Archive of Our Own

“Tartt! A word—my office.”

Jamie’s head jerks up at the sound of his name. He’s packed in Michelle’s cramped cubicle with her and Benny, bent over a spread for the next issue—Mental Health in Men’s Football: Navigating the Conditions and Prejudices Inside the Locker Room. It’s a decent scoop, with even an interview from one of the top club managers who was willing to go on the record, which could place Michelle and him both in very hot water with a fair few football club owners, but alas—that was the risk of the job.

“Think he’s finally going to have a go at you for that stunt you pulled last week?” Benny asks, folding his arms across his chest.

“Fuck off,” Jamie scowls. It wasn't even that big a deal. Jamie might have tailed some affluent member of the upper-class, the unwilling subject of one of Jamie’s articles, back to their favourite restaurant and then conveniently booked a table for the exact same time the bloke had lunch there each week. There may have been a slight altercation when Jamie confronted him before dessert and brought up the little tidbit about his son and the male prostitute he was seeing, but Jamie was trying to work an angle—journalism was all about operating in those lovely grey areas, and using a little dirt to make some twat talk, well—Jamie was just trying to get the posh knob to actually answer a question for once.

Now because Jamie does his research, he’s suddenly the bad guy in all this?

“Go see what he wants,” Michelle says, studying the layout before moving a few clippings around. “If you don’t deal with him, he’ll make all the rest of our lives a living hell for the next two weeks.”

Jamie gives them both a mocking salute before he hustles over to the large office encased in glass panes and overlooking the London view. He smiles at a few people as he passes their cubicles—he’s well liked in the office for his gumption, sparkling personality, and the fact that he brings everyone coffee on Thursdays, the worst day of the work week.

He knocks on the doorframe of his editor’s office—Howard Pierce, the golden plaque on the door displays proudly. “You wanted to see me?”

Pierce is gazing out one of the large windows, but turns at Jamie’s address. “Shut the door, if you would.” Jamie nods and closes the door with a soft click, before coming further into the room to stand before the large mahogany desk. It’s tidy to the point of being neurotic, with every item in perfect alignment, all parallel to one other. Jamie has the urge to sweep his arm across the surface.

“Please,” Pierce says, gesturing to the two square leather armchairs planted in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”

Jamie tries to keep his face neutral as he sits. He wipes his hands on the thighs of his trousers, fiddling—couldn’t fuss with his shirt, tucked into his fancy slacks in his attempt to at least appear learned and sophisticated. Simon had helped him buy this outfit, had come shopping with Jamie when he first got the job, holding up shirts as he said motivational things like, “No one can fault a man as handsome as you, Jamie. You’re bright, smart, and clever—a triple threat.” He was a nice bloke like that; good to his mum too.

“Is this about Ashwood?” Jamie asks. “Because I swear, it was just a coincidence that—”

Pierce holds up a hand, effectively silencing Jamie’s attempts at placation and huffs a laugh.

“Ashwood. You know, Jamie, if I were a better man, you’d be out on your ear for the stunt you pulled.”

Jamie nods, head tipping down.

“As it happens, an opportunity has come down the chain—one that might redeem you, as it were.”

“Sir?” Jamie follows Pierce with his eyes as the man wanders back to the bank of windows, looking out with his hands tucked inside his trouser pockets.

“What do you know about Roy Kent?” It would be better to ask what Jamie didn’t know. Roy Kent is a football legend, prodigy by the age of nine, legend by the age of seventeen, reaching heights the likes of which Iniesta and Gerard Piqué couldn’t even touch. He captained Chelsea for more than a decade, before signing over to Richmond without warning or explanation. Jamie has been following his career much longer and much closer than what would be considered a professional interest. If there is one thing Jamie knows for certain, it’s that nobody wants a journalist who is personally invested—things get messy fast that way.

“Not much,” he says, shrugging.

“Hm.” Jamie can hear the smile in Pierce’s voice despite not being able to see it. “Don’t get too excited. Richmond’s PR team is looking to hire a journalist to do a piece on Kent, a legacy type beat. They’ve been having… trouble finding a match.” He lets out a sigh. “To be honest Jamie, this will be the twelfth candidate we’ve put forth. If we don’t find a suitable reporter soon, it’s likely this opportunity will be passed off to some other publication.”

Jamie feels his eyebrows raise. Twelve? That was practically unheard of, to go through that many reporters… It was something only the likes of Zava would pull, pompous git, not Roy Kent. “Did they give a reason?”

Pierce snorts. “Plenty. Every reporter we’ve sent his way—too nosy, too boring, too ugly. Rumor said he was a difficult man to get on with, but—” He looks at Jamie, the frustration clear on his face. “You see our dilemma.”

“Not like I'll have a problem with any of that. I’m well fit, interesting, and I always ask the right questions.” Jamie shrugs. “Besides, you know what we say about rumours in this line of business, sir.”

