Archive of Our Own

At the Right Time 

“To make the Right Choices in your Life, you have to
get in touch with your Anger at the Right Time.”
—Tiger Woods

ROY

25 February 2021 

The air in the flat was heavy, thick with crackling tension and unspoken resentment. 

Keeley sat on the sofa, her back ramrod straight, phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. On the telly, Carrie fucking Bradshaw was nattering on and on about her sex life to an audience that no longer listened nor cared. 

Roy had pushed to his feet and paced, his book forgotten on the floor, desperately trying to reign in his temper, trying to stop himself from shouting as loudly as he wanted to, to stop himself from demanding what the fuck was wrong with her—

His knuckles were white, hands balled into fists, curled around his phone so tightly that the plastic case that Phoebe had made him creaked. His phone buzzed again, probably Sam offering more apologies, more gentle words and concerned little questions and promises that none of the lads really cared or thought less of him and Roy wanted to fucking scream. 

Each notification made the phone buzz against his palm, sending a fresh jolt of fury through his veins.

“Why the fuck,” he said very slowly, very desperately controlled, “are my fucking lads telling me you’ve been telling everyone and their fucking mothers I’m smothering you?” 

Keeley shifted uncomfortably, but her expression was firm when she replied, “Because that’s what I—”

“No,” Roy growled, waving a hand impatiently. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” He waved the phone at her, growling, “Fucking Tartt tried telling me—Tartt , Keeley! Why the fuck are you talking to fucking everyone but me?!” 

Nate, of all people, knew about Keeley’s frustration with him, knew about the arguments they’d had about Roy’s lack of desire to do much following his retirement, the vulnerabilities in their relationship laid bare like fucking bright orange training ground cones for the team to weave past. 

Even fucking Jamie, the fucking smug little prick, had gotten an earful.

Betrayal tasted like iron in his mouth, a metallic tang that twisted his gut. 

He’d known things were simmering, their schedules a tangled mess of early mornings and late nights blurring into one constant headache. But he’d thought—hoped—their connection was bigger than that. Stronger. Instead, his insecurities, raw and exposed, were fucking team gossip all over again.

And it wasn’t just the breach of privacy, the violation of their intimacy. 

It was that Roy had been here one too many times before. It wasn’t just Kiara, his girlfriend before Keeley, who’d stolen his watch and sold their sex life to the tabloids. It was the model he’d shagged a handful of times during London fashion week who’d leaked the details of their fling to a gossip rag, who had ensured they were photographed through the window of their hotel room—it was the WAG who'd used his name to climb the social ladder—the pop star who'd spun their whirlwind romance into a chart-topping ballad—it was the Gina fucking Gherson of it all. 

He’d believed, right from the start, right from the moment he had met her, years ago, when Keeley had still been shagging one of his Chelsea teammates, that Keeley was different. There’d been something painfully, scarily sincere about her, though he had not doubted for a single moment that she was fucking ruthless when she needed to be—no one made it to where she had in the modeling world by being soft and sweet at all times. 

When she’d come to her senses and had ditched Tartt, when they’d become closer, when they’d become a couple, Roy had been so sure he had found something real—someone he could trust and fucking rely on. 

Yet here he was, the fool once again, the details of their relationship fucking splashed all over his place of work by someone who was supposed to be his partner again. 

His breaths were coming in ragged gasps, each one fueling the inferno inside him. 

His fingers ached to hurl the phone, to shatter the screen into a million pieces like his carefully constructed image of their relationship.

“Roy, I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Keeley was saying, leaning forwards towards him, hands raised in supplication. “I didn’t know how to bring it up and you didn’t—you didn’t mind that we were talking about you—you said—” 

“When I thought it was fucking rubbish,” Roy shouted, throwing his hands up in disgust. “Fucking dumb stuff like how much hair I leave in the drain or that I don’t fucking put my socks in the hamper, not something that actually matters, Keeley!” He stared down at her, at her wide, slightly puzzled gaze, as if she genuinely didn’t understand why he was upset with her, like he was the one overreacting. 

“I just said that I need some time to myself!” she shouted back, jumping up too, poking a finger in his shoulder. “Some time without you just there , turning me on or reading or just— being there!” 

“And instead of telling me that,” Roy spat back, still incensed, still incandescently fucking furious, “You’ve been making it out to everyone like I’m following you around like a needy, clingy fucking fridge magnet!” 

Keeley’s own anger seemed to waver, regret flashing through her eyes for a brief moment before the frustration returned and she crossed her arms over her chest. 

“It’s not a big deal,” she insisted. “I was talking to some friends about some frustrations in our relationship—that’s what friends are for , Roy, you’d fucking know that if you had an —” She broke off, stopping herself just before she said something truly cruel, but Roy took the blow as if it’d been a physical one. 

He recoiled from her, staring at her as if he were seeing her anew—he never would’ve expected something like that to come from Keeley.

“Wow,” he said dryly, an odd, cool feeling of preternatural calm washing over him. “You really don’t understand, do you? I don’t care that you talked to your fucking friends, Keeley, I care that you went into our place of work and aired our dirty laundry to our coworkers, to my fucking team, who I have to coach and look in the fucking eye every fucking day, to my bosses, to your fucking prick of an ex—people that have no fucking business sticking their nose in our private life!” 

Keeley didn’t say anything. 

She didn’t need to. 

The silence between them was heavy, charged, and standing there, amidst the ruins of their shattered trust, Roy knew. Even if this had been just about boundaries, about space, it wasn’t something he would just be able to discard and move past. 

He knew, and he was sure that Keeley did too, that this fucking fight—this stupid fucking fight—this airing of their frustration and anger towards each other wasn’t going to mend them. It wasn’t going to help them clear the air so they could move on from this. 

They weren’t saving their fractured relationship. 

It was already broken beyond repair. 

—————

5 March 2021 

Roy was absolutely fine. 

He was, no matter what his sister said, no matter how unmoored and unsteady he felt, no matter how often he still startled awake to cold sheets, the scent of Keeley’s perfume lingering in his nostrils, no matter how many times he’d changed out the bedding. 

It was ridiculous. 

In terms of nasty splits, the end of his relationship with Keeley was very nearly amicable. 

It wasn’t like she’d stolen any of his belongings—Kiara—or taken cheeky nudes with him only to sell them to the nearest tabloid—Kathy—or stolen his keys to lock him out of his own house—Karen. She hadn’t looked up the hospital his sister worked at and made a scene there in a desperate bid to get his attention—Kelsey. 

She had not even ghosted him for two weeks before being photographed on a beach in Bora Bora with her tongue down someone else’s throat—Gina . 

There was no reason for him to feel as unsettled—heartbroken—as he did. 

And yet, every minute, every fucking second , the bitter taste of that breach of trust lingered, leaving a sour taste upon his lips that refused to fade. 

It went with him everywhere—when he was in the shower—when he was spending time with Phoebe, who didn’t quite understand why Keeley wasn’t around anymore—when he was on the pitch with the lads, shouting instructions at them—when he was trying to fucking work in his office and he could feel Ted and Beard’s concerned gazes on the back of his head. 

He felt like he was constantly teetering on the edge of a knife, unsure whether he was about to erupt in rage or crumble into pieces.

He was doing his best to keep it together at the club, because those fuckers knew far too much about his private life already—codependent, supportive little freaks—and because he was Roy-fucking-Kent. 

He didn’t do heartbroken. 

He didn’t do sad. 

Besides, it wasn’t like he and Keeley had been together that long. In the grand scheme of it, this should hardly have been a blip on his fucking radar. The intensity of his feelings had been undeniable from the first though, and when she’d come to her senses and had ditched Tartt, Roy hadn’t wasted a single fucking second. 

He didn’t like people very often, but he’d liked her. 

He’d taken it as a sign that what he and Keeley could have—did have—was real. 

He might not even have been wrong, really. 

What they’d had was real—the feelings, the relationship, the fucking fun—but so was the fucking anger he felt every time he thought about her now. 

He grunted in frustration at himself, refusing to think about her again, refusing to fall back into the spiral of doubt for the dozenth time since he had shut the door to Keeley’s house behind him the last time, because there wasn’t any point. Keeley might’ve been one of his more serious relationships, and she had certainly been the first one in a good long while, but she had hardly been the only. 

His sister, who had never shied away from telling him when he was being a fucking prick, had agreed with him when he had told her the whole thing—that more than anything else, cemented his resolve. 

Keeley was certainly allowed to need space, was allowed to set boundaries, but so was Roy. He was allowed to be upset about his private life being shared without his consent at his place of work. 

He was even allowed to decide that it was something he couldn’t get past. 

The knowledge that he had been right to walk away didn’t take away the sting of hurt every time he caught sight of Keeley in the halls though. It didn’t soothe the prickling feeling of helpless anger that threatened to consume him every time he caught Ted and Beard looking at him. It didn’t make it easier to ignore the whispers between the lads that would abruptly stop each time he stepped foot into the fucking locker room. 

He wished he were a bigger, more emotionally mature person. 

Wished he could just—could just ignore everything until it went away. Until this was the new normal and the memory of his and Keeley’s relationship burning to fucking cinders over something so fucking dumb had faded in everyone’s memories. 

He wanted to go out onto the pitch and run until his fucking body gave out, until his head went quiet and he could breathe. 

He ached for—for something—tangible—for control. 

A sudden clang and a slew of profanity followed by a burst of laughter drew him from his spiralling thoughts and his attention to the gym, where most of the lads were doing their lifting.

His eye naturally—immediately—inevitably fell on fucking Tartt, a familiar—infuriating—figure in the huddle of lads, all of them clustered around Colin, who was sitting on the ground for an unidentifiable reason, holding his head in both hands with a dazed expression. 

Muppets, the fucking lot of 'em.  

Tartt was fucking laughing, that fucking tongue hanging out of his mouth and—

“Oi! Tartt!”

The lads jumped, and he could faintly hear Ted yelp and drop something in the office beside him, but he didn’t—couldn’t—wouldn’t—take his eyes off Tartt. The fucking twat was blinking at him with wide eyes, confusion crinkling his forehead into a deep frown, pointing a finger at his own chest with his mouth still hanging open, a silent, apprehensive, “Me?” 

He stalked forward, disregarding the way the rest of the lads scattered out of his way, appropriately intimidated by his fucking presence, and seized Jamie by the arm. Jamie let out a soft little noise, surprise and indignance and fucking brattiness, but he let Roy drag him out of the gym without protest, soft and pliant under Roy’s insistent hands. 

Roy’s head was spinning. 

Jamie’s skin was warm and slick beneath his fingertips, and he could feel strong, defined muscle clench and unclench even as he allowed Roy to pull him out onto the pitch. It was raining very, very lightly and they were the only ones out there, which suited him just fine. 

He dragged Jamie to the dugout, where they stood at least somewhat protected from the rain—it wouldn’t do to let their star player catch a fucking cold—and released Jamie’s arm, spinning around to face him. 

Jamie was still looking at him, eyes wide, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his brow, shivering a little where he stood, dressed only in his hiked up shorts and a fucking sleeveless shirt with deep, open sides—fucking little peacock, showing off his thick fucking thighs and his pert little nipples like anyone had any desire to see the perfectly round, pink little nubs when they were just trying to do their jobs. 

Roy opened his mouth and—faltered. 

What had he dragged Jamie out here to say? What had been the plan? He wasn’t sure if he’d had one beyond wanting to rage at Jamie for being so fucking—fucking—Tartt. 

He closed his mouth and growled in frustration. 

“Alright, gaf?” Tartt asked slowly, his tone guarded, wiping the sweat from his brow as he regarded Roy with dark, penetrating eyes. “D’you need summat?” 

And fuck, wasn’t that a loaded fucking question to begin with—Roy had no fucking clue what he needed, why he’d dragged Jamie out here, what he fucking wanted with him—he only knew that he’d seen him and that the only logical course of action had been to grab him and drag him somewhere private and—and—and nothing—

“You were fucking sloppy today,” he blurted, refusing to react to the hurt that flashed across Jamie’s face before he managed to get his expression under control. 

“Right,” Tartt said slowly, fidgeting with the edge of his stupid, slutty top. “Right, well, if that’s all—” He pushed forward, knocking his shoulder against Roy’s as he pushed past him. 

Roy growled, grabbing Jamie’s arm again and dragging him back. Jamie didn’t come easily this time, pushing back against the tight hold Roy had on him. Roy knew he wasn’t actually trying to fight him though, because he was relatively sure Jamie could actually take him in a fight these days. 

“You can fucking do better, Tartt,” he insisted. “You fucking proved that in the Spurs match, but you’ve got to keep pushing.” 

Jamie made a face, but he didn’t protest. 

“You’re fucking coasting,” Roy growled, shoving at Jamie’s shoulder. “You think you’re better than you are, assume you’re the best on the fucking pitch and you don’t back it up nearly often enough.” 

Jamie opened his mouth to protest, to argue, but Roy was in no fucking mood and clapped his hand over Jamie’s mouth before the little shit could say anything. “You asked me to fucking coach you, and I’m going to.  But you’ve got to take it fucking seriously—take me seriously, d’you fucking hear? I’m going to fucking make you the best—but you’ve got to fucking mean it.” 

He lowered his hand slowly, both eyebrows raised, but Jamie didn’t say anything, didn’t do anything—just stared at him with those big, liquid eyes, and Roy’s train of thought abruptly derailed.  

Had his eyes always been that—that fucking big? 

He looked like one of those fucking Japanese cartoon characters in the shows Phoebe made him watch. 

He looked ridiculous. 

“But you hate me,” Jamie finally whispered, his voice trembling and so, so small it made something soft and sensitive in the deep recesses of Roy’s chest ache. 

He clenched his jaw and shook his head, opening his mouth for an immediate denial, because of course he didn’t hate Tartt—he couldn’t, because hate meant that he felt something and Roy didn’t feel any particular way about him, didn’t spend too much time thinking about Tartt in a non-professional capacity. 

He didn’t. 

“I don’t hate you,” he finally managed, truthfully. “I fucking don’t, Tartt—Jamie. You just fucking—” He reached out and curled his fingers around the back of Jamie’s neck, squeezing. 

Tartt let out the tiniest whimper and Roy choked, very nearly letting go. 

“I—” Roy’s voice, embarrassingly, gave out, and he growled, taking a deep breath before he continued, “You’ve got the fucking potential to be one of the fucking best players in the League, Tartt, and I know you’ve got the work ethic too.” He shook Jamie once, hard, and added, “Stop making yourself fucking smaller. Be a fucking prick on the pitch. Learn to fucking read the situation. You’re good at this shit—I know you are.” 

Jamie managed a tiny, quivering grin. “Careful mate. Someone ‘ears you, they might think you like me.” 

Roy scoffed. “No fucking chance of that.” 

He let go of Tartt and stepped back, the look of—of something in Jamie’s eyes too much to bear, too honest, too telling. He turned on his heel, striding away through the drizzle, and barked, “Four a.m. sharp,” over his shoulder. “Don’t you fucking dare be late, Tartt.” 

He heard Jamie sputter behind him, a choked little, “four?!” before he demanded, “Four a.m.?! Mate, what the fuck’s Keeley gonna say when you’re out of bed at four in the bleedin’ morning to come spend time with me?”

Roy froze in place, every muscle in his body tensed. He didn't turn around. “I don't care,” he said—lied—clenching his hands into fists. “We broke up.” 

He disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel without waiting for a reply, leaving Jamie standing alone in the dugout.  

—————

6 March 2021

Jamie sprawled back on the grass, arms and legs akimbo, looking distinctly green around the gills. There were several people out on the Green by now, chatting or jogging and generally looking puzzled and amused by the pathetic heap of moaning footballer in their park, but everyone knew better than to interrupt them. 

Roy grinned in satisfaction. 

Jamie let out a little burp, groaned, and whined, “I’m gonna fucking mither, mate.” He threw his arms over his face and moaned pathetically. “I thought you said you wanted me to become a better footballer. I can’t be that if you fucking murder me, Royo.” 

Roy snorted. “I’m not going to murder you,” he said mildly, sipping at the tea he’d brought. It was some kind of pretentious organic chamomile jasmine vanilla blend that his sister had gotten him—he hated how good it was. 

He took another sip and growled in satisfaction. 

He looked down at the pathetic heap of Tartt at his feet and nudged a toe against Jamie’s leg, feeling slightly generous. “You didn’t do horribly. You’re going to get better—faster. I’m going to make it happen.” 

Jamie squinted up at him. 

