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When Jamie is ten, his mum gets him a poster of Roy Kent for Christmas. It's his only present that year, ‘cause his dad hasn’t come back around yet, and it's all his mum could afford. To Jamie, it's the best present he’s ever gotten. Roy Kent! The Chelsea midfielder, who’d come all the way from South London to the Premier League. Jamie’s most favorite player to watch. Now he has his own Roy Kent poster. If he had any friends at school, he'd be bursting to tell them. Roy Kent is here, Roy Kent is there, Roy Kent is everywhere. And now Roy Kent is on Jamie’s wall.
“This is the coolest ever, Mum,” he says, holding it up and admiring it in the light. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Jam,” she says, and she has another surprise for him, a whole Christmas dinner, more food than Jamie’s ever seen. He remembers that Christmas his whole life, how just for a minute he had a full stomach and a happy family and a Roy Kent poster on his wall.
When Jamie is eleven, he starts getting scouted by clubs like Man City. He knows he’s gonna be good one day. It’s why everyone at school wants to be his friend, now. Jamie don’t read good like how an eleven-year-old should, according to Ms Phillips. He’s small, cause he ain’t eating enough, according to Ms Philips, but he’s fast and sharp-eyed and he’s aces at football. When you’re eleven, and your classmates see Man City jackets at your primary school championship match, pencils and clipboards aimed your way, people start to notice. He still gets teased a lot, cause he’s small and stupid, but he’s a better football player than any of them, and that earns him at least a little respect.
“Are you really gonna play for City?” Tommy Swift asks, eyes wide. “Can you get us tickets?”
Jamie reddens. “I dunno. They might not want me.”
“You’re really good, though,” David Johnson adds.
“I’m all right,” Jamie says, cause his mom’s taught him not to get a big head and to be nice to everyone even if they’re not nice to him.
“Can you play football if you can’t read?” Tommy asks.
“I can read,” Jamie says hotly, ears burning. “I’m not stupid.”
The other kids roll their eyes and laugh, and Jamie feels the weird open feeling he gets in his chest sometimes, like there’s an empty space there where something should be, and the absence draws his shoulders in and tucks his head down. It’s the same feeling he gets when he comes home from school and there’s a note saying his mom won’t be there for dinner because she had to take an extra shift, but there’s some soup in the cupboard. Or when they had Parent’s Day last term, and Jamie sat alone in the back of the class while the rest of the kids showed off their artwork and math exams to their parents. Or when he’s so, so, so hungry at lunch, but he doesn’t have any money left, and Ms Phillips is staring at him all weird. Roy Kent can probably read really well, he thinks. Roy Kent probably loves books, ‘cause he’s not thick, like me.
If Roy Kent was here, maybe he'd show me how to read like a normal kid can.
When Jamie is eleven, that’s when his dad comes back. James is big, and strong, and tough, and Jamie’s not any of those, according to his dad. Jamie learns a lot of new words when his dad comes back, like soft and pussy and little fucking bitch. He knows he ain’t smart, but he knows they’re not good words, cause he sees his mom’s face crumble when Jamie’s dad calls him those new words, and when he calls Tommy Swift a limp dick coward on the school pitch, he gets detention for the first time, so. When his dad finds out he gets in trouble at school now, well, that’s when Jamie learns his dad’s fists for the first time. It’s not the last, not by any means, but it’s hardest the first time, ‘cause before that, Jamie thought maybe his dad was just trying to make him better at football, to be tougher and bigger and stronger. Now he knows, his dad just don’t think he’s worth anything. Somehow that hurts worse than the bruises.
They're on the pitch at school. They've divided up teams. Jamie was the first pick. They make fun of him for his terrible marks, but on the pitch, Jamie is the best of all of them.
"Let's play," Tommy says.
"I wanna be Roy Kent," Jamie says eagerly, dribbling the ball around Tommy.
"You can't be him," David yells. "Roy Kent shares the ball."
Jamie says, "I can't share the ball. I really want to. But dad gives me bruises when I pass. I want to be Roy Kent so bad. Dad won't let me. I don't like getting hurt."
What comes out of his mouth is, "I'll be Gerrard, then."