His boss laughs, head tipped back. “That,” he says, pointing a finger at Jamie. “Is exactly the reason why I’m recommending you.”

Jamie blinks. “Wait, what?”

“There will be an initial meeting, a trial of sorts, to see if their team finds you agreeable. If all goes well, you’ll be shadowing Kent for a few days. Work, events, extracurriculars—” He gives Jamie a look. “Preferably with the party’s full knowledge beforehand. We want to keep this all above board, now.”

Jamie is still trying to process the harrowing fact that, if all went well, he would be interviewing the Roy Kent, living legend and Chelsea hardman, the man who’s poster had lived on his wall for over half his life. His throat is dry and his palms are clammy.

“When’s the meeting?”

Pierce glances at his watch. “Tomorrow morning, eight o’clock. You can make that work, yes?”

The job is obviously meant to serve as some kind of punishment, but Jamie can’t find it in himself to care. It’s the scoop of a lifetime, the kind that would make his career, and yet it’s being passed off to him like table scraps. He’d be a fool to turn it down (and likely, he gathers, out of a job).

“Of course, sir.”

“Good lad.” Pierce gestures out to the main floor where their cubicles sit arranged like a tetris board. “Penny will see you sorted. Contract, background details, parking pass—the works.”

Jamie nods and rises to his feet. “I appreciate the opportunity, I won’t disappoint.”

“Best not to get your hopes up, let’s just get through tomorrow morning first.” He speaks with the air of a man already accepting defeat. “There’s no sense in celebrating early.”

Jamie nods before taking his leave, trying to control his pace to avoid all out sprinting. Roy Kent. Roy fucking Kent.

☆

When Jamie arrives at Nelson Road the next morning, he’s greeted by Richmond’s PR consultant who happens to be a familiar face.

“Jamie!” Keeley Jones stands in the hall decked out in so much pink, Barbie would be jealous. Her voice is high in surprise, but pleased. “What are you doing here?”

“Keeley, hi.” He smiles at her, leaning in for a half-hug and a quick peck on the cheek. “I'm actually here for work.”

Her eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. You’re here for Roy, aren’t you?”

He nods and tilts his head in question.

“Fuck, okay. Um—” She looks around the corridor as if they were naughty school children moments from being caught out by their Headmaster.

“You know you aren’t the first reporter that’s come in for the job, right?”

Jamie nods, his smile wry. “I think I’m all up to speed, Keeley. Big bad Roy Kent is trying to get out of his contractual obligations, yeah?”

“Pretty much.” She looks at him, pleading. “He’s going to try and put you off, say all sorts of nasty things—”

“Keeley,” Jamie says, reaching out to take hold of her arms. “I’ve got it covered. You let me do my job, and that way, you can do yours.” He winks.

She rolls her eyes and laughs, before giving him a harmless punch to the arm. “I forgot how much of an ego you have. It’s hot—why did we break up again?”

“I was too sexy, it was distracting you from work.” He does a slow turn with his hands fanned out, and Keeley whistles.

“Think you might be right, those pants are doing wonders for your arse.”

“Mr. Tartt?” A woman with a pinstripe pencil skirt and matching blazer stands in the doorway across the hall. “Coach Kent is ready for you. Ms. Jones.”

“That’s me late,” Keeley says, hustling ahead of Jamie to slip through the door after the other woman. He takes a moment to breathe, in and out, and thinks of what mummy would tell him when the other boys at school thought he wasn’t worth their time: take up space, don’t let them look away. Be the shining, lovely boy I know you are and they’ll see. Jamie gives one final nervous adjustment to his blazer and smoothes the creases in his slacks, before he opens the door that Keeley had just slipped through.

The pressroom at Nelson Road is familiar despite the fact that Jamie has been inside only once, when Adebayo had been out sick with laryngitis. The rows of chairs are all empty now, save for the three in the front row, closest to the door; Keeley sits with a strained smile, the woman with the pin striped skirt appears bored and is busy picking at her nails, and a short, sweaty man smiles at Jamie, who’s nervous disposition reminds him a bit of Simon.

At the desk sits the man of the hour. Roy Kent leans back in his chair, eyes closed and hands folded in his lap. Despite being on the other side of forty, Kent still looks as fit as he did during the height of his prime.

It isn’t until Jamie enters further into the room that he notices Ms. Welton, the owner, leaning against the wall to his right. “Welcome in,” she says, smiling. “You must be Jamie Tartt.”

Jamie hears Roy snort from over his shoulder as he shakes Ms. Welton’s hand.

“Jamie is just fine, Ms. Welton. And can I just say, it’s lovely to meet you. All the work you’ve done at Richmond, especially forming a women’s team, it’s been brilliant—my mum can’t get enough.”