“You’re going to make me do more squats, aren’t you?” he said suspiciously. 

Roy smirked. 

Jamie groaned loudly, but he moved, climbing to his feet with all the grace of a toddler with a bad case of vertigo, and Roy’s head swam—that blind fucking obedience was… 

Fucking hell. 

Jamie jumped up and down a few times, swinging his arms before he glanced down at Roy, turned around and dropped down into a perfect squat. 

Roy couldn’t take his eyes off his arse. 

Fucking fuck. 

—————

16 March 2021

“You know, Roy,” Ted said jovially as they watched the lads play a less-than-professional game of five-a-side, “I’m mighty proud of the way you and Jamie have turned things around.” He clapped a hand to Roy’s shoulder and gestured to the pitch with the other, where Jamie was quite literally running circles around the others. 

Roy grunted in mild annoyance, although he couldn’t help but feel a tendril of pride as well. He’d only been training Jamie privately for about two weeks, but the difference in Jamie’s attitude had become apparent absurdly quickly. 

Roy had already known that Jamie had turned over a new leaf when he returned to Richmond, had heard that it was a condition of his return, had—extremely reluctantly—seen the way Jamie had already changed even before he and Roy had begun training together, but the change in him now was mind-boggling. 

“I don’t know what you said to him,” Ted continued, unperturbed, hands pushed deep into his pockets as he bounced on his toes, “but he’s really turned a corner. It’s good for the team too, see?” 

Jamie was bouncing from teammate to teammate, grinning wildly, clearly horsing around. He had scored four fucking goals already during this game, the talented fucking little prick, and had clearly decided that the best way to win the game for his team was to make a complete nuisance of himself for the time remaining in their practice match. 

It was fucking effective too.

The lads were all laughing and pushing and pulling at Jamie and each other, the ball forgotten somewhere behind the huddle. Roy rolled his eyes and, staunchly ignoring Ted, bellowed, “Oi! Tartt! Whistle! Fucking whistle!” 

Jamie swayed where he stood, bouncing on his toes as he turned to look at Roy with an expression of such eagerness that Roy’s breath stuttered for half a second—it’d been happening more frequently since he’d started coaching Jamie, he really needed to get that checked out—before he managed, “Stop fucking showboating, you little diva! Practice your left-foot cross, you’re being fucking sloppy!”

Jamie looked far from disheartened. Instead, he bounced again, smiling more broadly and fucking saluted him. “Yes, coach!” he shouted back, before turning back to Dani, who’d been hanging on his back, patting the other man on the bum affectionately before he stole the ball right from under Dani’s feet. 

The lads booed him loudly, setting out to chase him in a large group. 

Roy rolled his eyes. 

Fucking muppets. 

Ted was fucking right though, much as he hated it. 

Seeing the change in Jamie, knowing that he was at least partially responsible for it was fucking intoxicating. He was, admittedly, still an annoying little prick, but he was also stupidly hard-working and he actually listened when Roy told him to do something. 

He’d always assumed Jamie would be difficult to coach, that the fucking little twat would be recalcitrant and annoyed at every correction, that he would do whatever the hell he wanted anyway, regardless of what his coaches said—maybe he should’ve known better. 

He knew Pep didn’t tolerate half the shit that Cartrick had. 

He couldn’t help but wonder how different things might’ve been if Roy had been able to see that before. How his final season might’ve turned out if he had taken Jamie under his wing from the first. The way Jamie looked at him sometimes when they were training, eyes sparkling and shy, pleased smiles whenever Roy gave him something remotely resembling a compliment was... 

Had this really been all that Jamie wanted from the beginning? 

Roy grunted again, but he couldn’t quite stop the smile tugging at the corner of his lips either. 

Ted was smiling too, Roy could hear it in his infuriating voice when he spoke up again, “They were already getting along better, of course, I made that a condition of his return, but this—” he gestured towards the pitch again, “—this is something else.” He patted Roy on the shoulder. “Well done.” 

“Someone had to knock some sense into his thick fucking skull,” Roy growled, crossing his arms over his chest. He watched as Beard corralled the lads into something that appeared more like an actual football game rather than an absurd version of tag.

Ted was blessedly quiet for two minutes before he said, “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this—you’re both adults, but…” He hesitated and offered, “You do know that it’s not just about football for Jamie, don’t you? Being trained by you?”

Roy's jaw tightened, and he turned his gaze away from the pitch, fixing it on a distant point as if searching for an escape. “What the fuck are you implying, Ted?” he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended.

Every fiber of his being screamed denial, a chorus of ‘no fucking way,’ ‘absurd,’ and ‘get a fucking grip’ echoing in his head. The gentle remonstration hung heavy though, an unwelcome, intrusive finger pressing on the sensitive bruise of his growing attraction to Jamie.

Ted shrugged, undeterred by Roy's defensiveness. “Just an observation,” he replied casually. “But it’s clear as Mountain Dew to anyone with eyes that that boy still looks up to you, respects you even. I know you two’ve got a complicated past, but I’ve seen the way you look at him, too.”

He hesitated, “Just be careful.” 

Roy frowned, unable to hide the quick flicker of discomfort before he managed to school his features into an expressionless mask again. “You’re fucking delusional, Ted,” he spat, but even he could tell that his voice sounded more brittle than it should’ve.

He returned his gaze to Jamie, who was once again playing with a determination that belied his earlier antics. There was a knot forming in Roy’s stomach, a feeling he couldn’t quite shake off no matter how hard he tried to ignore it. 

It seemed undeniable that Jamie thrived under his guidance, and Roy had—had fucking thrived too, hadn’t he? 

He barely thought about Keeley anymore. 

These days, all he could fucking think about was fucking Jamie Tartt, and he’d—he’d thought it was normal. He was spending most of the day with Jamie, was spending quite a bit of the time they weren’t together thinking about him too, thinking about how to make him better, faster, stronger, smarter— 

The image twisted in his mind, morphing into something predatory, manipulative. 

Was that how it looked? Was that what he’d been doing?

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. 

Helpless anger clawed at his throat, and shame, hot and prickly, crawled up his neck. He hadn’t—he hadn’t been unaware of the way Jamie looked at him either. He didn’t fucking like Tartt, but he wasn’t fucking blind either—Jamie had told him, once, that he’d been a fan of Roy’s when he was a kid. 

It hadn’t been difficult to recognise signs of Jamie’s days as a fanboy returning. 

And Roy had been—arrogant—flattered—lonely—sad—exhilarated—and he had let it happen. He hadn’t tried to enforce any sort of boundaries during their private sessions, had mostly ignored it when Jamie blatantly flirted, had secretly—silently—desperately—revelled in having someone’s undivided attention and unwavering admiration. 

He wasn’t some fucking predator though.

Ted’s remark, as fucking innocently as he had probably meant for it to be, forced him to look at it in a way he had been distinctly avoiding before. 

He wanted to fucking help Tartt, wanted to make him better, shape him into the fucking monster of a player Roy knew he could be if he truly applied himself. He wanted to say that that was all, but—but—fucking hell, had Jamie become more than just one of his fucking lads? Was there something—something more, there? 

A part of him—a traitorous whisper in the back of his mind—found solace in Jamie’s adoration. 

The way his eyes lit up at Roy’s praise, the unquestioning obedience, the hero worship bordering on devotion—though Roy was sure that Jamie thought he was being subtle—it was intoxicating, and Roy wasn’t sure he wanted to put a stop to it at all. 

He glanced towards Ted. “I’ve got it under control,” he insisted. 

—————

Hours later, Roy swung his front door open with a groan, the porch light spilling inside, lighting the wooden floors with warm, yellow light. Roy stomped in first, muscles tight and mind still fucking churning like a washing machine on a demented spin cycle. Jamie followed, bouncing on the balls of his feet, a goofy grin plastered across his face.

“You were supposed to run, not fucking sprint, you fucking showoff,” Roy growled, shutting the door rather louder than he meant to, making the picture frames with family pictures on the wall—Phoebe had insisted on framing and hanging the pictures of their last holiday in Spain—rattle. 

“Aw, coach,” Jamie whined, following him out of the hallway and into the kitchen. “You said I had to push myself! Besides, I had to sprint, innit? Couldna keep up with Roy-fuckin'-Kent otherwise,” he winked cheekily, his eyes sparkling playfully. 

Roy scoffed, turning away to avoid the sight. 

He’d struggled through the fucking private training, had tried to act normally, like he hadn’t suddenly been forced to shine a giant fucking spotlight on his complicated feelings for Jamie fucking Tartt, like the way Jamie looked at him didn’t set his blood alight in a way even Keeley had never quite managed. 

He ducked into the fridge, searching for the nearest cold drink he could find. He needed something to cool himself the fuck down. 

Jamie seemed undettered by his non-verbal response—he always was, fucking little shit—and perched on a barstool behind him, chattering without ceasing, even when Roy growled at him and shoved a bottle of Lucozade in his hand. 

Jamie beamed at him, and Roy’s heart did the funny flop in his chest again—he really did need to get that checked, his sister would murder him if he died of a preventable heart attack—so he turned away, pulling the marinated chicken and vegetables that he’d prepared this morning from the fridge to cook them fucking dinner. 

Tartt continued chatting, although he also obediently sipped at his Lucozade when Roy glared at him—good lad—about everything and nothing. Roy learned, as he seared the chicken on both sides before setting it in the oven to finish cooking, about his mum, some bloke named Simon and his latest culinary creations and Jamie’s weekly coffee dates with Keeley—Roy made a mental note to put a stop to those. 

There was absolutely no way he was going to let Jamie mess up his nutritional plan with a coffee that sounded like it had enough sugar to make a hummingbird hyperventilate—not now that Roy had decided to train him. 

Jamie was going to stick to his nutritional plan even if Roy had to kill him. 

“—ne from Tottenham slid into my DMs,” Jamie was saying, squinting down at his phone in contemplation. “Can’t tell what ‘e wants. It’s probably a shag, why else would he be talking to me?” He shrugged. “I’m good, but he should be giving me tips, not the other way around.” He pouted down at the phone screen—such a child—and added, “Bet he just wants to shag.” 

Roy tensed without meaning to, and he could feel his forehead crease into a frown even though he didn’t want to frown—it was none of his business who Jamie was shagging, and more than that, he didn’t care—

Jamie’s hand landed heavily on Roy’s forearm, drawing his attention back to Jamie roughly. “Alright, grandad?” 

Roy grunted, staunchly ignoring the way his stomach lurched. “You—you think he’s chatting you up? And you’re… you’re alright with that?” It came out rougher than Roy intended.

Jamie shrugged nonchalantly, but Roy recognised the glint of uncertainty in his expression nonetheless. “He’s pretty fit,” Jamie said, not quite looking at Roy. “I wouldn’t mind, I don’t think.” 

“But he’s—” Roy wanted to stop himself, wanted to take back the words before they’d left his mouth, hated how archaic they sounded even in his own head, but he couldn’t, couldn’t quite keep it in, couldn’t stop himself. “—Tartt, he’s a fucking bloke.” 

Jamie’s expression went very carefully blank, and Roy knew he’d fucked up. 

The temperature in the room seemed to dip immediately, and Roy’s heart pounded hard against his ribs. 

Fucking hell. 

He was fucking better than this. 

Christ, he’d sounded like it was an issue. 

“So?” Jamie challenged, his voice shaky despite the defiance in his tone. There was a vulnerability there, a flicker of fear Roy hadn’t expected. 

Shame washed over him, hot and unwelcome.

“So nothing,” he mumbled gruffly, forcing himself to relax. 

He didn’t want to be that fucking bloke, didn’t want to be someone Jamie had to be careful around. “I just—just didn’t know.” 

There was something expectant in Jamie’s expression still, and Roy desperately dug back in his memory, trying to remember what he’d said when Keeley made it a point to officially come out to him—he’d known, of course, he’d seen her with a myriad of partners over the years, male and female—but he kept drawing a blank. 

Jamie’s eyes were steadily getting bigger and wetter and Roy wanted to tear his own eyes out so he didn’t have to look at him. 

Fucking fuck. 

“I’m bisexual,” Jamie finally said, voice soft, barely above a whisper. “It’s not—it’s not a secret. I think the lads know. And Keeley definitely—I mean, we did blokes too, sometimes, when we were together.” 

The reminder of his and Jamie’s shared past with Keeley—the fucking mention of her at all—left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he swallowed it down. 

This wasn’t about Keeley.

“That’s—” he managed, the words feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth, “—right, okay. Thank—thank you for telling me.” He still felt horribly awkward, too clumsy and too fucking emotionally stunted to say whatever it was that Jamie clearly needed to hear. 

Jamie still smiled, though there was something small and scared in his eyes. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, granddad. You look like you’re about to pop a vein.” 

He cackled when Roy threw one of the potato peels at him, dodging it with an impish grin on his face. 

“Prick,” Roy grunted, but he knew he sounded more affectionate than he meant to. The little shit might get the wrong idea and think that Roy actually liked him—perish the fucking thought. 

Jamie fluttered his eyelashes at him. “You say the sweetest things to me.” 

Rof huffed in annoyance—exasperation—fondness—adoration—and turned to continue cooking. He’d learned early on during their training sessions, in a rare bout of self-preservation, that it was much better for his own sanity to ignore Jamie when he was in a mood like this—all fucking—flirty and soft and warm. 

“Are you doing that—that thing with the chicken, coach?” Jamie demanded, leaning heavily on the counter as he watched Roy work. “The one you made the other day after the game? That were fucking lush.” He sighed dreamily, and something in Roy’s chest warmed at Jamie’s blatant enthusiasm for his food. 

Fucking Christ, he needed to get a fucking grip . 

He growled. 

“Fucking hell, Royo,” Jamie smirked—Roy didn’t need to fucking look at the little prick, he could fucking feel it—tapping his fingers against Roy’s counter in an unidentifiable rythm. “Unclench, mate. I’m complimenting you. You’re almost as good a cook as you are a coach.” 

Roy turned, and when his eyes met Jamie’s, he suddenly couldn’t fucking breathe. 

“You’re being a fucking little shit. I ought to make you do fucking burpees until you throw up again,” he spat, but there was no real heat to his words. 

“Now you’re just threatening me with a good time,” Jamie teased, smiling mischievously as he gazed at Roy. “You already know I’ll do whatever you tell me too, mate.”

—and that—fucking hell—that hit just right in some primal part of Roy’s brain and fucking overwhelmed him. The air between them suddenly felt fucking charged, like the surge of desire that had fucking pulsed through him at Jamie’s words had been so strong it’d escaped him and affected everything around them too. 

It was intoxicating, delicious and utterly terrifying all at once. 

Jamie’s eyes were dark and intense on his and Roy tried very desperately to remind himself that he needed to maintain those professional boundaries he had been determined to honour less than five fucking minutes ago. It was one thing to let Tartt fucking flirt—it’d be another entirely to actually—to—

The idea of Tartt’s fucking submission, of Jamie willingly—eagerly—putting himself under Roy’s control though—Roy had never fucking needed something as badly as he did this, had never quite hungered for someone the way he did now and it was really fucking annoying . 

He stomped closer despite his better judgement, rounding the kitchen island until he and Tartt were chest-to-fucking-chest, their eyes still locked onto one another and he couldn’t fucking remember how to breathe —

“You need to shut your pretty fucking mouth before it gets you into fucking trouble, you twat,” Roy growled, but the words came out much softer, much more tender than Roy had meant for them to. 

Fucking shit. 

Jamie’s voice fucking trembled as he whispered, “You think I’m pretty?” 

Raw, unspoken desire pooled in his gut as he gazed at the other man, the tension pulsating in the air, so thick it was nearly unbearable. Much as Jamie fucking Tartt had always gotten under his fucking skin, had always been able to make his blood fucking boil, Roy hadn’t ever really thought it’d turn into—into something like this . 

He looked at Jamie, oddly breathless, perfectly aware that what he said next would either break the moment and return them to their previous status quo—to safe, well trodden ground—or topple them off the precipice on which they’d suddenly found themselves. 

He swallowed thickly and licked his dry lips. 

Jamie’s eyes flickered down. 

Roy stepped closer, his hand landing heavy on Jamie’s hip. “Jamie,” he said warningly, desperately. “Say ‘no’.” His voice trembled. “Fucking tell me ‘no’.”  

He watched Jamie swallow thickly and then, slowly, as if giving Roy time to back the fuck off, reached up with trembling hands, cupping Roy’s cheeks in his hands. “Roy,” he whispered, as if he, too, was unwilling to shatter the fragile moment between them. “I’m never going to tell you ‘no’.” 