Next week, he scores once against in a cup match against the next town over. It's a beautiful goal, and it's the game-winning goal. The coaches give him Man of the Match. His mum tells him he played well. He passed three times, though, and his dad re-teaches him why passing is soft when his mum drops him back home. When his dad finishes and heads off to the pub to get pissed with Denbo and Bug, Jamie runs, flees, up into his tiny room, and collapses on his bed.
"I wish you were my dad,” he says to the growling face of Roy Kent, hanging on his wall like the icons of saints in the old church where his mom used to take him. Angry, bearded, ringed by a halo of golden sunlight. Jamie leans back on his bed, easing the pain of his bruised chest.
The poster stares back at him unblinkingly.
“I know,” Jamie sighs. “Just be tougher. Better. Stronger." He pauses, traces his hand lightly over his ribs. "Maybe someday when I get as good as you, Dad won’t hurt me anymore.”
Roy Kent still doesn’t say anything.
“I wish you were here,” he whispers, “‘cause you’re smart and strong, and if you were here, you wouldn’t let Dad get to me.”
His chest is doing the hollow thing again, and his eyes burn with tears. He tries so hard every day, tries to be a good lad and a good student and a good footballer, and no matter what he does, he’s never enough for anyone. Never enough for his dad, or Ms Philips, or Coach Jennings.
Fuck this, he thinks. He's not supposed to use that word, Mum hates it, but he's eleven, now, and he’s not going to be soft again. He hears his dad’s voice in his head, get up and walk it off and don’t be a baby and I raised you better than this, Jamie, even though his dad didn’t raise him at all, just came back around when Man City started knocking at the door.
“Fuck you too, then,” Jamie spits. “I bet your dad never told you that - never told you -“
He can’t bring himself to say it - worthless - even though he knows it’s just a poster, knows it don’t have ears or a mouth, but he still can’t tell Roy Kent that his own dad thinks he’s worthless. Cause then when Jamie’s old enough, Roy Kent won’t want to play with him. Cause Coach Jennings told them what he got called when he was coming up, called “damaged goods” since he tore his Achilles. Jamie knows that’s what he’d be, if anyone finds out he’s a no good piece of shit who can’t even stand up to his own dad. He’ll be damaged goods, and no one wants damaged goods.
No one wants a boy whose dad paints his son mottled, bruised red-purple-blue.
I wish you were here, Roy Kent, he says to himself. Please be here, Roy Kent. I'll wait for you. We can play football together, and you can tell my dad I'm good, and then maybe he will be proud of me.
* * *
Roy Kent’s poster stands sentry on his wall for years, even as the tape curls and the frowning face yellows with age. The poster sees a lot, as Jamie grows. The crumpled school papers with the failing marks and the see me tomorrow morning comments. The first girl he brings home, the first girl that leaves him in the morning. The matches, good and bad, the one where he scores a hat trick for the first time in Man City blue, and the one where he makes an own goal and his dad beats him bloody.
He’s eighteen now. He’s the best player on every pitch he’s on. In the fall, he’ll start making appearances for the senior team at Man City. His teammates don't like him because he's the best, and they hate him because he’s selfish. He doesn’t pass and doesn’t share the ball and takes all the glory for himself. He's not small anymore. He's strong, and fast, and so, so smart. It doesn't matter that you can't read a book if you can read a defense. He's a god on the pitch, a fucking goal scoring machine. He's Jamie Fucking Tartt, and fuck everyone else.
He’s getting food regularly now, good, healthy food, and he’s grown six inches in three months and gained a ton of muscle. He towers over his mum; she has to stand on her tiptoes to give his cheek a kiss. He’s stronger than his father now, but that doesn’t seem to matter. Every time he goes home, his dad’s waiting with barbed words and thinly veiled threats. When his team loses, Jamie pays.
“You’re so soft, boy,” James spits. “Fuckin’ giving up open scoring chances, missing sitters all over the fucking place. I taught you better.”
You didn’t teach me a damn thing, he thinks, but he knows better than to talk.
“Did you even score today?” his dad asks.
He hears himself say “I had two assists.”
