the smell of frying onions and peppers filled the air. Eggs and cheese. Roy whipped up a pair of omelettes and cut up some fruit in no time. Then he ushered Jamie out to the back garden, where they sat on the bench at a table and ate quietly. The food was delicious. The sun was out, and cast a charming glow over Roy’s backyard. Big enough to double as a practice pitch, with a tree house near the far back and carefully tended bushes all along the edge of the house. It was a bit chilly, but bundled up in Roy’s hoodie, Jamie didn’t mind one bit. The fresh air felt nice on his face and in his hair. A soft breeze blew Roy’s familiar scent over to him, and it was all Jamie could do not to close his eyes and bask in it.

“Jamie,” Roy said, when the food was finished.

Jamie looked at him, and realized how close they had sat together. Close enough that the sides of their thighs were almost touching. Close enough that they were in kissing distance.

Jamie was having a hard time focusing on anything but that. “Yeah?”

“I wanted to tell you,” Roy said, looking him right in the eye, his voice all solemn and growly like it sometimes got. “Well, I know we’ve had our differences, or whatever. But I want you to know that… I’m fucking here for you. If your dad bothers you, or– or anything. I want you to call me. Okay? You’re not alone.”

The lump in Jamie’s throat was suddenly all too tight. He swallowed against it. “Okay,” he whispered.

Then Roy smiled, and Jamie could count on one hand the number of times that smile had been directed at him. It was almost too much to handle in that moment. The cool, fresh morning breeze. The homecooked meal filling his belly. The sleep he’d had, safe from his dad, and protected. The humiliation of the night before had been thoroughly diluted.

“Friends?” Roy asked.

“Friends,” Jamie agreed. Then, before he could think through it properly, he was leaning forward and pressing his lips against Roy’s.

For one blissful moment, the world around them disappeared. There was just the warm touch of lips, the surge of Roy’s scent. The safe, comfortable smell of the alpha he knew, and trusted. Then there was a hand on Jamie’s shoulder, applying gentle pressure.

“Jamie,” Roy said quietly.

“Fuck,” Jamie gasped, flinging himself back. “I’m fucking sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Roy said, but it fucking wasn’t. Roy was with Keeley, and even if he wasn’t, he’d made it clear that he didn’t want that with Jamie. He wanted to be friends, that’s it. Probably not even that anymore. Jamie’d fucked it, just like he’d fucked every good thing in his life. Jamie stood up in a rush, eyes stinging, and face burning. He grabbed his empty plate and dashed off back inside. He made a bit of a ruckus as he hurriedly rinsed off his plate and shoved it in the dishwasher, almost didn’t hear Roy’s footsteps following him inside.

“Hey,” Roy said. “Fucking slow down.”

“Nah, I–” Jamie couldn’t look him in the eye. “Look, lemme just grab my things and I’ll be out of your hair.”

Before Roy could say anything more, he was running up the stairs to the guest room, shoving his things into his bag. He hastily made the bed. Then, at the door to the bedroom, he froze. He balled his hands up into fists and knocked them against his forehead, eyes screwed up. He was such a fucking idiot. He took a deep breath and forced himself through the door.

The walk back down the stairs was hard, harder especially because Roy was waiting for him at the bottom of it. Jamie only got a brief glance of his face – furrowed into a frown – but his heart pounded all the same.

“Jamie–” Roy started.

“It’s okay,” he stammered. “I’m really sorry. Thank you for everything. Seriously. I’m gonna–”

“Jamie, fucking Christ, don’t–”

But Jamie couldn’t stay. He slipped through the front door before Roy could say another word. He was so mortified by what he’d done that, when he realized he didn’t have his car and he’d have to call an Uber, he couldn’t bear the idea of lingering on Roy’s front doorstep. He strode down the driveway and past the gate. He would call an Uber from down the street, so Roy didn’t feel like he had to come out and drive him.

. . .

Jamie walked into the Richmond clubhouse the next morning with hunched shoulders and a permanently flushed face. He just needed to avoid Roy and then things would be fine. Oh, and he would also have to avoid the rest of the lads after they’d all seen what a shit dad he had and what a pussy fucking son he was, not even able to fight back. He had been tempted to call in sick, but for some reason that had felt even more mortifying than avoiding literally everyone at Nelson Road.

The dressing room was empty when he arrived. Thank god. They should all be on the pitch already, and he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. Could just get into playing footie and pretend he hadn’t blown up his life that weekend. He quickly flung off his clothes and pulled on his training kit.

He tied up his boots and a couple times nervously glanced into the gaffer’s office, but it was dark and empty too. When he was finished, he stood up and rolled out his shoulders. Come on, Jamie. Time to fucking face the music. He grabbed a bundle of clean, black clothes from his bag and tip-toed into the office. The adjoining room where Roy worked was also empty. He approached the desk and set the bundle down on top of it. He’d ran out of Roy’s house so fast the other day he hadn’t even thought about the fact that he was still wearing borrowed clothes.

Jamie looked forlornly at the bundle, stroking it a bit.

“Oi, what the fuck are you doing?”

He jumped half a foot in the air. “Christ!”

It was Roy, standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “You’re late.”

Jamie’s face went hot. “I know. Sorry. I– nevermind. I’m going now.”

But Roy remained standing in the doorway, eyes sharp upon Jamie before they slid to the pile of clothes on his desk. There was a heavy beat of silence, then, almost unbearable.

“Jamie,” Roy started, arms uncrossing. “I–”

“No, Roy,” Jamie rushed. “Please. Can we just forget about it, yeah? I promise, I didn’t mean nothing weird. I’m really sorry. I was just feeling off or sumat. Got a heat scheduled for the long weekend and all, and that’s why– anyway. Please, can we just. Not talk about it.”

Roy caught his eye. He was frowning deeply, more than usual even. Jamie held his breath, feeling more mortified than he ever had in his fucking life. Fuck, he hoped Roy hadn’t told Keeley. He didn’t want to lose her as a friend too, and out of everyone in the world, she knew all about the complicated ways he felt toward her boyfriend.

Jamie tore his gaze away, ashamed. “Please.”

Finally, Roy responded. “I– alright. Yeah.”

Jamie let out a breath, and Roy heard how shaky it was, he didn’t mention it. “Cheers, coach,” he croaked. “I’m gonna–”

Roy stepped aside so Jamie could rush past him through the doorway. He didn’t look back as he headed out for the training pitch. His heart was pounding and his head was all mixed up, all about fucking Roy, that he wasn’t even bothered by the awkward, tentative way everyone greeted him.

“Oi,” Isaac broke the tension, pointing at him. “You know the rules! Three laps.”

Jamie shook himself out, saluted Isaac, and started running. At least when Roy rejoined the coaches, Jamie could focus on the one thing that loved him just as much as he loved it – footie.