Roy was only human and he was far from a fucking perfect one.

He liked being wanted. 

He fucking loved being needed, and he was starting to think he’d never quite been wanted the way Jamie fucking Tartt wanted him. 

It was a heady fucking feeling, but it was fucking madness too—he was Tartt’s fucking coach, he was fifteen fucking years older than he was, they hated each other and it was—there were so many fucking reasons this was a bad fucking idea and absolutely none of them were enough to actually convince him to stop. 

“Roy—” Jamie cut off abruptly when Roy lunged forward, curling his fingers around the back of Jamie’s neck, smashing their lips together in a breathless, messy approximation of a kiss. It was a disaster, their teeth clacking together and their noses bumping painfully, and it was one of the most breathtaking kisses Roy had ever fucking had. 

Tartt stole the fucking air from his lungs and he barely had the opportunity to relish in the taste of his lips before Jamie retreated, almost as abruptly as Roy had leapt forward, his cheeks flushed and eyes wide, and lips decidedly pinker than they had been.

“Fucking hell, Royo,” he stammered, his hands shaking where they clutched at Roy’s biceps. “I didn’t—are you—I know we shouldn’t—” 

Roy blinked at him, desperately trying to reboot his brain so that he could say—something—anything—so he could take the out Tartt had given him, but—but—but Tartt was still leaning against him, and the weight of him felt warm and comfortable and it was a fucking exhilarating, almost unfamiliar feeling he was loathe to let go of.

Maybe—just fucking maybe—it didn’t need to be so complicated at all.

Maybe, this could be very simple.

“We really shouldn’t,” he agreed, nodding. “But don’t you want to?” he asked absently, finding that he could not tear his eyes from Jamie’s full lips. 

He didn’t wait for an answer, and Jamie gasped when Roy leaned in again. He kissed back eagerly though, willingly following Roy into another kiss, far deeper and hungrier than the first. 

It was so fucking easy to lose himself in Jamie’s eager touch and in the sensual slide of their lips, and easy to let Jamie draw him even closer. He curled his fingers in Tartt’s stupid fucking hair to tilt his head the way Roy wanted him—and fuck if the moan Tartt let out at that didn’t do something to Roy—and around his waist until they were pressed together from knee to nose so tightly he could not tell where he began and Jamie ended.

It was fucking different—Roy hadn’t snogged a bloke in fucking years , and it was fucking weird, the solid fucking feel of Jamie’s body against his, the barest hint of stubble on Jamie’s chin rasping against his but it was fucking amazing and Roy didn’t want to stop fucking ever. 

It was fucking hot and it wasn’t anything like kissing Keeley had been, but it was the same too, because Tartt—fucking Tartt had always managed to inspire a level of emotion in him that only Keeley had ever matched. 

Of course, the feeling Jamie had most often inspired had been rage, but it still counted. 

He slipped one hand down from Jamie’s waist to his fantastic fucking arse and pulled him closer, grinding their hips together slow and fucking filthy until Jamie let out a deep, guttural moan against Roy’s lips. 

Fucking fuck, he wanted to fucking devour him.

Slowly and extremely reluctantly, he leaned back, barely able to hold back a groan when Jamie refused to let him go, pressing his fingers against the back of his neck insistently and whining quietly when he persisted in breaking the kiss. “Hush, you little shit,” he whispered. “I’m not fucking going anywhere.”

“We’re doing that again,” Jamie ordered, clutching at Roy as if he were afraid Roy was going to let go—as if Roy were even remotely capable anymore—tilting his hips up towards Roy’s. “Fucking hell, mate, you can’t fucking go around snogging people like that and then never do it again—I’ll fucking die if I never get to do that again—” 

“Settle the fuck down,” Roy grinned, more than a little delighted by how fucking desperate he’d managed to get Tartt with a single fucking kiss. He leaned in for another, lingering kiss before he disentangled their limbs. 

“Come on,” he told Jamie as he turned off the oven and the stovetop before moving towards the stairs, turning when Jamie didn’t immediately follow him. Jamie was still where he left him, standing by the kitchen island with wide eyes and swollen lips and messy, messy fucking hair—Roy wanted to fucking devour him. 

“Well?” Roy demanded, eyebrows raised. “You planning on coming?” 

Jamie swallowed thickly. “Am I allowed to?” 

Roy grinned, sharply. “If you’re good.” 

 —————

“Fucking hell, granddad,” Jamie panted, falling back against the pillows. “Who knew you could bend that way? Fucking yoga.” 

Roy grumbled wordlessly, staring up at the ceiling for another heartbeat before he turned to Jamie, fitting his hand around the back of Jamie’s neck and tugging him in for another filthy kiss. He was rapidly growing addicted to the way Jamie melted into him when Roy kissed him, clutching at Roy as if he were a life preserver and Jamie was floating in the middle of the ocean, like he couldn’t get enough and would fucking die if Roy ever deemed to let go. 

It was fucking intoxicating. 

“If I’d known that was all it took to shut you up,” Roy grumbled once he’d released Jamie, “I would’ve fucking done it years ago.” 

Jamie giggled, eyes wide and mildly hysterical, and tipped his head forward to rest against Roy’s. “Years, yeah?” He smirked, nudging his nose against Roy’s playfully. “I fucking knew I wasn’t imagining the way you looked at me—knew you couldn’t resist me even then—” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Roy growled, his insides hot and squirmy with delight and embarrassment and more feelings than he cared to label. 

“Nah, ‘s alright, mate, I know I’m—” Jamie’s words abruptly cut off into a moan when Roy rolled back on top of him and scraped his teeth along Jamie’s collarbone in retaliation. It really was a very effective way to shut him up.

 “Oh, fuck,” Jamie moaned, digging his fingers into Roy’s hair, sliding a leg up over Roy’s hips again. “Christ, Roy, give us a minute, yeah? I can go again fast, but not that fast.” 

Roy chuckled against the salty skin of Jamie’s neck, nipping at the pretty little bruise he’d left there at some point, pleased with the way Jamie arched into him despite his own words, before leaning up on his elbows to look at him as he replied, “Where’s that stamina you’re always fucking crowing about now, Tartt?” 

Jamie squawked, clearly offended, but Roy cut him off before he could get sidetracked by fucking talking with another kiss, and fuck him, how was he ever going to have enough of him? Roy loved the way Jamie immediately sank into him. 

Once the haze of sex endorphins wore off, Roy swore to himself, he’d figure out a way to go back to normal. He didn’t particularly want to go back to before he’d known what Jamie’s lips tasted like and what he sounded like when he came and how well their bodies fit together—but he would do it. 

It was the right thing to do. 

It wasn’t going to happen again. 

He couldn’t undo the knowledge but. 

but. 

It wouldn’t happen again. 

Jamie moaned so very prettily against his lips and Roy’s thoughts ground to an absolute standstill. Fucking hell. 

After this, he promised himself. It wouldn’t happen again after this. 

—————

30 March 2021

Jamie pressed into his arms as soon as Roy got back into bed, flinging an arm across his chest and a leg over his waist, effectively pinning him in place. “Where’d you go?” the younger man complained. “I got cold.” 

He pressed the cold tip of his nose against Roy’s cheek, the little prick’s breath warm and moist against his chin. 

Roy grunted, playing at annoyance, but he was fucking charmed, wasn’t he? 

Despite the best fucking intentions, despite all of his conviction that once would be enough, falling into bed with Jamie and continuing to do it was so fucking easy it fucking terrified him. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here—how he’d gone from training to snogging and shagging to actively fucking dating a man he would’ve sworn he hated less than two months ago. 

It wasn’t supposed to be this easy.

Nothing Roy did had ever been this easy. 

Jamie was really fucking terrifying and Roy couldn’t get fucking enough of him. 

He slipped his arms around him and dragged him closer. 

He fucking loved this though—always fucking loved cuddling and holding whoever he’d invited into his bed—and there was something about the way that Jamie was just as fucking clingy, just as fucking hungry for every single touch, that drove Roy mad. 

He curled into Jamie, grunted, “Needy little fucker,” and dug his fingers into the meat of his arse—because he still insisted on sleeping without bottoms, the horny twat—to drag him as close as physically possible. 

Jamie hummed, delighted, as usual, that Roy was letting him hang off him. “You fucking love it.” Roy growled, but he couldn’t even really deny it—Jamie hadn’t fucking left his bed since the first time Roy had taken him there except for training and Roy didn’t feel particularly inclined to let him leave either. 

He’d been surprised, early on, how easy it was to just be with Jamie. 

He still was, sometimes. 

Their relationship had always been fraught with tension, a delicate dance of resentment, rivalry and something so close to adoration Roy had never dared to really look at it before. 

He still didn’t, still refused to really acknowledge it, even with Jamie soft and warm in his bed, with the taste of Jamie’s skin lingering on his lips and bruises in the shape of his mouth littering the sensitive skin of Jamie’s neck and shoulders. 

“Shut up,” he told Jamie, shoving him over onto his back and rolling on top of him for a deep, heady kiss. Jamie went willingly, shoving his hands up into Roy’s hair and moaning into the kiss like the needy little shit that he was. 

Fucking hell, Roy might actually adore him. 

He leaned back reluctantly, both of them breathing heavily. Roy’s heart was still pounding, his mind fogged with desire, and he wanted to dive right back in, wanted to spend their day off working on Jamie’s cardio in a distinctly more pleasurable way than their usual run—

His phone rang, Phoebe’s school’s distinctive ringtone piercing through the haze, reality crashing back in with a jolt. 

He swore, rolling off of Jamie to snatch his phone off the nightstand, answering it immediately. “Kent,” he barked, brow furrowed and concern making his stomach churn in discomfort. 

“Hello Mr. Kent,” a cool, crisp voice spoke on the other end. “This is Catherine from Richmond Primary School. There’s been an incident with your niece, Phoebe. We tried to reach her mother, but—” 

Roy swore again. “She’s fucking working,” he snapped, harsher than the woman on the other end of the line probably deserved. “She’s a surgeon, she’s probably not got her phone.” He pushed up, out of the bed, ignoring the ache in his knee, and paced in front of the bed. 

Jamie sat up too, tracking his movements with his eyes, his brow furrowed in concern. 

“Is Phoebe alright?” he demanded. 

“Quite,” Catherine said succinctly. “She’s absolutely fine, but her teacher has requested to speak to a parent or guardian as soon as possible.”

“Right,” Roy grunted, ruthlessly squashing down the urge to fucking panic, his mind racing with scenario after scenario as he tried to imagine what the fuck could’ve happened that was so bad they needed to call in her guardian at—he checked the clock—fucking ten o’clock in the morning. 

“I’ll be there soon,” he decided, his voice firm with determination as he ended the call and turned to Jamie. “I’ve got to go,” he told him curtly, though Jamie had clearly heard him say he had to go, pulling a clean pair of Calvin’s from the drawer and a shirt from the floor, where it had landed after Jamie had peeled it off him. 

“Family emergency,” he explained, his words rushed as he scrambled to gather his thoughts. He didn’t know why he felt fucking panicked—he already knew Phoebe was fine. “Phoebe fucking needs me, so I—I nee—” He glanced towards Jamie, who was still where Roy had left him, uncertainty splashed across his features. “I have to go,” he said again. 

Jamie’s expression softened, and he crawled towards the foot of the bed, reaching out to take one of Roy’s hands in his. 

“D’you want me to come with you?” he asked softly. 

“Fuck off,” Roy snapped, “Why the fuck would I want you to come fucking with?” 

Hurt flickered across Jamie’s face, and Roy’s chest tightened with guilt immediately, the words hanging heavily in the air between them. 

“Right,” Jamie swallowed thickly, cheeks flushing in an uneven, splotchy blush. “I were just offerin’, mate—no need to be a fucking prick about it.” He dropped Roy’s hand and got up, grabbing the nearest pair of pants off the floor—Roy was ninety percent those were his —and pulled them on. “I’ll be out of your hair in a minute, yeah?” 

Roy watched, frozen, as Jamie got dressed, warring with himself to do something—say something—but it wasn’t until Jamie was actually heading out the door that he managed to move, managed to step forward and curl his fingers around Jamie’s wrist to halt him in his tracks. 

“Fucking wait,” he said, softening his tone when Jamie looked at him in alarm, remorse fucking choking him. Jamie hesitated, his gaze wary as he looked back at Roy, uncertainty still lingering in his eyes.

Fucking fuck, Roy hated Jamie looking at him like that. 

“I’m—” he ground his teeth. “I’m fucking sorry, alright? That’s not—I’m just fucking worried. I—it’s easy taking out my negative shit on others.” It was a shitty fucking apology as far as apologies went, but it seemed like it were enough for Jamie, who turned all the way back towards him now. 

“Come with me,” Roy blurted, before he could think it over too much. 

Jamie blinked in surprise. “Are—are you sure?” 

“Yes,” Roy nodded. “It’ll be good. You can meet Phoebe.” 

A brilliant smile tugged at Jamie’s lips, relief flooding his features as he reached out to grasp Roy’s hand once more. “Mint,” he murmured, his voice filled with excitement, bouncing in place for half a breath before he dropped Roy’s hand and skipped out of the room. “Let’s go then!” 

Roy shook his head, feeling disgustedly fond. “Fucking muppet.” 

—————

“Oi,” Roy shouted as he stepped outside after his talk with Miss Bowen, watching Jamie spin Phoebe around on his shoulder, the football forgotten by his feet. “We’re leaving. Phoebe, go apologise to Miss Bowen and get your things.” 

Jamie set her down onto her feet, steadying her when she wobbled dizzily before rushing past Roy, back into the school. 

Roy stepped outside and sank onto one of the swings with a sigh that rattled the chains. The playground was empty but for him and Jamie, the late morning sun casting shadows across the empty swings and slides. 

Shame sat heavy in his chest, a physical weight pulling him down. He didn’t want Miss Bowen to be right, didn’t want to think that he was a bad influence on his niece, because he adored her and he wanted what was best for her and—sure, maybe Phoebe had picked up on some of the more colourful language he used, but she wasn’t a fragile china doll either. 

Phoebe was a whirlwind of laughter and scraped knees, and the idea of him being the one to ruin her sunny disposition felt like a punch to the gut.

Another sigh escaped him, raw and heavy. 

He didn’t even notice Jamie approaching him until a soft hand landed on his shoulder, and though a small, angry part of him wanted to take out his anger and embarrassment on Jamie, he remembered the other man’s expression from earlier that morning and didn’t ever want to be the reason for it again. 

Instead, he leaned into the touch.

“Rough meeting?” Jamie asked softly. 

Roy nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. He felt like a giant oaf, a walking stereotype, and suddenly the urge to swear and shout until he couldn’t feel anything anymore felt overwhelming. 

“She’s been swearing. Calling other kids ugly fucking names,” Roy rasped. “Miss Bowen thinks I’m—a bad fu—a bad influence. Messing her up.” 

“You? Messing her up?” Jamie snorted, a light, mirthful sound. “Roy, mate, she’s probably learned more devastating insults from Peppa Pig and fucking Bing than she ever has from you. Little kids are little fucking pricks either way.” 

A genuine smile tugged at Roy’s lips. 

He knew Jamie was exaggerating, but the sentiment made him feel lighter.

“So she swears,” Jamie continued, a little more seriously. “So she learned a few curse words from you. So fucking what? You’re not a bad influence—look at me. I fucking worshipped you as a kid and I turned out fine.” 

Roy rolled his eyes. “You’re a fucking muppet.” 

Jamie smirked, stepping up between Roy’s spread knees, curling his fingers in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “Fucking muppet or not, I’m here with you, innit? Lookin’ up to you inspired me to make it as far as I did—still does. You’re that little girl’s fucking hero, Roy. So what if you fucking swear—Phoebe loves you. She thinks you’re the coolest uncle on the planet, and nothing any stupid teacher says can change that.”

Jamie’s words, spoken with conviction and genuine affection, washed over Roy like a balm. He squeezed Jamie’s hips, tilting his head forward to rest against his sternum, hiding the tears pricking his eyes.

“You’re just saying that so I’ll fucking shag you later,” he accused half-heartedly. 

Jamie snorted a laugh, leaning down to press a smacking kiss to the top of Roy’s head. “You’re going to shag me anyway, mate.” He tugged on Roy’s hair, tilting his head back so he could look him in the eye, and Roy wondered when it had become so fucking easy to confide in Jamie, when he had learned to trust him. 