When the punch lands, he doesn’t feel it. He thinks of Roy Kent’s face, fierce and strong and assured, and how Roy Kent would never bow in the face of a few punches. He wants to be strong like Roy, so he’ll take what his dad gives and he won’t say another fucking word. He’s eighteen now, and he’s on City’s senior team. He’s not a fucking bitch pussy anymore. He’s Jamie Fucking Tartt, City #51.
He does two things when he signs his first full contract with City.
He buys his mum a brand new house, a gorgeous place on the good side of Manchester, with every new security feature he can find. Then he gets himself a place, a nice flat where he can see the river, and moves all his shit out of reach of his dad. It enrages James. Ungrateful bitch, he tells Jamie. I do everything for you, and this is how you repay me?
When Jamie comes back to get the last of his things, his dad looks him in the eye and rips the Roy Kent poster to pieces.
“You’ll never be as good as Kent,” James says. “Never. You remember what I told you when you were a lad, Jamie. You’re a piece of shit.”
“Okay, Dad,” Jamie whispers. He can’t take his eyes off the shredded image of Kent’s snarling face.
“You remember where you fucking came from, boy. You remember who raised you.”
Jamie doesn’t say anything, just turns around and walks out his dad’s door, head held high. He doesn’t feel the beer bottle when it breaks on his back. He's running again, but this time he's running to more money than he's ever seen, and the fans at Etihad screaming his name, and coaches that don't pry into his personal life.
Roy Kent's here, Roy Kent's there, Roy Kent's everywhere. Roy Kent's in a pile of shredded glossy paper at the feet of Jamie's father. It feels like an ending. Now, he won't see Roy after he's striped with bruises; he'll see the bland, impersonal walls of his new flat. Nothing to push him higher, faster, stronger, to out-tough and outlast his dad. It's up to him to be his own hero, now. His toughness comes from the empty place inside him, the place that used to be filled by the Roy Kent poster.
***
When City loans him to Richmond, his first thought is that he’s finally ran out of the reach of his dad's fists. His second thought is that he gets to play with Roy Kent. Even though the man is aging and his career is nearly over, it’s still Roy Kent (!), hero of Jamie’s childhood. The saint on the wall. But it turns out he and Roy don’t really get along, like, at all. Roy thinks Jamie is an ugly, selfish prick, and Jamie thinks Roy is old and slow. They pick fights in the changing room. They taunt each other in the cafeteria, and brawl on the pitch during training.
It’s easier this way, Jamie decides. If Roy is constantly angry at him, he won’t be able to dig deep and find out that Jamie is a piece of shit, someone who isn’t worth sharing the pitch with a legend like Roy Kent. Even when they’re swearing in each other's faces, they’re still teammates, and that’s what Jamie’s wished for his whole life.
He’s on Roy Kent’s team. The poster’s come alive, and its hands are at his throat. Jamie grins. They’d had a particularly ugly day of training, and rumor has it Cartrick is on the way out, to be replaced by an American. He can practically see the steam out of Roy's ears.
“You gonna finish me off, granddad? Be doing a few people a favor if you did,” and Jamie pretends not to see the quirk in Roy’s terrifying eyebrows when he says that.
Roy lets out an unintelligible roar and stalks away.
The next day, Ted Lasso shows up, and Jamie’s whole world flips upside down.
‘Cause Ted Lasso looks at him like he’s worth something, like he’s a good man under all the prick shit, and it makes Jamie itchy. He keeps telling Jamie good things, and even when Jamie’s left cross is shit Ted still tells him he’s done good, and Jamie can’t figure it out. If this is a game, he doesn't know the rules, and it freaks him the fuck out. Ted's even trying to get him to stop fighting Roy, which scares Jamie, cause when they’re not fighting, Jamie can’t control how Roy sees him, and he knows one day Roy will learn just how - how - that no one wants to spend time with Jamie.
When he’s starting to feel at home at Richmond, starting to forget he’s on loan, Ted Lasso fucking sends him back. Fucking gives him right back up to City, back to his father, away from Colin and Isaac and Keeley, although he never really had Keeley, anyway. Away from Roy. And now he’s right back where he started, a massive, selfish prick, and Roy Kent isn’t his teammate anymore.