“Let’s go get Phoebe some ice cream,” Jamie offered. “And you can talk to her about it, yeah?” 

Roy exhaled. Nodded. 

“Yeah. Alright.” He got to his feet, spotting Phoebe coming out of the school with a spring in her step. “Let’s go.” 

—————

3 April 2021

Jamie trembled in his arms, tears soaking the shoulder of Roy’s kit, his hands clenched tight in the fabric as if he were afraid that Roy was going to let him go. As if Roy was even remotely capable of taking his hands off of Jamie on the best of days—he certainly couldn’t do it now, when he was afraid Jamie might tremble to pieces if Roy didn’t hold him together. 

Around them, the others muttered amongst themselves, slowly beginning to change and get their things together, filing out of the room one by one. 

Roy continued holding Jamie. 

Beard briefly stepped into his eyeline, nodding towards the exit with raised eyebrows, but Jamie was still sobbing, and Roy shook his head. Jamie was in no state to ride the bus back to Richmond with the others, not now. Roy could find them another way home when he’d managed to calm Jamie down enough to actually let him go. 

Beard just nodded silently and disappeared as swiftly as he had appeared. 

Fucking weirdo. 

“Oi,” he said softly, gently, an indeterminate amount of time later, when Jamie’s tears finally subsided and he was mostly just hiccuping miserably, his face pressed into Roy’s shoulder, “Tartt. Jamie. Deep breath, alright? Get your stuff together so we can go.” 

Jamie pulled back abruptly, wiping a hand across his face. “Shite, sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t mean—” He cleared his throat and turned back to his cubby, hands shaking as he pulled his jumper from its hanger. “I just need a minute, yeah? We can—the bus won’t—” He continued stammering, shakily trying to untie his boots and miserably failing—Roy was sure the knot was now bigger than it had been when Jamie had started fiddling with it—and Roy couldn’t stand it.

He wasn’t good at this, at any of this, but fuck him, he somehow managed to fall in fucking love with this stupid prick and he was pretty sure that feeling wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. 

“Stop,” he said, taking Jamie’s shaking hands in his. “Stop, Jamie.”

Jamie froze again, looking up at him with big, watery blue eyes and something deep inside Roy’s chest clenched. “You don’t have to—” Roy tried, “The bus is already gone, yeah? We’ll catch a hack to get home. You don’t have to rush. Just—slow down. We have some time.” Jamie was still looking at him as if Roy held all the fucking answers in the universe and Roy almost longed for the time they’d been at each other’s throats because at least then he’d known what to do. 

He didn’t know what to do with the way Jamie looked at him now. 

There was a reason they hadn’t talked about—about everything—about spending every day for the past month together—about the shagging and the kissing and the fucking unending deep, emotional conversations that Roy pretended to fucking hate much more than he actually did—about how well Jamie fit into his life and about how Roy couldn’t keep his hands off of him. 

Jamie had been unbearably smug about it and so they hadn’t talked about it but—but.

Roy was well past denying that there was something real there. 

His hand only shook a little when he pushed his fingers through Jamie’s hair, pushing the stupid headband out of the way as he did. Jamie’s eyes fluttered shut for a second and Roy swallowed thickly. “Change and get your things so we can go,” he told Jamie, more gently than he had ever spoken to him before. 

Jamie was a fucking muppet, but he was clearly still very shaken and Roy couldn’t help but want to make this—everything—anything—easier for him. 

His hand was still in Jamie’s hair. 

Fuck his life. 

He gave Jamie’s head a gentle shake. “Go on then,” he told him sternly. 

Jamie obeyed almost immediately, but his movements were sluggish now, as if he were sapped of all of his remaining energy and was only still moving because Roy had told him to move. When he wasn’t being an obstinate little fucker, he took to being told what to do beautifully. 

It drove Roy a little nuts.

“I’ll arrange a ride,” he told Jamie when the other man began pulling off his kit, turning away from the miles of golden skin being revealed before he did something unimaginably stupid like kiss every inch of available skin on Jamie’s back while anyone could walk in on them. “I’ll wait for you outside.” 

He turned, but before he’d moved a foot, Jamie’s fingers circled his wrist and held him back. 

He turned, finding a wide-eyed, bare chested Jamie looking up at him with a desperate expression. “I—I can’t—don’t—” Jamie tried, eyes darting from his own hand on Roy’s wrist to the exit and back, a little wild and obviously not thinking very clearly.  

Roy hesitated.

Fuck, he wasn’t good at this kind of shit.  

“He’s not coming back,” he offered awkwardly, unsure of how else he could reassure him. “Beard tossed him out on his arse and he’ll have told security not to let him back in either.” Jamie, like Roy had expected he would, flinched nonetheless at the mention of his arsehole of a father. 

He didn’t look particularly soothed by Roy’s assurance either. 

“Can—” Jamie asked in a tiny, barely audible voice, “Can you just—I’m almost done. Can you—” 

Roy waited, but Jamie didn’t finish his sentence, casting his gaze down to his sock clad toes. “Fucking hell, I—” Roy began, cutting off when Jamie looked up at him again, jaw clenched defiantly, as if he was preparing for Roy to fucking tell him off. 

Shit. 

“I’ll be right outside,” he said, instead of whatever he had been prepared to say earlier. He gestured towards the double doors. “No one’s getting past me, alright? But I can’t call for a car in here, there’s no signal.” He held up his phone and wiggled it as if to illustrate his point—God, he felt like an idiot, treating Jamie fucking Tartt with kid gloves as if he wasn’t the same cocky bastard who lived to annoy the hell out of Roy at every opportunity. 

He half-expected Jamie to push back anyway, to realise how horribly vulnerable he had shown himself to be and to act like the prince of all pricks to offset it, but instead, Jamie deflated and nodded, his eyes suspiciously watery. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, yeah, I—thank you.” 

Roy nodded, unsure of what he could or should say next, because Jamie did seem less panicked, but he clearly hadn’t regained his normal state of being yet either, because he was still twisting the fabric of his shirt between his fingers, unsure and hunched over, trying to make himself appear so much smaller than he was—than he should be. 

Roy was moving before he’d consciously thought about doing it. 

He caught Jamie’s chin between his fingers and tilted his head up, forcing Jamie to look at him before he leaned in to seal their lips together in a chaste, firm kiss.

And sure—sure, he had snogged Jamie before, had spent an inordinate amount of time learning the way Jamie liked to be kissed and touched, but this —this chaste press of lips and the small, barely there sound that Jamie made just before their lips connected made the kiss feel a hundred times more intimate than the positively filthy kisses they’d exchanged up until then. 

If he thought about it too hard, it messed with his head. 

Jamie pressed into the kiss a little desperately, dropping his shirt to the floor and getting both hands on Roy’s face, holding him so tightly Roy was sure it would bruise if he kept holding on like that. Slowly, he peeled Jamie’s hands away, breaking the kiss and taking a deep breath. 

“I’ve got you,” he told Jamie seriously. “I’ve got you.” 

Jamie exhaled shakily. “Okay.” 

—————

25 April, 2021 

Roy sighed, resisting the urge to check his watch. 

He’d come to the funeral with Ted, Beard and the lads, had texted Rebecca to let her know that he was there for her if she needed something—they hadn’t spoken much beyond a professional capacity since he had broken up with Keeley, but he had always respected her, even before she had taken over the club. 

While he sympathised, though, and while he wanted to be there for her, he fucking hated funerals—the overpowering scent of a cacophony of mismatched flowers gave him a throbbing headache, and everyone was acting all fucking funny, like they were walking on fucking eggshells, waiting for a bomb to burst or something. 

He also fucking hated that he couldn’t stand next to Jamie, couldn’t hold his fucking hand and erase the morose fucking look on his face because no one was supposed to fucking know about them. Roy didn’t fucking care who knew, knew that the lads would probably be fine about it, but Jamie was fucking twitchy about it, and Roy couldn’t really blame him either. 

God fucking knew football was still rife with homophobia. 

He didn’t blame Jamie for refusing to put his career in jeopardy over their relationship, but it did mean that he spent most of the day across the room from Jamie, watching as the younger man helped Dani, who had clearly misunderstood the size of his dress shoes, hobble around. 

Keeley was there too, a vision in black silk and gold jewellery, sticking close to Rebecca’s side and absolutely refusing to look him in the eye. She hadn’t said anything when he had come up to Rebecca to give her his condolences, hadn’t even really greeted him, but he had noticed the way she kept tracking his position throughout the church. 

He’d sat with Jamie and the lads during the service, discreetly pressing their thighs together, and Jamie had smiled gratefully at him. 

Dani had drawn Jamie away again after, and Roy wandered around, counting down the minutes until he could fucking get Jamie and leave. Eventually, he made his way outside, into the orchard that bordered the churchyard. He lost track of time there, munching on an apple he had plucked from a tree, until Jamie found him, hands pushed deep into his pockets and a small smile on his lips. 

“Hey,” he said softly. “Here you are. I thought you’d gone.” 

Roy shook his head. “Just needed to get out—too fucking stuffy in there.” 

Jamie nodded silently, a contemplative look on his face, and fell into step with Roy as he strolled around the church. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel path that circled the church and the wind whispered through the branches overhead, a melancholy tune that mirrored the sombre mood of the day. 

But while the wind seemed to settle down with each passing moment, the tension around Jamie only seemed to tighten.

Roy stole a glance at him. Despite the crisp air, a sheen of sweat beaded on Jamie’s forehead. His hand, usually clasped loosely in Roy’s, remained clenched into a fist, knuckles white. The forced smile playing on his lips didn't fool Roy for a second. 

This wasn’t about the funeral’s sombre mood—this was something deeper, something gnawing at him from within.

He’d been doing alright, after the fucking shitshow that was the Wembley game, after his fucking shitbag of a father. He’d all but moved in with Roy, and it was too fucking soon, wasn’t it? It was much too fucking soon, but also Roy loved having him there and never wanted him to leave at all. 

He wanted to ask Jamie what was wrong, wanted to push the younger man to open up to him, to tell him what was wrong so Roy could fix whatever it was, but—Roy had never been the master of delicate emotions and he struggled with finding the right words now too. 

Everything he could say felt too clumsy, too heavy for the fragile atmosphere the day had already draped around them.

He sighed, wishing for once his gruff exterior could vanish, leaving behind someone more adept at navigating the intricacies of human emotion. Finally, he gently knocked his shoulder against Jamie’s and asked, “Alright?” 

Jamie sighed and turned to him, his eyes dark with emotion. He curled his fingers around Roy’s wrist and drew him close, into a slightly more private alcove, hiding them from plain sight. “I—” Jamie hesitated, reaching out to fidget with the hem of Roy’s suit jacket. “I need to tell you something. And I—I need you to let me finish before you say summat, yeah?” 

Roy’s heart hammered hard against his ribs, but he nodded. 

He thought Jamie could ask him for the fucking moon and Roy would find a way to give it to him if it’d make him smile again. 

“I’m—” Jamie breathed, softly, trembling, “—I want—I want this, us, but I want—I want it to be real, Roy.” His eyes were steadily growing more moist, slightly reddened. “I can’t do this if it’s not real—if you’re not—if you’re not, then it’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to me.” 

“Fuck—Jamie,” Roy stammered, confused and concerned and more than a little desperate to ensure that Jamie wouldn’t go anywhere, wouldn’t leave him too. “Fucking hell, babe, what—of course this is real—”

“Is it?” Jamie cut him off, his voice thick with emotion. “Because I know—I know that you like me well enough now, and I get it, I’m fantastic in bed, yeah, but I need—I need more, Roy. I’m in love with you and I can’t—I need to know that you feel that for me too. Or—” 

He shook his head. “I know that’s unfair, I know that you—I know that it’s unfair to expect you to just respond, but I—” 

Roy moved before he had consciously thought about it. The mere idea that he could lose Jamie over his inability to fucking learn how to tell him that he loved him was like a fist clenching around his heart. 

He couldn’t bear it. 

He grabbed Jamie’s face and drew him into a deep kiss—a desperate, messy kiss, filled with pent-up emotions and the fear of loss, but real, filled with unspoken emotions and longing. In an instant, the world around them faded away. 

They broke apart for half a breath, panting heavily before they surged forward again, their lips sliding together in a searing kiss, a desperate release of pent-up emotions. It was messy and frantic and Roy couldn’t get enough. 

The kiss only ended when they were both breathless, foreheads pressed together. Roy felt a surge of relief, joy, and a touch of fear all at once.

“Of course I fucking love you, you fucking muppet,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been spending every second of every day with you for weeks. I let you move into my fucking house. D’you really think I would’ve done any of that if I didn’t fucking love you?”

Jamie laughed, a shaky sound that turned into a relieved sigh. He pulled back, his eyes searching Roy’s. “I didn’t think I could ever have this,” he confessed softly. “Felt too good to be true, innit?” 

Roy leaned in to kiss him again, trying to make sure Jamie could feel everything Roy didn’t know how to say, to make sure that Jamie knew that Roy fucking adored him, even if he didn’t know how it’d happened, that he meant it when he said he loved Jamie, even if it’d caught him by surprise as much as it had Jamie. 

“Say it again,” Jamie whispered against his lips, grasping desperately at Roy’s waist. “Tell me again.” 

“I love you,” Roy obliged between kisses. “You needy little fucker.” 

Jamie snorted a laugh before he leaned in to kiss him again. He cupped Jamie's face, thumb brushing at the flush blooming on his cheek, and leaned back in. This time, the kiss was deeper, more passionate, their limbs tangling as they fell back against the church wall. 

“Oh—oh my God.” 

The words were hardly louder than a breath, but they shattered the private little bubble they’d hidden themselves away in like a well-aimed bomb. Roy jerked back, eyes widening as he saw Keeley standing behind them, her face contorted in a mixture of absolute shock and anger.

He exchanged a panicked glance with Jamie, their faces flushed.

Keeley crossed her arms over her chest, a dark, ugly expression on her face. “Well,” she spat, voice laced with venom, “that explains a lot.” 

The accusation hung heavy in the air, a dark cloud eclipsing the warmth that had moments ago filled Roy. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Jamie, ever the quick thinker, pulled away from Roy—Roy immediately missed the warmth of his body—a flicker of guilt crossing his features.

“Keeley, it’s not—it wasn’t like that—”

“Don’t,” she cut him off harshly, her voice cracking. “Don’t you fucking dare lie to me. I saw what I saw. What I heard.” Tears welled in her eyes, and Roy felt like fucking shit. “How could you?” She glanced from one to the other, but her eyes eventually fixed on Roy, as if demanding an answer that he didn’t have. 

When there was no answer forthcoming, Keeley scoffed at them, shaking her head before she spun on her heel, striding back down the path as her soft sobs echoed in the churchyard.

Roy stood frozen, staring after her, at a fucking loss of what to do, but Jamie moved, looking between Keeley’s retreating figure and Roy before he said, “I should go after her. Explain.” 

Roy swallowed thickly. “She’s not going to want to hear it.”

Jamie’s forehead creased into a frown, fidgeting, and said, “She’s me friend, Roy. I have to try, don’t I?” Roy nodded at that, still unable to form words, and watched Jamie disappear after Keeley, a hollow ache blooming in his chest. 

The ache quickly morphed into fucking anger though, boiling over in an instant. He slammed his fist against the wall, the sound echoing sharply in the quiet evening. How dare Keeley barge in with her hurt feelings, dictating who Roy could love like she owned his entire emotional spectrum? 

They were done, had been done, their relationship now a fucking memory gathering dust. He had every right to move on, and Jamie—Lord fucking help him—was who he wanted to move on with. 

Just as quickly, his anger gave way to a colder, sharper emotion though—doubt.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, the words laced with frustration and a touch of self-loathing. Was he the villain in Keeley’s story? In Jamie’s? The man who moved on too fast, traded one lover for another without a second thought, who would get tired of Jamie eventually, dropping him just as quickly and easily as they’d begun? 

Was he a predator, preying on Jamie’s admiration? Was their love just a twisted fantasy, built on hero worship and misplaced affection?

He’d loved Keeley, and breaking up with her had been awful, but… but falling for Jamie had been easier than fucking breathing, had happened without him even noticing, and he wouldn’t take it back for the world now, despite everything that might speak against their relationship—the fucking age difference, the power imbalance at the club, even the fan-turned-lover narrative—all things he had thought about before, had considered and dismissed before. 

Things that felt like fucking accusations now, whispered doubts amplified by Keeley’s adverse reaction to their relationship.

The memory of Jamie’s kiss and the warmth of his touch came back to him at the same moment though, and he remembered the honesty—the certainty—in Jamie’s eyes when he’d confessed his love, pushing back against the tide of doubt.

Jamie was an adult, capable of making his own choices. 

And Roy, damn it, had made his. 

He stood up, the anger and resolve solidifying into a steely determination. He wouldn’t let Keeley’s pain, his own guilt for hurting her, or fucking societal expectations hold him back. He fucking loved Jamie, and he wouldn’t deny it, wouldn’t apologise for it. 

He would face whatever consequences came, whatever whispers and judgments followed. Lord fucking help him, but Jamie was worth it—Roy was fucking bonkers for him, and he didn’t even fucking mind anymore. 

He fucking loved the way Jamie’s eyes crinkled when he laughed, and the way he bit his lip when he was trying to concentrate, and the way he went all boneless and soft when Roy had made him come. He fucking adored the way their hands fit together, linking together like fucking puzzle pieces. 

He loved Jamie and he would not give him up. 

Still, he disliked that his newfound happiness caused Keeley pain. Her pain was real, fueled by the still fresh wound of their failed relationship. And Roy really fucking hated seeing her like that, no matter how hurt or angry he still felt. 

He wasn’t fucking heartless. 

He hoped she would listen to Jamie, at least, because he was not going to give him up. He wouldn’t let Keeley, or anyone else, dictate his happiness. He refused to let their past cast a shadow over the present.

When he rounded the corner, he found Jamie standing by himself by the church doors, looking a little lost, his arms wrapped around himself. 

“Oi,” he said quietly. 

Jamie looked up at him with an unhappy frown. “She wouldn’t listen,” he muttered, rocking back and forth a little. “Said some nasty things. I told Rebecca—” He looked at Roy with wide eyes, voice panicked, “I had to, before Keeley did—before she told Rebecca somethin’ untrue, I—” 

Roy shook his head, stepping up to draw Jamie close, not giving a fuck if anyone could see. “It’s alright,” he said soothingly, pressing a kiss to Jamie’s temple. “It’s alright. We’ll figure it out.” 

—————

28 April, 2021 

Roy flipped through the various brochures Cathy had collected for him, photos of sun-drenched beaches and impressive mountain ranges, of quaint cities and ancient ruins and an itinerary she’d suggested for the trip. 

He’d gone back and forth on destinations for days, but he’d settled on Crete in the end. It wasn't the first place he'd considered, but the image of Jamie's eyes sparkling with excitement as he and Phoebe watched a documentary about Minoan palaces of all things had sealed the deal. 

The truth was, Roy was excited too. 

He loved the idea of exploring hidden coves and ancient wonders hand-in-hand, loved the idea of listening to Jamie excitedly info-dump everything he’d learned from little creased guidebooks and audiobooks—and really loved the idea of a sunkissed Jamie, enthralled by history and their surroundings. 

It’d been quite unexpected, really, finding out that Jamie loved exploring ancient cities and ruins, and loved visiting museums to see ancient art. 

Roy had had no idea Jamie liked anything like that—Jamie had confided he’d shagged someone who was really into ancient history once, and listening to them talk about it had gotten him into it too. He’d never quite kicked the habit of listening to podcasts or audiobooks about various sun-drenched ancient lands, liked picking up second-hand citytrip guidebooks and finding the best, most obscure places everywhere they went. 

He was really fucking endearing. 

It was aggravating, honestly. 

The itinerary was fucking perfect—meticulously planned so as to give them plenty of time to lay about on the beach and to spend time exploring the island’s various archaeological sites. Jamie was going to get a kick out of visiting places like Knossos and Gortyn, out of climbing up to see the Diktaion Andron cave, and seeing the various pieces of art displayed in Heraklion and Messara and Roy would have a fucking ball listening to Jamie tell him all about everything they were looking at. 

The lack of a private beach did give him pause though. 

He wasn't thrilled about the idea of sharing his holiday with crowds of tourists, especially not the loud, boisterous variety that often flocked to Greece. “No private beach?” he asked, looking up at Cathy with a raised eyebrow. 

Cathy shook her head regretfully. “I probably could find something, if you like, but this beach is quite isolated on the island—from what I understand, Kato Zakros is rather far from most towns and cities. There is an archaeological site there, and a beach with a few restaurants, but you’ll mostly be surrounded by locals, not tourists.” 

Roy grunted. 

That did sound appealing. 

Cathay gestured to the pictures again. “It’s also not quite a villa—but it’s a private apartment with a balcony and three bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, a fully equipped kitchen and a jacuzzi.” Roy nodded—he didn’t need a villa, really, as long as he and Jamie had some space where they could just be. 

“Alright,” he said, nodding to himself. “Alright, book it then.” 

Cathy nodded with a pleased little grin and began tapping at her tablet. 

Booking the trip without checking in with Jamie was a bit of an impulsive decision, maybe, but he was fueled by the certainty that Jamie would adore it. The little freak fucking loved living in each other’s pockets just as much as Roy did—Roy couldn’t even remember the last time Jamie had actually spent the night at his own house, especially once he’d met Phoebe. 

Still, the tiniest flicker of unease danced in the corner of his mind.

He’d never planned a vacation for someone else like this, not even for his sister or Phoebe. While he had left room, early in the off-season, for Jamie to go up to Manchester to see his Mum and his Simon, he had planned it so that they’d spend the rest of the break together.

The flight back would be a day before pre-season training was set to begin. 

The confidence he felt about the trip was unfamiliar though, almost unsettling.

The feeling wasn’t quite strong enough to stop him though—he trusted that he fucking knew Jamie, knew what he liked and disliked, and knew that Crete would be the perfect fucking setting to settle into their relationship. 

It’d be good, being able to just fucking be together without being worried about who saw them and who they could talk to and who they couldn’t. 

He knew Jamie was considering telling the lads, but until then, the people who knew about them were limited to his sister and Phoebe, Rebecca—and Keeley. 

Roy’s forehead creased into a frown despite himself. 

“Car rental?” Cathy asked, not looking up from her screen, her voice barely breaking through his reverie. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, clearing his throat. “Not much in the way of public transport or Uber out there, is there?” 

She shook her head, a small smile on her lips. 

As Cathy arranged the car rental with practiced ease—typing so quickly he wondered how the fuck she could keep up with her own fingers—Roy deliberately refocused his attention on Jamie, tried to imagine his laughter echoing through the ruins and tried to imagine the taste of salt on Jamie’s lips after a swim in the azure waters.

God, he couldn’t fucking wait. 

“Printed tickets again?” she asked, looking up at him with an inquiring expression. He usually did prefer actual physical tickets—made it feel more real, somehow—and nodded. Much easier to make them into a gift for Jamie too. 

By the time he walked out of Cathy’s office, the whole trip was arranged and paid for, he’d sprung for four extra bags—because he had known Jamie for long enough to know he’d probably need every single one of them—and had the printed tickets in a sleek black box, tucked into a small, discreet glossy black gift bag he was sure Cathy kept around just for him. 

He felt fucking good now, confident in his decision and already planning how he was going to surprise Jamie with this—maybe he could offer it as an additional reward to what he already had planned if they managed to end the season on a high. 

He smiled to himself. 

That idea certainly had merit—and then he looked up. 

Across the road, amidst the colourful chaos of shoppers, stood Keeley. Frozen in shock, her open mouth and wide eyes and his own, undoubtedly equally surprised, expression, probably mirrored a scene more suited to rom-com meet-cutes than their current reality.

Fucking hell, he had not been prepared to see Keeley today. 

Before he could retreat into the anonymity of the crowd though, Keeley stormed across the street, the clatter of her heels a war drum against the pavement. 

Roy braced himself, the embers of his simmering anger fanned by a sudden gust of defiance. He’d been fucking caught off guard the last time they’d seen each other, hadn’t expected his ex-girlfriend to walk in on a really fucking intimate moment with Jamie, hadn’t known how to fucking respond to her anger, her hurt—her fucking jealousy. 

He was fucking ready now. 

Keeley stopped directly in front of him, her hair a fluffy cloud of blonde curls around her face, and her expression set to fucking thunder. Roy steeled himself, forcing himself to remain impassive even in the face of her anger. “Keeley,” he said coolly, because he felt bad that she was hurting but Jamie was also hurting and Roy really just wanted to fix it. 

She crossed her arms over her chest, straightening her shoulders and tilting her chin up. “Roy. Your boyfriend not with you?” she sneered, in an ugly, angry tone that was wholly unlike her. 

Roy gritted his teeth. “This isn’t the fucking place, Keeley.” 

“Not the place?” she scoffed, her words clipped and her tone icy cold. “You had no problem sticking your tongue down Jamie’s throat in fucking public, but this—” she gestured widely at the crowded shopping street, her shopping bags swinging wildly on her arms, “—this isn’t the place?!” 

“No, it’s fucking not,” he hissed, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “And unless you’re deadset on ruining Jamie’s career just because you’re fucking pissed at us, you’re going to realise that too and shut your mouth.” 

Keeley’s mouth abruptly snapped shut and though her expression didn’t soften, really, she did seem slightly remorseful. “Fine,” she snapped, frowning impressively. “Fine, c’mon then.” She turned on her heel and strode down the pavement, cutting a path through the shoppers and tourists. 

Roy groaned. 

Fucking hell, he did not have the time or fucking energy to fucking argue with Keeley today. He couldn’t just fucking leave it either—he knew from Jamie that she was still refusing to hear him out and from Rebecca that she’d outright blocked Roy’s number and refused to talk about it even with her. 

Clearly he needed to do something. 

He growled and followed after her, mentally rearranging his schedule as he did. 

It’d be fine, he could push back picking up groceries until after training too—he’d make Jamie run past Sainsbury’s instead of through the park, it’d be good to change up their route anyway—and if this took a really long time, he could even make Jamie go pick up Phoebe and drop her off at home. 

He followed Keeley off Regent Street and onto Beak street, dodging giggling teenagers with Anthropologie and Cos shopping bags, glaring at anyone who looked twice at him, and wondered where the fuck she was going. 

He nearly missed her ducking into Kingly Court, only catching sight of her bright pink monstrosity of a coat as he was passing it. He narrowly avoided bowling over two women in expensive coats with more shopping bags than any person should ever reasonably carry at once and hurried after her, stopping short when she knocked on a metal door, partially hidden in an alcove.

“Keeley—” he began, but the door creaked open just then. 

A woman with dark hair set in old-fashioned curlers and a silky robe peeked out, frowning a little. “Keeley, love, we’re not open yet,” she chided, her voice deep and raspy like she smoked ten packs a day. 

“I know, I know,” Keeley chirped, tilting her head to the side and giving the woman one of those flirty fucking smiles that’d always made Roy’s stomach flop. “I just need to have a bit of a—” she glanced towards him and her smile slipped off her lips immediately, “—a private chat. We’ll be in and out, I promise.” 

The woman pursed her lips and looked between them suspiciously before opening the door all the way. “Fine. Fine, but you owe me, Jones,” she wagged a playful finger at Keeley, who fucking giggled before she brushed past the woman. 

Roy followed more sedately, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the woman, who just glared back at him, not at all intimidated. 

Roy respected that. 

The hallway Keeley led him down was dimly lit and adorned with old-fashioned posters and signs, advertising everything from wartime propaganda to train schedules. On the floor, there were vintage suitcases stacked haphazardly, and the whole place reeked of whiskey and old cigarettes. 

Keeley led him through yet another metal door covered in posters and stickers into a bar, clearly not yet ready to open, with the chair still stacked on the tables and the lights turned down. “Where the fuck are we?” he demanded when Keeley stopped short and pulled a chair down before sitting down heavily. 

“Somewhere fucking private.” She gestured impatiently, and Roy growled before pulling down a chair and sitting down too. 

He set the little black bag with his and Jamie’s flight tickets down on the table and crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing her speculatively. He wasn’t actually sure what to say to her—if it wasn’t for Jamie, Roy was sure he’d be fine with ignoring Keeley for another six to eight months before he’d be mentally prepared to talk to her as if nothing had happened between them. 

“So,” Keeley began, her voice tight, like she was still so fucking angry but was doing her best to reign it in. “You—you and Jamie.” 

Roy clenched his jaw, the weight of her gaze suffocating and the veiled accusation in her tone heavy in the air. “Yeah,” he agreed, keeping his voice as calm as he could manage. “Me and Jamie.” 

Keeley’s lips tightened into a thin line, her frustration evident as she struggled to find the right words. “Look,” she finally said tersely, “I’m sorry about earlier. I was—I am—frustrated but—you’re right, it wasn’t the fucking place to hash it all out.” She gave him a sincere look. “I would never do anything to jeopardise Jamie’s career, you know that, don’t you?” 

Roy softened slightly at Keeley’s apology, though the tension between them still lingered like a thick fog. He knew Keeley well enough to recognize when she was genuinely contrite though, and her admission took  the edge off his anger.

“Yeah, I know,” Roy replied, his voice quieter now too, lacking the sharpness from before. “I know you wouldn’t intentionally do anything to hurt Jamie. But people do stupid fucking shit when they’re angry, so…” 

He shrugged. 

He wasn’t going to apologise for being fucking cautious. 

Keeley grimaced, but she conceded his point with a tiny nod. “I—” she broke off, shook her head and tried again. “I’m trying to let you talk. I’ve been told I’m probably…” she made a face, “...probably overreacting. But I—it’s just—” she groaned and threw her hands up. “How can it not be about me? He’s my ex-boyfriend and you hated him two months ago and then we broke up for no fucking reason and now you suddenly fucking love him?!” 

Roy’s nostrils flared as he fought to keep his own emotions in check, the urge to lash out at Keeley simmering just beneath the surface. “Because our entire fucking lives revolve around you,” he retorted, his voice sharp with irritation. “There’s absolutely no way we actually got to fucking know each other. No way that we fucking learned to actually communicate—” 

Keeley winced. 

Roy exhaled a rough sigh and shook his head, rubbing his hands over his thighs before he continued, calmer, “It wasn’t about you, Keeley. We just fucking— happened. And he fucking got under my skin.” He grunted a laugh and shook his head again. “Maybe he’s always fucking been under there, I don’t even fucking know anymore.” 

He looked up and met Keeley’s—teary—eye. “But everything that happened with me and him—it had nothing to do with you.” 

Keeley’s expression crumpled, and a tear ran down her cheek before she managed to pull herself together again and Roy hated this—fucking hated it. 

He much preferred his usual method of dealing with his exes—which was to say, not at all, and pretending they didn’t exist. And the occasional restraining order, but he didn’t think that was in order here. 

“How—” Keeley managed, her voice trembling and her eyes still swimming with tears. “It’s only been two months, Roy. And you—you say it’s not about me, and I’m—I’m even willing to believe that—” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “God fucking knows you two were always so fucking obsessed with each other, but—” she drew her lower lip between her teeth. “I thought we were happy, Roy. I thought we were—that we’d work things out, you know? I don’t know how we suddenly ended up…” 

She waved her hand vaguely, as if to encompass everything. 

Roy heaved a sigh. “I don’t fucking know either, Keeley. But I meant it, when I walked out that door.” Keeley winced again, but Roy was on a roll now, was finally getting to say things he’d been wanting to say since he’d fucking walked out of Keeley’s house for the last time and he was fucking done . 

“You talking to fucking everyone at the club before me—before you fucking yelled at me—it fucking hurt, Keeley.” He looked up at her, gritting his teeth. “It felt like fucking—betrayal or some shit.” 

Keeley leaned forward, her hands clenched into fists around the edge of her coat. “I still don’t—how—I was talking to my friends. How was that a betrayal?” 

Roy sat with his arms crossed, his brow furrowed in frustration. “Because you were not actually talking to me . It made me feel like—like a fucking idiot. Like you didn't trust me enough to confide in me first. And—fucking hell, Keeley, you know my private life’s been smeared across the fucking tabloids for the last twenty years. I like to keep things private when I actually fucking can.”

Keeley softened slightly at Roy's words, her expression reflecting a mix of regret and understanding. “I... I did trust you, Roy. But I got scared. Scared you wouldn’t understand, that you’d think I didn’t love you anymore. And things were so good, I just—I didn’t want that to change. I just thought that if I could vent some frustrations, I could deal with it and then we’d be fine.”

Roy shook his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “I guess we were both wrong. I thought I could trust you to come to me when there was something actually wrong—that you knew I couldn’t read your fucking mind.” 