“Look who came crawling back,” his dad says when Jamie leaves the City training grounds his first day back. The hair on the back of Jamie's neck stands up straight, and he shoves his fists in his sleeves to hide their traitorous trembling.
And then it’s like it used to be. Jamie’s getting hardly any minutes, even though he’s a fucking star when he’s on the pitch, and his dad is screaming through his letterbox and sending him hate texts and giving him bruises and cuts. It’s hard to play terrified, Jamie knows. He’s done it his whole life but he was starting to forget it at Richmond, and re-learning his dad has him twitchy and sour stomached.
So he leaves again. He runs again, this time to a stupid fucking reality TV show. Leaves his dad behind. Leaves Man City, and Pep, and his teammates, who turn away when they see the bruises and don’t ask questions.
“dad” (11:02): Youre such a piece of shit Jamie
“dad” (11:02): Fucking reality TV you’re an embarrasment
“dad” (11:05): You’ll fit right in i guess, rest of them are probably airheads who cant read too
“dad” (11:07): Worthless sack of shit
***
He doesn’t expect to be welcomed back to Richmond with open arms. He was a right dick when he was there the first time, he knows that. Prince prick of all pricks, Roy had called him, and it’s true. He blew up Roy's knee the last time he saw this team. He still feels terrible about that. He'd lost sleep over it, for fuck's sake, remembering the image of Roy limping off the pitch as the crowd roared his name. A few days after it had happened, he'd almost texted Roy. Always the coward, though, he'd typed and deleted five texts, and eventually panicked and threw his phone across the room.
jamie (22:43): Roy i am sorry i fucked your knee. Also im sorry iwas a twat when i was at richmond. i saw your retiremint speech it was nice but i am sorry it was my fault.
*not delivered*
When he gets back to Richmond, he tries to start making it right, but it’s hard. Everywhere he turns, he’s doing something wrong. He tries to make jokes, they land flat. He tries to make the extra pass, someone trips him and Colin gives him the bird. He tries to hang with the lads after training, they give him the wrong directions “accidentally.” Roy won't coach him. That's the worst part. Roy won't look at him, won't give him instruction at training. Back turned when Jamie boots a screamer, pinched eyebrows when he gives up the glory and passes to Dani.
Just when he finally gets it right, when Roy gives him the prick signal and smiles when he scores, when he joins Sam and puts a stripe of black tape on his uniform, when he’s finally, finally, feeling like part of the team again, it all goes tits up. He should’ve expected it. He was gonna have to pay for Lust Conquers All at some point. He hadn’t given his dad his new Richmond address, so clearly there was a part of him that instinctively knew what was coming. He should’ve known better.
Wembley.
Every footballer’s dream. Jamie thought about Wembley almost every day as a kid. He’d tell himself when he grew up and got out, he’d play for the Three Lions at Wembley. He’d be the star of England, and he’d be worth something, ‘cause millions of people would be chanting his name. You can't hear your dad calling you a baby coward pussy when a sold-out Wembley roars in unison.
Except when they actually play at Wembley, Jamie plays like shit, like the piece of shit that he is, and they get killed by City in front of his dad.
And then his dad invades the changing room. And then Jamie punches him in the face. And then his dad is scrambling up, snarling you can have that one for free, and Jamie feels the burn of long-faded bruises and scarred-over cuts. He’s standing there, chest hollowed out like he’s eleven and Tommy Swift is laughing at him when he reads in class, like he’s eighteen and his dad is shredding his Roy Kent poster, like he’s twenty-two and Ted Lasso is telling him he’s doing a good job.
He wants to run. He can't. His feet are glued to the floor. And he doesn't have shoes on, anyway. He stands there, shaking, watching his dad charge at him, watching Beard throw his dad into the door, oops.
And then the real-life Roy Kent is there, arms wrapped around him, holding him tight, holding him together. It’s what Jamie’s dreamed of since he was tiny. Roy’s here, he thinks. He didn’t let Dad get to me. For his whole life, he prayed desperately for the poster to come to life, spring off his wall and stand in between his dad’s fist and Jamie’s small body. For the saint to lead him to a better place, like they did in the stories they told in church. Jamie sobs into Roy's shoulder, deep, wracking cries. You’re here, you’re here, you’re here, he thinks. You’re finally here.