He paused briefly before continuing, his tone softening slightly. “But fucking hell, it wasn’t about whether I loved you, Keeley. It never was. And it’s not like I don’t still care about you now. And you know Jamie fucking adores you. It’s killing him, the way you’ve been ignoring him. That’s why I wanted to actually talk to you.”

Keeley looked away, her eyes glistening with unshed tears again. “So you’re here for Jamie. Not for me.”

Roy sighed, his shoulders slumping with weariness. “Does it have to be one or the other? Look, you and me—we’re over. And I’m really fucking sorry you’re hurting. I really am. But we broke up and I moved on, and I’m not going to feel guilty for that.”

Keeley's voice wavered as she spoke, her emotions raw and unfiltered. “I don’t want you to. Rationally. But I do, at the same time. I want you to feel fucking wretched and I want to watch your relationship crash and burn and I want you both to hurt because I’m hurting and I hate that.” 

Tears welled up in her eyes as she continued, her voice barely above a whisper, “I don’t know how to get past that feeling yet.”

Roy reached out tentatively, his hand hovering in the air between them before dropping back to his side. “I’m not asking you to. You’re allowed to feel however you fucking do. There’s no guidelines on how to deal with your exes fucking falling in love with each other. Just—can we try to work towards something… fucking civil? It doesn’t have to be right away, just—eventually. If not for me, then for him.”

Keeley swallowed thickly, her resolve wavering as she met Roy’s gaze. “I’d like to try,” she admitted quietly.

Roy offered her a small nod, a flicker of hope stirring in his chest. 

“That’s all I ask.”

—————

1 May, 2021

The air in the locker room was heavy, humming with an odd kind of tension, thick enough to taste the mix of sweat and the sharp tang of adrenaline. Each of the lads was buzzing, murmuring beneath their breaths to each other, going over strategies, muttering encouragements and helping each other stretch, trying to shake off the pre-game jitters. 

Music pulsed faintly from a single bright green bluetooth speaker, a motivational anthem that seemed to vibrate through the very walls.

Roy stood by his desk, watching as Jamie stood by his cubby, nervously playing with the bottle of Lynx in his hand as he chatted with Declan and Sam, bouncing on his toes in a rare show of nervous agitation. 

He’d slept at his own house last night too, for the first time since they’d started sleeping together, claiming that he’d get too distracted if he was with Roy, and that sex before a game was bad luck—which was absolutely fucking bull, and if it was, it certainly hadn’t been very effective bad luck during the latter half of the season. 

Jamie had insisted though, and Roy hadn’t wanted to argue about something that fucking silly. 

He’d kissed Jamie goodbye thoroughly—privately relishing in the dazed look on Jamie’s face as he stumbled to his Uber—and had spent the evening going over old game footage, trying to find holes in Brentford’s tactics and trying to figure out when, exactly, would be the right time to tell Jamie he had booked a four-week vacation for the two of them. 

He’d been going back and forth about it since he’d gotten home with the tickets—which he had promptly stashed in Phoebe’s room, because it’d be the only place Jamie wouldn’t go snooping, the nosy brat—but the right moment just hadn’t presented itself yet. 

At first, he’d thought he could just cook Jamie dinner when he got home that night, get him all loose and relaxed and surprise him then, but then Keeley had called Jamie to talk, and Jamie had disappeared up to the bedroom and hadn’t come back down until hours later with red-rimmed eyes and a tentative smile. 

The days after, they’d been too caught up in making sure they were prepared for the final match of the season, and Roy hadn’t even noticed the way Jamie was acting slightly off until he’d had the insane idea to sleep in his own house in his own bed. 

Roy had slept like shit—his only consolation was that Jamie seemed to have slept just as poorly, judging by the dark circles under his eyes—and he was fucking annoyed and just wanted to get the whole fucking day over with. 

He was worried though, looking at Jamie now. 

He’d thought Jamie just needed a breather, some space to get his head in the game because it’d never mattered more than it did now—they were so close to promotion he could nearly fucking taste it—but Jamie didn’t look like he had his head in the game. 

He looked nervous. 

He was moving before he had properly given it thought, moving out into the locker room, bellowing, “Oi, Tartt.” Jamie gave a little jump, turning to look at him with wide eyes, pointing up at himself quizzically. 

“Yes, fucking you,” Roy retorted sharply, gesturing towards the boot room, where they’d be able to speak somewhat privately, at least. Jamie’s expression shifted, a mix of curiosity and apprehension dancing in his eyes as he followed Roy into the secluded space. 

Roy shut the door behind him and turned to his boyfriend, who stood fidgeting in the middle of the room, twisting his hands in the bottom of his shirt. “Jamie,” Roy sighed, stepping closer, raising his hands to Jamie’s shoulders, running them down his arms in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. 

“Baby. What’s going on? You’ve been acting off for days.” 

“Nothin’,” Jamie said shiftily, looking down at where Roy’s hands curled around his wrists, refusing to meet Roy’s eyes. “Just—today’s a lot, innit?” 

Roy frowned, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of concern that gnawed at him, despite Jamie’s attempts to appear collected. “It is,” he agreed. “And you’re going to be fucking brilliant, running circles around fucking everyone else, like the talented, arrogant fucking prick that you are.” 

Jamie’s face twitched into a barely-there grin. 

Roy slid a hand back up, curling his fingers around the back of Jamie’s neck. “Are you sure that’s all that’s wrong?” 

Jamie fidgeted again, before tipping forward to lean his forehead to Roy’s shoulder. “Just something—it’s fucking stupid, I shouldn’t let it get to me, it’s not like she meant anything by it—” 

Roy bit down on the inside of his cheek hard, because he suddenly had a feeling he knew where this was going, but he didn’t want to forestall Jamie’s explanation just in case he was wrong. “Jamie,” he interrupted softly, carding his fingers through his hair. “Tell me anyway. I don’t fucking care if it’s stupid, it’s clearly fucking upsetting you.” 

Jamie released a heavy sigh and nodded against him. “Just—some stuff Keeley was talking about. It weren’t anythin’ mean or bad, or anythin’ really specific, but it just—” He shrugged. “Guess it just hit me wrong. Made me think.” 

Roy grunted. “That’s dangerous.” 

Jamie groaned and hit Roy’s side lightly. Roy pressed his smile into Jamie’s hair and stroked a hand up and down his back in broad, soothing strokes. “Go on then, tell me what you were thinking.” 

Jamie leaned on him harder, slipping his hands around the curve of Roy’s waist, wriggling his fingers until they’d wormed into the gap between his jumper and his pants and had found warm skin. Roy hissed a little, because Jamie’s fingers were fucking icy cold, but he didn’t pull away. 

“Just us,” Jamie admitted eventually, his voice small, stroking his fingers back and forth over Roy’s waist. “Like, we’re happy, right? And think we're great, and I love you and you said you love me too, so it’s going good, right? But then I just wonder if… if it really is?” 

At that, Roy did pull back, frowning at Jamie unhappily. “What the fuck do you mean, if it really is? Are you not fucking happy with what we’re doing?” 

“No!” Jamie exclaimed, and then, eyes wide in panic, “No, I mean, yes! I am happy, really.” He fluttered his hands around nervously, grasping at Roy desperately. “I love you, I really fucking do, okay, but I—you and Keeley were together for a fucking while, right? And you were serious too, and then suddenly you weren’t and then we got together right after and I just… I got worried that—like, is this just a rebound for you? To fill a void or summat?” 

Roy growled, but held back the first, explosive retort that wanted to rip out of his throat. Instead, he took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs and push down the fire. When he spoke, his voice was gravelly, rough around the edges but not sharp. “You know I fucking wouldn’t do that; if you were just a rebound, I’d fucking tell you that.” 

Jamie nodded frantically, eyes wide, clutching at Roy hard. “I know—I know, it’s so dumb, but it’s—I can’t get it out of my head. Like I’m this sexy, shiny new toy that you’re going to get tired of eventually.” 

Silence hung heavy between them. 

Roy closed his eyes, replaying Jamie’s words. The sting of comparison, the fear of being temporary, echoed his own buried anxieties, but he refused to let them control him. 

Not with Jamie.

He opened his eyes, meeting Jamie’s anxious gaze head-on. “Listen to me,” he said, soft but firm. “What happened between Keeley and me, that’s in the past. Our break up had its reasons, and they’re still fucking valid, Jamie.” 

He reached up and cupped Jamie’s cheeks in his hands, pressing a chaste, firm kiss to his lips. “You drive me fucking crazy, you’re a fucking prick and you keep me on my fucking toes all the fucking time and I fucking love you.” 

Jamie’s eyes were growing all big and shiny again—fucking anime character that he was—and Roy’s chest did something warm and melty that didn’t feel quite healthy but also was addictive as fuck. “You got under my skin, you fucking muppet, and I’ve got a feeling you’re there to stay.” 

Jamie grinned, a shadow of his cocky grin flashing across his face. “Yeah, I en’t letting you go now, you’re mine.” 

Roy smirked. “And you’re mine.” He pressed another kiss to Jamie’s lips and, inspiration striking, added, “And if you play as fucking beautifully as you have been, just like I fucking taught you to, I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Jamie frowned up at him, tilting his head to the side. “Like… like a surprise?” 

He grinned, slipping his hands down Jamie’s back until they rested on that gorgeous, glorious arse, pulling Jamie flush against him. “Exactly like a surprise,” he replied cryptically, “One you’re definitely going to enjoy.” He relished in the flummoxed expression on Jamie’s face. 

“C’mon, Royo,” Jamie whined, slipping his arms around Roy’s neck. “Tell meeeeeee.” He pecked Roy’s lips, as if that would be enough to convince him. “Give us a hint, at least.” He eyed him critically and demanded, “Is it a sexy thing? It’s a sexy thing, right?” 

Roy chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “It’s something we haven’t actually done before. But it’s something I know you've fantasised about.” 

It was more than just a small hint—they’d been pretty fucking adventurous, their kinks and sex drive matching up perfectly so far, and the list of things they hadn’t tried in one way or another was growing thin. 

There was one though. 

Jamie was still frowning, clearly thinking hard, before he whined, “Royo, c’mon, I’ve wanked off thinking about you a lot and we’ve already done everything, what the hell is the—” He paused, eyes widening and cheeks flushing with excitement. “Fuck me,” he breathed. 

Roy chuckled. “Other way around, actually.” 

Jamie clutched at him, digging his fingers into Roy’s biceps. “Are you serious?” 

Roy nodded, though he understood Jamie’s awe too—it was why he’d known it’d be an excellent reward if Jamie was good for him. Roy much preferred to top, to take the lead and to tell Jamie what to do—and Jamie was nothing if not a very enthusiastic pillow princess—but the way he felt about Jamie was… different. 

He trusted him, in a way he’d seldom trusted anyone, and he looked forward to letting go—to putting himself in Jamie’s hands for once. 

“Fucking hell,” Jamie groaned, before dragging Roy down into a filthy kiss, shoving his tongue into Roy’s mouth immediately. Roy chuckled into Jamie’s mouth and allowed the kiss for a long minute before he pulled back, grinning at Jamie’s darkened eyes and lust-filled expression. 

He made no move to alleviate Jamie's arousal, relishing in the desperation that flickered in his boyfriend’s eyes.

“Roy,” Jamie whined, “You can’t just leave it at that.” He looked down at himself. “I can’t go out there like this!” Jamie's pout deepened at Roy’s lack of response, his frustration evident as he gestured to the unmistakable bulge in his shorts. “You could at least help me out.” 

Roy’s smirk only widened at Jamie’s plight, his touch light as he flicked at Jamie’s nose teasingly. “Be good for me, baby,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. “I’ll take care of you after the game. When you’ve earned it.”

The promise hung in the air between them, thick with anticipation and desire.

Jamie’s cheeks flushed a deeper red as he clearly struggled to contain his arousal. He groaned out loud, thumping his head down on Roy’s shoulder one more time before he tore himself out of Roy’s arms, his chest heaving. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, tone laced with desire and frustration.

Roy laughed, relishing in the way Jamie’s eyes darkened with lust when they locked onto his again, his own desire mirrored in the depths of those captivating orbs. He remained unmoved though, his smirk unyielding as he watched Jamie struggle to compose himself.

“You’ll live, you overdramatic prima donna,” he said nonchalantly, his tone teasing. “Just focus on the game.”

Roy watched him with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction, knowing full well the effect he had on Jamie and enjoying it immensely. As Jamie finally straightened back up and prepared to rejoin his teammates, Roy’s grin remained firmly in place, his gaze lingering on Jamie hungrily making the younger man shiver when he looked back at Roy. 

Roy grinned. 

Oh, he was going to have fun with this. 

—————

The roar of the crowd faded to a dull thrum as Roy’s eyes locked onto Jamie across the pitch. Even amidst the ecstatic chaos of the winning match, Jamie stood out, a beacon of jubilation, dancing in place with his arms around Dani. His smile was infectious, his celebratory antics drawing laughter from teammates. 

It was like watching a beautiful, chaotic melody unfold, and Roy couldn't help but feel his own chest tighten with something far more than joy for the fucking team. Jamie was whooping alongside Bumbercatch, Dani, and Isaac, fists pumping the air as the chant, “We’re going up! We’re going up! We’re going up!” echoed around them, picked up by thousands of fans.

He was a fucking muppet and he was gorgeous. 

Roy had to get over there.

He stomped onto the pitch, patting his lads on the shoulder or the bum as he passed them, grabbing Sam in a quick hug as he bounced past—he and Jamie had played off each other beautifully, in a way Roy hadn’t dared hope they ever would—before he boomed, “Oi! Jamie!” 

Jamie turned towards him, pulling out of Declan’s arms before rushing towards him with arms spread wide for a hug. Roy fucking adored him and he couldn’t wait to take him home and take him to fucking pieces—to fuck that dumb fucking smirk right off his face. 

He reminded himself sternly that he was in public and he couldn’t actually do any of the things that he wanted to do to Jamie right then and there, that he needed to hold himself back—and Jamie was still coming right at him, launching himself forward and Roy had to do something other than kiss him so he—

—lurched forward, a headbutt connecting with Jamie’s forehead slightly harder than he meant to. “Ow, you fucking grumpy old fart,” Jamie complained, his hand pressed to his nose. “The fuck was that for?” 

Roy bared his teeth into a grin, and grabbed Jamie’s hand, drawing him in again. “So I could do this!” He enveloped Jamie into a tight hug, squeezing him as tightly as he dared to with thousands of eyes on them. He brushed his lips against Jamie’s ear, pressing one hand flat against Jamie’s back, pressed between his shoulder blades. 

“You were fucking brilliant.” Jamie shuddered in his arms, and Roy, feeling slightly mean, muttered, “You’ve more than earned your reward, baby.” 

Jamie groaned, out loud, and pulled back, a playful scowl marring his features as he glared at Roy. “That’s just fucking mean, Roy,” he whined, mock exasperation lacing his tone. “I can’t even kiss you or nothin’  out here.”

Roy raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk stretching across his face. “You’re right,” he nodded. “I guess you’ll have to control yourself just a little longer.” He winked, perfectly aware of the effect he had on Jamie, before he roared again, holding onto Jamie’s arms as he began jumping to the beat of the fucking chant, grinning wildly when Jamie followed his lead. 

He let himself be swept up by the joyous tide, the lads’ euphoric state palpable in the air as they mobbed each other, a joyous mess of sweat and champagne—who the fuck had brought champagne onto the pitch—bottles handed back and forth, Jamie and Colin hanging off each other as they chanted off-key, Isaac still jumping up and down with Zoreaux and Ted and Beard surveying the mass with indulgent smiles. 

Roy grinned again. Promotion back to the Premier League, the culmination of a gruelling season, tasted sweet on his tongue. 

But at the same time, a bittersweet ache settled in his gut.

Last season, the cheers had been replaced by gut-wrenching silence, the bitter pill of relegation swallowing them whole. He’d fucking retired on that low note, the final whistle a haunting echo of his own fading career. 

Now, standing on the pitch, surrounded by the jubilant faces of his lads, the memory clawed at him. This victory, though hard-earned and deeply satisfying, couldn’t erase the sting of that final defeat. He’d refused to admit the end of his career was coming for so fucking long that when it’d come, inevitable and sudden and all at once, it’d thrown him for such a fucking loop he was still trying to recover from it. 

He caught Jamie’s eye again, his smile joyous and beautiful and Roy loved him. He shook his head, deafening chants still roaring around him, and resolutely shoved the melancholy aside—it didn’t belong in this moment. 

This was for his lads, for their relentless fight, for a new chapter for the club. He raised his fist, a fierce grin splitting his face, and roared, “Richmond!” 