“You’re all right,” Roy says, rubbing his hand over Jamie’s back. “You’re okay. Deep breaths.”
Jamie shudders and trembles and sucks in a gasping breath. “Roy -” he chokes.
“Just breathe, lad. Don’t need to talk.”
“I’m sorry,” Jamie says.
Roy growls, vibrations buzzing in Jamie’s empty chest. “Don’t fucking apologize for that man. Don’t you dare.”
Jamie says, "I dreamed of this when I was small, of you coming and stepping in and saving me. You're my hero. I didn't mean to be a prick to you, before."
What comes out is, "I'm sorry."
Roy just holds him tighter.
You’re here. You stood in between us. You didn’t leave me. You’re here.
* * *
It’s different, after Wembley. A lot of things are. But it’s different, him and Roy. Their relationship changed, like a switch got flipped when Roy held Jamie's pieces together. Roy's seen the ugliest part of Jamie now, the part that's been called worthless and shit and little pussy bitch for twelve years, and he didn't look away. He saw it, and he still held Jamie close.
Roy looks after him now, in his weird, repressed Roy way. He eats lunch with Jamie at the Richmond cafeteria, and sometimes on the weekends they hang out, and play FIFA. Roy teaches him poker. They watch international matches, and make rude comments about the defense. Turns out Roy likes Bake Off too, so they watch a lot of that, mostly with Keeley, who fancies Paul’s eyes. Jamie cooks, once, just chicken and rice and vegetables, but Roy looks at him all pleased, like Jamie’s scored the winning goal in the Champions League final.
Roy shows him things, like how to iron a shirt and sign a check and build furniture, and shit. Things that a proper dad usually teaches their son. How to write a good thank you note for when people give you stuff. He introduces Jamie to books, and doesn't even blink when Jamie trips over every other word and takes a month to finish a book Roy had done in a week. Keeley and Roy drag him along to museums and other, like, cultural shit, and they don't make him feel stupid, not once. They ask him his opinions and actually seem to care about what he has to say.
It confuses him. He doesn’t know what to do with the kindness Roy shows him. No one’s ever been proud of him before. No one's ever been this nice without a catch. He wants so badly to enjoy the FIFA and the movies and the dinners but he can't relax when he's constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. He's waiting for his dad to drop by, for Roy to see Jamie with bruises, and realize that Jamie isn't actually worth the trouble, and then he'll be alone again, with no one to stand between him and his dad. He's waiting for Roy to get bored, with Jamie's screwed-up brain, and leave him behind, to go off with Keeley and Phoebe and have a great life without Jamie's shit dragging him down.
It's one night at dinner, when Roy is going on and on about how Jamie's left foot cross is looking so much better, how he's going to get capped by England this summer and he'll be a fucking star, that Jamie just loses it.
"What do you want from me?" He asks.
Roy looks up from his plate. "The fuck do you mean?"
"Like, telling me - I - like, when you say you're proud, and shit. What do you want me to do?"
"I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, Jamie."
"I just - why?"
"Why am I proud of you?"
Jamie's ears flame red. "I guess, sorry. No one - just - do you want something? From me? I can - if it's - I don't know. I'm sorry."
"What the fuck, Jamie?"
"No, I'm just. I'm just Jamie, and you're like, - Roy Kent, and I don't - you're supposed to hate me. We don't - what's going on?"
Roy looks like he's swallowed a lemon. His eyebrows are smushed together impressively. He looks like the poster on Jamie's wall. "Just Jamie? There's no just, lad, that's all you've ever needed to - fuck."
Jamie looks at Roy. The man's eyes are tight with concern, which is a look Jamie gets a whole lot more from Roy than he used to. He feels the sudden need to run and moves to leap from the table, but then Roy sets a hand on his arm, and Jamie sinks back into his seat.
"I had a poster of you, on my wall," Jamie mumbles.
"You told me," Roy says softly.