The cry echoed across the pitch, and Roy lost track of how long they spent celebrating on the pitch before the tidal wave of movement eventually pulled them towards the locker room. 

Roy lost track of Jamie in the commotion, pulled into the locker room by Sam and Isaac, who were still roaring in triumph, swept up in the celebration, patting every lad that passed him on the shoulder and the bum all over again, until a hand fell on his shoulder, heavy and possessive. 

He turned, raising both eyebrows at Jamie, who was staring at him with wide, dark eyes and shiny lips like he’d been messing around with lipgloss again. 

Jamie’s hand trailed down from his shoulder to his hand, fingers curling loosely around Roy’s, and there was something wild and reckless in Jamie’s gaze that made Roy’s poor old heart do an odd flop in his chest. 

He knew that look. 

Jamie had given him that look hundreds of times since their first kiss, but never this blatantly and certainly never in public,  and never with that level of reckless desire burning in his eyes. 

Roy raised his eyebrow again, a question.

Jamie swallowed thickly and bit down on his lip—an answer if Roy had ever seen one. He grinned wolfishly before tugging on their joined hands, tugging Jamie forward into his arms and into a dip. 

“Hey baby,” he murmured, gasps and cheers erupted from the team as Jamie landed with a surprised yelp in Roy's arms, their faces inches apart. Roy didn’t fucking care, didn’t care that the lads were watching, that Beard and Ted and fucking Nate could see them—he cared about Jamie, who’d done exactly what Roy had asked of him, who’d been his perfect good boy, who Roy was going to take to pieces when they got home—who Roy trusted more than he had done anyone else in years. 

For a second, he lost himself in Jamie’s eyes, the roar of the lads muted, forgotten. Then Roy smirked, threw caution into the wind, and captured Jamie’s lips in a searing kiss.

The lads lost their minds around them. 

Roy paid them no mind, losing himself in Jamie’s mouth, in the slick slide of his tongue against Roy’s and the tiny, huffy little whine Jamie let out when Roy tugged on his hair, in the way Jamie’s arms were strong and warm and solid around him. 

He pulled back when Ted coughed, loudly and obviously, grinning at Jamie’s slightly dazed expression before he chanced a glance around them. 

Everyone was still staring at them, jaws slack, mouths hanging open and eyes wide, but Dani had both hands pressed to his mouth, eyes bright with tears, and Isaac was nodding in approval. 

“This is most beautiful, amigos!” Dani exclaimed, throwing his hands wide. “It is so good that you are now no longer enemies but lovers! These are the best romances indeed!” 

Isaac didn’t say anything, but Sam said slowly, “I know it was probably quite—” he paused, wrinkling his nose, “—spur of the moment, but we appreciate that you trust us with this. We’re happy for you two, aren’t we?” 

He looked around at everyone else, as if daring them to disagree, but everyone was nodding, and Roy could feel the tension bleed out of Jamie in his arms. 

“Honestly, this explains everything,” Jan Maas deadpanned, and Bumbercatch nodded. 

Jamie, clearly emboldened by the acceptance and possibly slightly squiffy from too much fucking bubbly, threw his arms around Roy’s neck again and planted another kiss on his lips. This time, it lasted longer, was hungrier, fueled by the adrenaline of victory and the thrill of being out in the open. The locker room erupted once more, a mix of cheers and good-natured jeers filling the air.

Roy pulled back, breathless and grinning like a madman. “See, baby? Good things happen when you’re a good boy and wait for your reward,” he whispered, his voice husky with desire and his heart pounding hard in his chest.

Jamie, flushed and beautiful, could only nod, a wide smile lighting up his face. Roy grinned, kissed him again, and then shoved him back towards his teammates. 

“C’mon,” he shouted. “Let’s fucking celebrate!” 

—————

The celebration lingered in the locker room much longer than it normally would have, the mood more lighthearted and celebratory, and Roy had unilaterally decided he and Jamie should stick around for a while, should celebrate with their team before they split off for their private celebration. 

He genuinely wanted to show the lads that he was proud of them—and if it made it easier for him to torture Jamie a little, well, that was between him and whatever deity was wanking to his fucking life. 

It was working too—Jamie, usually the life of the party, remained glued to his side, stealing kisses and surreptitious little touches when he thought the lads weren’t paying attention, his laughter punctuated by heated glances that sent jolts of want down Roy’s spine.

Fuck, he couldn’t wait to get him alone. 

They orbited around each other the entire evening and Roy couldn’t even be fucking bothered that they were being less than subtle—the lads knew, now, and they’d been supportive. They could deal with him and Jamie being a bit hot under the collar for each other after a big win—even if it had been a draw. 

Jamie’s constant close proximity was the most delicious of fucking torture, and every brush of Jamie’s skin against Roy’s stoked the lustful fucking wildfire of want that thrummed beneath his skin. 

The team’s boisterous celebration was a shield, a buffer, yet it felt increasingly flimsy as the hours crawled by. The hours melted into a blur of alcohol-soaked camaraderie, but with each passing minute, Roy’s need to get Jamie alone and fucking naked grew more insistent, and Roy had a suspicion Jamie wasn’t better off. 

He’d sidle up to him, brush shoulders, steal lingering kisses under the guise of whispered jokes and then veer off again, laughing and giggling with Sam in a corner, taking duck-face selfies with Dani and Bumbercatch, dancing like lunatics with fucking Colin and Will. 

Finally, Roy couldn't bear it anymore. 

He snagged Jamie’s hand when he bounced passed, ignoring the surprised yelp, and dragged him into a kiss that was right on the  verge of inappropriate in public, and certainly too much for their place of work. “Alright lads,” he called when he released Jamie, who gave him a slightly dazed look, a playful smirk twisting his lips. “We’re off.” 

The locker room erupted in good-natured jeers and wolf whistles, but Roy elected to ignore them, towing Jamie out of there by his hand.

The cool night air slapped against their faces as they emerged into the deserted car park, the distant cheers of the celebrating team a fading echo. Roy’s grip tightened on Jamie’s hand, knuckles white, the need for privacy, for the freedom to fucking touch Jamie wherever he wanted to for as long as he could fucking stand it, a roaring beast in his chest. 

Jamie, reading him like he always did, like Roy was an open book—albeit in an obscure language that no one but Jamie had really bothered to learn—mirrored his urgency, his eyes sparkling with a mix of laughter and desire. With a playful shove, Jamie sent Roy stumbling back against the cool metal of his car. 

The impact knocked the breath out of him, but it was instantly forgotten as Jamie followed suit, pinning him with their bodies flush together, pinning him there with a possessiveness he rarely ever displayed, but sent a thrill down Roy’s spine nonetheless. 

Jamie momentarily froze when he had Roy where he wanted him, like he hadn’t expected Roy to go along with it, like he still expected Roy to push him off, to fall back so easily in their previous, more antagonistic dynamic. 

Roy fit his hands around the back of Jamie’s neck and drew him in for another kiss, deep and passionate and fucking filthy, rolling his hips against Jamie’s until the younger man was clutching at him, whining into Roy’s mouth like the desperately little slut he was. 

“Fucking hell, grandad,” he panted when Roy released him, pupils blown. 

Roy smirked, sliding his hands down Jamie’s back before digging them into the meat of Jamie’s arse, dragging him close. “What’s wrong, baby?” He nipped at Jamie’s lower lip, relishing in the shiver it produced, the way Jamie’s eyes went a shade darker and his grip even tighter. “You’re a little flushed.” 

Jamie groaned, thumping his head forward against Roy’s with a gentle bonk. 

“You’re fucking killing me,” he whined, rolling his hips insistently against Roy’s, his cock hard against Roy’s. 

Roy groaned, unable to resist leaning in for another kiss, slower, deliberate, fueled by his pent-up need , grunting in surprise when Jamie’s hands drifted between their bodies, tugging and fumbling until he’d found the hem of Roy’s shirt and slipped his hand beneath, spreading warm fingers against Roy’s stomach, toying playfully with the edge of Roy’s trackies with his other hand. 

“Jamie,” Roy breathed warningly against his lips, “slow down.” 

“No,” Jamie mumbled stubbornly, sliding his hand up to Roy’s chest and tugging on his chest hair teasingly, and pinching his side before leaning in to kiss him again, their tongues brushing together in a slow and steady rhythm. 

Roy let him, for a brief moment, before sliding his hand up into Jamie’s hair and pulling. Jamie moaned, absurdly loud, when Roy dragged his head away, looking up at him with such desire it made Roy’s breath catch in his fucking chest and he needed to take a fucking moment to actually remember how to breathe. 

“Be good,” he growled, his voice thick with urgency, “and get in the fucking car.” 

The words were a command, but laced with a plea that he would deny to the end of his fucking days. Jamie chuckled, a breathless, needy sound, and nipped at Roy’s ear before reluctantly stepping back. 

“Yes, coach,” he breathed.

The car ride home was an exercise in patience like no other. 

Roy gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white, every stolen glance at Jamie fueling the inferno burning in his gut. Jamie, uncharacteristically quiet, tapped his foot against the floor in a nervous rhythm, his eyes constantly flickering to Roy in a silent plea to drive fucking faster. Tension crackled between them like static electricity, making the silence almost unbearable.

He pulled into the driveway, gravel crunching under his tires, and the moment the car stalled, Jamie lunged across the console, his lips meeting Roy’s in a hungry kiss. It was messy, desperate, fueled by the pent-up desire they’d been holding back for hours. Jamie’s hands fumbled at Roy’s clothes, clumsy and urgent, as muffled laughter and breathless moans filled the car.

They made their way out of the car somehow, still tangled together, Roy’s hands fucking shaking as he tried to put in the security code to open his fucking door—Jamie was being really fucking unhelpful, pressed up right behind him, the length of his body pressed to Roy’s back and mouthing hungrily at Roy’s throat, whining when he took too long. 

“Roy,” he moaned, fingers tightening around Roy’s hips. “Quicker—I’ve been so fucking good, I want my reward.” 

Roy growled and managed to get the front door open, dragging Jamie inside before slamming it shut hard and shoving Jamie up against it for another spine-tingling kiss. They grappled for control for a while, ripping off Jamie's shirt and feverishly attempting to get off trousers and pants without breaking the kiss.

“Fucking hell, Jamie,” Roy groaned when the other man used his grip on Roy’s hair to pull his head back, breaking the rather frantic kiss, to mouth his way down his throat with hot, open-mouthed kisses. 

He lost track of what he’d been trying to achieve by getting them home, eyes rolling back in his head and fingernails digging into Jamie’s shoulders when he bit down on the skin just above his collarbone before soothing over the mark with his tongue. He slipped his hands down Jamie’s back to his—really fucking fantastic, he patted himself on the back for adding extra squats to Jamie’s workout—arse, pulling Jamie’s hips down to grind against his and fucking hell—

“Please, Royo,” Jamie panted against him, grinding down against Roy’s almost painfully hard cock. “Please, I’ve been so good—haven’t I been so good —I’ll be the best—I’m your good boy, can I—can I have my reward now, please?” 

Roy fisted a hand in Jamie’s hair and pulled hard, grinning wildly at the undignified whine that fell from Jamie’s lips, leaning in to lick into his mouth for a short, filthy kiss, all teeth and tongue. “I think,” he growled when he pulled back, mesmerised by the slick, pink shine of Jamie’s lips, “I need a bit more convincing.” 

He shook Jamie by his hair, drinking in the sound of Jamie’s pathetic little whine and the sight of his wide pupils, before shoving him down to his knees. 

Jamie went willingly, so willingly it did Roy’s fucking head in, mouthing at the hard line of Roy’s cock through his trackies, undoing the neat little bow on the drawstring at a leisurely pace, as if he had all the fucking time in the world—as if he had somehow learned to be patient in the last ten fucking seconds. 

He tightened his grip on Jamie’s hair. “Get on with it.” 

Jamie looked up with a cheeky grin, tongue already hanging out of his mouth, the slutty little twat. “Alright, coach, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” he winked, shutting both eyes—the absolute fucking tosser, Roy couldn’t believe he was going to fuck him, couldn’t believe he’d fucked him more than once, couldn’t fucking believe he was in love with this prat. 

He needed to get his sister to take him in for an MRI sometime—maybe there was such a thing as taking too many balls to the fucking head. Jamie grinned at him, as if he could tell what Roy was thinking—God fucking forbid—and added, “I’ll take ‘em off you just in case,” before tugging down Roy’s trackies and pants in one go. 

As Jamie gently worked the pants down Roy’s legs, he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively—ridiculously—and leaned in to nip playfully at Roy’s inner thigh.  

Roy swatted his shoulder playfully, a laugh escaping his lips despite himself. “Don’t be a fucking brat,” he ordered, but his voice shook just the tiniest bit, heat rushing through his veins at the sight of Jamie on his knees for him.  

Jamie fluttered his eyelashes at him playfully, kissing a path up from Roy’s knee up to his hip, his heart pounding hard in his chest and arousal making his head fucking swim so much he might tip over if he weren’t leaning against the fucking front door. Jamie stroked his hands up and down his thighs soothingly, kissing and mouthing at every fucking part of Roy except where he wanted him. 

Roy tugged on his hair again, “Don’t fucking tease.”

“Yes, coach,” Jamie breathed and sucked the head of Roy’s cock into his mouth. Roy thumped his head back against the door with a pleased moan, curling his fingers tighter in Jamie’s hair, his entire body flushing with heat. Jamie let out a pleased little noise and bobbed his head down, taking Roy deeper and deeper until Roy felt the tip of his cock hit Jamie’s tight, slick throat. 

“Fuuuuck,” Roy moaned, glancing down at Jamie, who had barely even gagged. Jamie looked up at him with wide teary eyes, pink lips stretched around Roy’s cock—he looked like a fucking dream. 

“So fucking good,” Roy rumbled, stroking his fingers through Jamie’s hair, brushing it off his forehead. “You’re being so fucking good for me, baby, taking me like you were fucking made for it.” 

Jamie let out a truly indecent moan, eyes fluttering shut. 

Roy smirked. “Oh, you fucking like that, don’t you?” Jamie blinked his eyes back open and pulled back a little, his lips and chin shining with spit. Roy reached down and traced the stretch of Jamie’s lips around his cock. “You fucking love it,” he growled, hot possessiveness burning through him. “You were made for me, made to take my cock—to take Roy-fucking-Kent’s cock—” 

Jamie moaned again, taking him deeper again, and Roy briefly lost the ability to form words, lost in the sensation of Jamie’s throat constricting around him. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, dragging Jamie off by his hair, mesmerised by how fucking messy he looked already—they’d barely even gotten started. “I’m not coming like this,” he told Jamie, rubbing his thumb over his spit-slick lower lip. Jamie pushed his lower lip out into a pout, and Roy pinched it, shaking him gently. 

“On your feet, baby,” he ordered, “we’re going to bed.” 

Jamie tilted his head, blinking up at him in confusion. “But—” 

Roy pulled him to his feet and dragged him into a deep kiss. 

He swallowed Jamie’s gasp and smirked against his lips when it only took Jamie half a moment to get on with it and kiss him back hungrily, deeply, their lips sliding together wetly before Roy took back control of the kiss, licking his way into Jamie’s mouth. He slipped his arm around Jamie’s waist, pulling him close, and tangled the fingers of his other hand back in Jamie’s hair to keep him in place. 

Kissing Jamie always had felt like an electric shock, like trying to contain a livewire, Roy’s skin burning and tingling where Jamie touched him, and this time was no different. 

Jamie groaned quietly against his lips, a deep, wanton sound that made something deep inside Roy’s stomach clench. It felt like a slow fire burning its way through his veins; as though Jamie had lit a fire somewhere deep inside of him that no one but him would be able to quench or satisfy.

And then Jamie moved again, tilting his head a little, and his tongue slid against Roy’s again—he jerked his head back, gasping for breath as Jamie stared at him, his lips wet and a little swollen. “Upstairs,” he demanded gruffly. 

Jamie whined wordlessly. 

Roy pinched his side. “You’re not fucking me on the floor in the fucking foyer, Tartt,” he growled, slapping his arse. “Go on. Fucking mush.” 

Jamie honest-to-fucking-God giggled and leaned in to steal one more kiss before he bounced up the stairs. “Keep up, old man,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t break a hip on your way up.” 

Roy couldn’t help but laugh at Jamie’s playful jab, his heart feeling lighter than it had in years. Roy followed with a grin, kicking aside his pants. As he reached the top of the stairs though, he found Jamie waiting for him, the ghost of a smile still on his lips, but his eyes wide with awe and a certain sense of vulnerability that tugged at Roy’s heart.

“Hey,” Roy murmured softly, reaching out to cup Jamie’s cheeks, his thumb brushing against his skin tenderly. “Alright, baby?” 

Jamie’s gaze met his, blue eyes wide and shiny with unshed tears. “I just—” he wavered, reaching out to clutch at Roy’s waist, “—this is real. Sometimes I can’t believe it’s real. That I get to have this— you .” His voice was thick with emotion, and though Roy could easily fucking joke, could diffuse the whole situation with a fucking word and have Jamie go along easily enough, he couldn’t . 

He brushed his thumb across the hot, pink skin of Jamie’s cheek, leaning in to kiss Jamie softly. “You do fucking have me,” he rumbled, low and sincere. “I fucking love you, baby.” 

The words hung heavy in the air, and Roy pulled back slightly, allowing Jamie space to breathe, to absorb the quiet weight of the words. Jamie slung his arms around him, his voice choked with emotion as he whispered, “I love you too. You know it’s always been you.” 

Roy nodded, and then replied, “Little fucking fanboy freak.”

Jamie snorted a laugh and pulled him in for an openmouthed, hungry kiss. Roy let him have control for half a heartbeat before he took over, tilting their heads to get a better angle for the kiss. Jamie hummed happily and tightened his arms around Roy’s shoulders, letting Roy pull him back towards the bedroom.

“I missed kissing you,” Jamie muttered against Roy’s lips, gasping as Roy pushed his jumper off his shoulders and pulled his shirt over his head in two smooth moves. 

“I’ve been snogging you all fucking night,” Roy smirked, a sharp, wicked little smirk, but he made sure his movements were careful and warm on the soft dip of Jamie’s waist. 

“Not like this,” he whispered when they pulled away to breathe. “We’ve not kissed like this at all.” 

Roy smiled again, pushing Jamie back a little. “We’ve been in fucking public, you slag.” Jamie flushed a gorgeous blush. “Get on the bed,” he demanded, voice low and gritty, and Jamie nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to comply, sitting down and scooting back onto the bed, leaning up onto his elbows to watch as Roy pulled his shirt up over his head. 

He fucking wolf-whistled, low and playful, grinning wildly when Roy felt his own cheeks heat with a fucking blush. 

Christ alive, what was this man fucking doing to him? 

“Menace,” Roy said fondly, blushing all the way down his chest, and Jamie grinned proudly, reaching out one hand towards him. Roy took it, biting down on his lower lip, and let Jamie pull him down onto the bed, settling his body on top of Jamie’s, one of his legs pressing between Jamie’s. 

He reeled Jamie back in for a much messier kiss this time, with far too much teeth and way too much tongue, and Roy loved every fucking second of it.

“Roy,” Jamie breathed when they parted for air, “Roy, can we—can I—” 

His hands drifted down to Roy’s arse and squeezed—fuck, Roy was going to lose his fucking mind. He nudged his nose against Jamie’s and sank his teeth into Jamie’s lower lip, making the younger man let out a truly desperate whine, his cock twitching between them. 

“I don’t know,” he grunted. “Have you been good enough?” 

“Yes,” Jamie blurted immediately. “Yes, yes, Roy, please, I’ve been so good, I’ll be so good, please, please, please—” 

“Alright, alright,” Roy grunted, reaching up to grab the bottle of lube that lived under one of their pillows, pressing it into Jamie’s hand with another kiss. “Go on then.” He rolled off Jamie and settled on his back, the slightest tinge of nerves making his stomach clench and his skin tingle—it had been a good long while since he had done this. 

Jamie kneeled between his legs, his eyes wide and dark and his expression fucking hungry as he slicked up his fingers. His hands were shaking—Roy felt fucking validated. It was good to know he wasn’t the only one that was fucking excited. 

“Lay back, grandad,” Jamie smirked, that wild cocky grin that made Roy want to fucking murder him just as much as it made him want to kiss him. “Enjoy the ride.” 

“I will if you ever get fucking started,” Roy hissed, but just then, Jamie swooped down and took Roy’s cock back into his mouth. Roy moaned in surprise, throwing his head back on the pillow, losing himself in the sensation, digging his fingers into Jamie’s hair. 

He let out another shuddery moan when Jamie, without warning, slid a finger into him. “Fuuuck,” he groaned as Jamie pressed his finger in deeper, probing and wiggling until—

“Fuck,” Roy roared. 

Jamie popped up, his mouth smeared with spit and precome. “There it is,” he smirked, rubbing his finger over Roy’s prostate relentlessly. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Roy chanted, his back arching, lost to the wave of pleasure that was fucking drowning him, hardly even noticing when Jamie added another finger, so lost in the pleasure of it that the slightest burn of being stretched barely registered. 

Jamie kept moving in a deliberate and torturously slow rhythm until Roy was sure he’d never be able to catch his breath again—fucking fuck, he’d forgotten how good this was. He tilted his head back and moaned again, back arching and fingers tugging at Jamie’s hair.

“Fuck,” Roy moaned again. “Fuck, you’re so good, baby, you’re doing so well.” 

Jamie moaned around his cock, eyes fluttering shut, and Roy wasn’t sure if he wanted to fucking curse or weep in relief when he pulled his fingers out and crawled back up his body, kissing the breath he’d barely managed to catch right back out of Roy’s lungs. 

His lips were incredibly soft and still tasted faintly of the cherry chapstick Richard had gotten him as a joke once and Roy couldn’t get enough of him. He sank into the kiss, sliding his leg up over Jamie’s to pull him closer. 

“Come on, baby,” Roy told him, digging his heel into Jamie’s arse. “No fucking teasing.” Jamie laughed against him, but he did as he was told, lifting Roy’s leg up—up—up onto his shoulder, curling the other around his waist, slipping into him with a quiet groan of Roy’s name. 

“Fuck,” Jamie moaned, punctuating the moan with a sharp thrust. “Fuck, Roy, thank fucking fuck for your fucking yoga.” 

Roy snorted a laugh, but it quickly turned into a moan, the sensations too much and not nearly enough. The stretch was considerable, and Roy lost his ability to breathe again as Jamie bottomed out, staring up at him in fucking awe—fuck he was fucking perfect. 

“Roy,” Jamie breathed, staring down at him with a similar expression. “Roy.” 

“Fucking move,” Roy groaned, tightening his leg around Jamie’s. “Now, Tartt.” 

Jamie began moving at an unrelenting pace, exactly what Roy wanted—what he needed. He let go, let Jamie have him, moaned and gasped and bit at his own fucking tongue and at Jamie’s lip when he leaned down to kiss Roy again. 

Losing himself in Jamie, in the way Jamie touched him, the way he felt inside of him and on top of him, Roy tilted his head back and moaned again, wordless and loud, digging his heel into the small of Jamie’s back, fingers clenching into a fist in Jamie’s hair as he pulled Jamie closer again for a breathless, messy, openmouthed kiss. 

“Come on, baby,” Roy groaned against Jamie’s lips, fingers tightening in Jamie’s hair, just as Jamie curled his hand around Roy’s cock. “Come on.” 

“You first,” Jamie panted, his hand moving over Roy’s cock. “You first, Roy, please, please, Roy, come on, please—” 

The gentle order tipped him over the edge, and Roy came in a rush of pleasure that made his head spin. A deep, drawn-out moan was torn from his lips as he fell apart, arching his hips up into Jamie’s, head tipping backwards against the pillow, his entire body arching up off the bed. He could’ve sworn he could see an entire galaxy of stars and colours explode behind his eyelids, revelling in the euphoric ecstasy that washed over him. 

His toes curled against Jamie as he came back to himself, vaguely listening to Jamie’s ragged breathing, as Jamie kept moving until Roy’s skin felt raw and tender and he was shaking, watching with rapt attention as Jamie kept going, eyes screwed shut and lips parted and—

Fuck, he was so fucking pretty.

It took only a few more heartbeats before Jamie whined, high and pretty, and came, spilling inside Roy, whimpering Roy’s name before collapsing on top of him, completely disregarding the mess on Roy’s stomach.

Jamie was boneless and heavy on top of him, his breath warm and moist against Roy’s neck. Roy’s arms were still slung around Jamie’s waist, and he reached up to tug at Jamie’s hair playfully, dragging him up so Roy could kiss him lazily, softly. 

“Hi,” Jamie whispered hoarsely when they broke apart, rolling to the side so he was only half crushing Roy. 

Roy grunted, sliding his hand down to rest on Jamie’s bare waist, tugging him in again. “Hey, baby,” he said softly, stroking his fingers through Jamie’s hair. Jamie beamed, nudging their noses together before stealing another little kiss. 

“That was good, right?” Jamie asked quietly, anxiously, resting his hand on Roy’s bicep.  

Roy raised an eyebrow. “Fishing for compliments?” 

“No,” Jamie whined, a flush sitting high on his cheeks. “No, just…” He looked down at their bodies, all tangled together, and smiled shyly. “Appreciating the moment, I guess. And hoping you are too.” 

“Yeah,” Roy whispered, and Jamie’s head snapped back up to look at him. 

“‘Course it was good, you fucking muppet,” he muttered. Then, because he couldn’t stop himself, because the words came out anyway, “You scare me sometimes.” The admission felt like it was torn from him, but he felt fucking lighter for it too. Jamie tilted his head quizzically, blinking at him in surprise. 

“You fucking—fucking drive me bonkers. And I feel—so fucking much. It’d just—it’d be so easy to just get caught up in this. In us.” He swallowed thickly and ran his fingers through Jamie’s messy hair, and Jamie’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment. Roy chuckled quietly and added, “I don’t want us to ever miss out on anything or feel like we did. I don’t—I don’t want you to ever—resent me or some shit.” 

“I could never,” Jamie said urgently, pressing his hand to Roy’s cheek. “Roy, I could never—you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.” 

Roy smiled sadly. “I might still end up disappointing you, baby.” 

“No, you won’t,” Jamie said optimistically. “I already know that you’re a grumpy old twat and a right prick. And you know that I can be a fucking prick too.” He looked at Roy pleadingly, rubbing his thumb across Roy’s cheek. “Can’t we just—keep doing what we’re doing? I love you.” 

Roy huffed a breath through his nose, tipping forward to rest his forehead against Jamie’s with a small smile. “Yeah, okay, Jamie.” He leaned in and pressed a small, soft little kiss to Jamie’s lips. “I love you too, baby.” 

A comfortable silence settled over them, punctuated only by the steady rise and fall of their breaths. Yet, Roy couldn’t quite manage to relax—not while there was one more thing he needed to share. 

“Jamie?” Roy’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Hmm?”

“I, uh... I booked something. For the off-season.” He hesitated, then rushed out the words before he could lose his nerve. "Crete. For a month. Just the two of us. I got—an apartment and a relatively private stretch of beach and all the archaeology and museums and fucking—quaint little towns you could ever fucking want. You... you in?”

A sudden stillness settled over Jamie. 

Roy waited, his heart pounding in his chest. After what felt like an eternity, Jamie slowly raised his head, his eyes wide with surprise and a hint of something else—something Roy tentatively hoped was joy.

A smile, hesitant at first, then blossoming, stretched across Jamie’s face. “Roy…” His voice was thick with emotion, a mix of surprise and something deeper. “You...you booked us a trip? To Crete? For a month?”

Roy, relief washing over him, managed a nervous chuckle. “I left you a week so you could go up to Manchester to see your Mum, if you wanted. But—” He shrugged, drawing his fingers through Jamie’s hair again. “I thought it might be nice to get away from everything—everyone. Just—just to be us, for a while. Soak up some sun, explore some ruins.” 

Jamie’s smile widened, his eyes sparkling. “A whole month with you in the sun, exploring ancient wonders and charming towns? Roy, are you trying to sweep me off my feet?” 

Roy, unable to resist that stupid, smug little smirk, leaned up and nudged Jamie’s nose with his own. “Maybe just a little,” he whispered, his voice warm. Jamie threw his arms around Roy again, burying his face in his chest. 

“I fucking love you so much,” he murmured, his voice muffled but filled with a joy that echoed Roy’s own.

Roy leaned down and pressed his lips to the top of Jamie’s head. “Me too,” he breathed, his chest warming. “Me fucking too, baby.” 

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End

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Epilogue 

30 June, 2021

The locker room was buzzing with energy when he and Jamie made it there, kit bags strewn haphazardly across the floor as the lads clustered together, exclaiming over each other and chatting eagerly while music played from a small portable speaker that sat on the bench in the middle of the room. 

Jamie immediately abandoned him in favour of Dani, discarding his kit bag and catching the other man in a tight hug. “Alright, lads,” he exclaimed when Dani released him, throwing his arms wide, “I’m back from my mediterranean exile! Who missed me?” 

The lads all cheered and clumped together in a messy group hug. 

Roy rolled his eyes and went to set his own bag down in his office, waving halfheartedly at Ted and Beard. While the other lads trooped in one by one, each diving into the throng quite eagerly, the chatter of their voices growing louder with each passing minute, Roy tried to flick through some of the reports that had already been dropped off on his desk, a couple of scouting suggestions from Beard and a handful of postcards. 

“Alright,” Ted finally shouted, and the lads piped down a little. Roy dropped the report he’d been looking over and made his way back into the locker room as well, leaning against the doorpost to observe. 

Jamie shot him a beaming smile, bright and beautiful, and Roy wasn’t quite used to being back around other people yet, wasn’t quite ready to hide away the way he felt about Jamie just yet, so he smiled back—several of the lads gasped, and Dani crossed himself, eyes wide with shock. 

“Settle the fuck down,” Roy rolled his eyes, gesturing towards Ted. “Listen up.” 

Ted inclined his head towards Roy, his moustache twitching. “Thank you kindly, Roy. Now boys—welcome back! Glad to see y’all relaxed and tanned. Now, before we get stuck into today’s drills, Denise from HR requested we make a few…” he hesitated, wrinkling his nose. “...general housekeeping announcements.” 

“Housekeeping?” Colin demanded, leaning forward. “Don’t tell us they’re replacing the vending machines again? The last ones didn’t give us anything but sugarless, tasteless disappointment.”

A murmur of agreement ran through the room, and Roy privately agreed. 

The last snacks the vending machines dispensed had been awful. 

Ted, however, shuffled uncomfortably, forcing a little chuckle and tugging at his moustache before he said, “No, no, don’t worry, the snacks are safe. No, it’s—it’s more in regards to, uh…” another nervous tug on the moustache, “... the upkeep of professional, uh, conduct in the locker room.” 

Jamie tensed, and Roy’s cheeks heated in an immediate fucking blush too. Fucking hell. The lads had responded well enough to the revelation that they were dating, had taken it in stride and been supportive, but Roy should’ve known that there would be fucking something like this—Jamie had nearly climbed him like he was a fucking tree when they’d spilled into the locker room after the Brentford match. 

“Look, I understand that things got a little…” he glanced towards Roy shiftily. “... a little heated after the last match. Special circumstances and all, yeah? And love is love, so we want everyone to know that this is a safe space, but—” 

He cut off when the lads began whooping and cheering with laughter, clapping Jamie on the back and poking at his pinkening cheeks. Isaac glanced towards him with a smirk as if he wanted to say something, but Roy bared his teeth and growled—it was sufficient to make Isaac back right off, hands raised in supplication. 

“—but,” Ted continued, his voice raised to he heard over the hellish din the lads were making, “this is still supposed to be a professional environment, so let’s endeavour to keep it that way, yeah?” He glanced towards Roy, who refused to acknowledge that he had anything to do with that implication, and Jamie, who grinned brightly, sprawled back on the bench. 

“I’m a pro, coach,” Jamie said, hand pressed to his chest in mock-sincerity. “No promises about the old man though.” He winked at Roy—with both eyes, again, like a fucking twat, why the fuck did Roy pick this one—and added, “Can’t keep his hands to himself, can he?” He preened—fucking little peacock—and said, “Too irresistable for him, can’t blame ‘im.” 

Roy rolled his eyes. “It’s becoming easier by the fucking minute.” 

Everyone burst into laughter, even Jamie, who blew Roy a kiss—he was not charmed, he really fucking wasn’t—and Ted cracked a smile. 

“Alright-y then,” he exclaimed. “Get changed, and let’s get started!” 

Roy’s eyes found Jamie’s again, and he grinned despite himself. 

This season was going to be good—he fucking knew it. 

End. 

(really, this time)