"I used to - when my dad - after, I'd like, lie there, and think - if I was as good, as tough - maybe he wouldn't have - and if you were there, that you would've stood - he wouldn't have - if you had, he might have-" He can't finish.
The cavernous, empty wound in his chest has balled itself up and gotten stuck in his throat on the way out, and he chokes as he tries to swallow back tears.
"My dad - I'm not - people don't - "
This is the point of no return for Jamie, now. There's no going back, once he tells Roy. Either Roy looks at him and sees someone worth something, or Roy realizes, and sends Jamie right back to being alone in an empty house.
He'd seen a show on TV with Keeley one night. About the Romans, and their civil war. It'd talked about Caesar, which previously Jamie thought was only a type of salad, and how he'd crossed the Rubicon river. How when he crossed the river, he looked back and said something about a dice that Jamie can't remember. Then there was a lot of fighting, which, cool. But the show had said that river is a reference for when you can't go back to the way it was before. That's where he is now, like Caesar and his army. Jamie's on the banks of the Rubicon, and as soon as he wades in, he can't turn around.
"I used to pray, Roy, that you'd, like, jump out - out of the poster, and when my dad - you know, when he'd - that you'd stand in front of me, and - he couldn't hurt me, like, 'cause you were tough, and -"
"Jamie," Roy breathes.
"He called me worthless," Jamie says, voice raw. "Every day. Piece of shit. Good for nothing. Fucking stupid idiot baby. All that. And I'd look at the poster and think - I bet no one calls Roy Kent thick. You were the toughest guy I knew, and I'd think - if I could be as tough as Roy Kent, just for even one day - maybe he wouldn't - someone would love me, you know?"
"I do," Roy says.
"And if my dad knew I was as tough as Roy Kent, and as good at football as you, he'd be proud of me. He'd love me, maybe."
"I do," Roy says again.
"Roy - "
"No, listen to me, Jamie. Look me in the eyes."
Jamie does.
"Your dad is a massive shitfucker," Roy says. "He's a dick, Jamie. He treated you like shit your whole life, for no reason. There was nothing you could've done to deserve it. Nothing. That's not what parents are supposed to do."
Jamie puts the heels of his hands in his eyes. "Roy, c'mon, mate, don't do this."
"You didn't deserve it, Jamie. Everything he did, every fucking name he called you. None of it. You said you're 'just Jamie?' That's perfect. That's all I want from you. Just you. I don't care if you leave for another club, or if you never play football again." - Roy knocks loudly on the wooden table - "I'd still love you the same I do now. All you've ever needed to be is just Jamie. You're loved because you're Jamie, not in spite of it."
"Roy," Jamie gasps. Roy is looking at him all soft, like he looks at Keeley and Phoebe, and Jamie can't bear it. Can't bear the love he sees in Roy's dark eyes. He took the step. He crossed the Rubicon, he cast the die, and it came up on the side that he'd prayed for his whole life. To be looked in the eyes by Roy Kent, and for Roy to look past the prick, dickhead exterior to see the small boy who wanted someone to come save him.
Roy speaks again. Quiet, tender.
"I know, Jamie. It's been so hard for you. I know."
This time when Jamie runs, Roy is there to meet him.
He cradles the back of Jamie's head, fingers running through his hair. He rocks them back and forth, all the while whispering into his ear.
"You're all right," Roy says. "You're okay. I'm here, Jamie. I got you. I got you, lad. It's over now. You're going to be fine. I got you."
"You're here," Jamie chokes. "You're here."
They stand there, in Roy's kitchen, sun setting fire through the windows. If Jamie pulled his face out of the crook of Roy's neck, he'd see the poster. The beard, the frown, the eyebrows, golden halo sunlight. The saint Jamie prayed for. The bruises, the scars, they all fade under the weight of Roy's gentle arms.
All the running he'd done in his life led him right to Roy's kitchen. Roy's embrace. Roy's great love.
The saint came to life, and he's here to lead Jamie home.
Roy's murmurs rip-rumble through Jamie's chest. "I know. I'm right here, son."
You're here. You're here. You've got me. I've waited my whole life for your arms around me.
You're here.