Her smile shifts to something less corporate, softening her features. “Right, well, that’s quite the endorsement.” She turns to gesture at those seated. “These, of course, are the ones who deserve the real credit: we have Keeley our PR consultant, Rachel our head of HR, and Higgins the Director of Football Operations.”

Jamie nods to each of them, giving an extra wide smile to Keeley who waves him off. When he turns back to Ms. Welton, she steps aside to reveal two men who were previously hidden by her impressive stature.

“And I’m sure you’re familiar with the other members of Richmond’s staff, our assistant coaches Nathan and Beard.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you,” Nate says whilst shaking Jamie’s hand just a tad too emphatically. “If there’s anything we can do to be of assistance.”

Jamie resists making a jab; it was an open secret in the journalism community how helpful Nathan Shelley could be.

Beard doesn’t shake Jamie’s hand, just stands with his arms crossed and stares at him unnervingly. When Beard is seemingly satisfied, he gives Jamie a single nod and leaves the room. Nate stutters out something about training, apologising profusely, before he follows the other coach out.

Jamie raises an eyebrow. The whole parade feels a bit overkill for a simple preliminary interview. Jamie wonders what exactly he was in for. He knows Kent could be brash and harsh, but if the entourage is meant to deter the man, they’ve all made a calculated error—Kent won’t view them as a threat, he’ll see them for what they really are: an audience.

“Well,” Jamie says. He glances over to see Kent still hasn’t moved, paying them all no mind. “Where would you like me?”

“Over here’s good, babes,” Keeley says, patting the chair one seat over from her.

That gets Kent’s eyes to snap open, his chin jerking down to stare at Keeley incredulously. “‘Babe’?”

Keeley appears caught out, her eyes darting about the room. Jamie takes his seat, placing himself in direct view of Kent’s eyeline.

“We’ve known each other for a while,” Jamie says by way of explanation. Kent raises his brows and finally glances Jamie’s way, pinning him with a look Kent probably considered intimidating. Joke’s on him—Jamie has been facing that very same scrutiny from the poster above his bed for years and is practically immune by now.

“So, Roy Kent,” Jamie starts. He pulls out a small spiral bound notepad and a pen from the interior pocket of his blazer. “Shall we get started?”

Kent grunts and sits back in his chair again, glaring. Jamie hears the others shuffling about, likely uncomfortable, but he pays them no mind; it was time to prove his mettle.

“It’s been twenty-five years since your debut, and you’ve dominated both on and off the pitch. I’m sure you’re already aware that our paper is interested in highlighting the successes of your career, while also gaining insight into some of your… lesser moments.”

Kent grunts again and folds his arms across his chest.

“Is there anything in particular that stands out, things that you personally feel bear mention?”

“God,” Kent says, shaking his head. “You’re just as dull and conformist as the rest of your lot.” He glances around the room. “This is who you’ve brought? Am I supposed to be impressed?”

Jamie feels his hackles rise and the back of his neck flush. If this were any other instance, he would snipe fuck you, man and storm out, maybe flip Kent the bird while he was at it. Instead, Jamie takes a breath and decides to switch tactics; there’s a reason Pierce sent him in as a last resort—Jamie doesn’t always fight fair.

“What can you tell me about Jeremy Cartwright?” Jamie asks.

That gets Kent’s attention, his head swiveling to stare at Jamie and nostrils flaring.

“The fuck are you on about?”

“Jeremy Cartwright, October 2006, that ginnel behind King’s Arms.” Jamie tilts his head to the side. “Not ringing any bells?”

He watches the muscle under Kent’s eye twitch and his hands clench into fists. There’s the sound of someone gagging in the background.

“Hm,” Jamie says, nodding. “That’s fine. What about that match against Villa in ’07, when you were slapped with a red card for profanity and physical violence against another player? I’m not interested in what he said—anyone who’s half decent at lip-reading could make that out—I’m curious what kind of punishments Mourinho handed down when their captain couldn’t play for three matches.”

Kent appears gobsmacked, but finally Jamie seems to have his full attention.

“What, you a fanboy or something?”

“Maybe.” Jamie shrugs. “Had a poster of you on my wall growing up.”

“Yeah?” Kent sneers. “So did half of England. You have a little wank?” He accompanies his question with a lazy, crude hand gesture. Jamie hears Keeley make a noise of descent next to him.

“Sure,” Jamie says, dismissive. “Likely so did half of England.”

Kent huffs out a laugh and then glares, like it’s Jamie’s fault Kent finds him amusing.

“Why did you become a footballer?” Jamie asks.

“Why’d you become a journalist?”

“Always been interested in football, haven’t I?”

“Then why not play?” Kent is as ruthless as any reporter, like a starved dog in search of a bone. “You know what they say: those that can’t do, teach. And those that can’t teach, stand on the sidelines lapping up another man’s glory like a whore begging for seconds.”

Jamie sees Keeley wince out of the corner of his eye and hears another round of gagging; he wonders what Rachel from HR thinks of all this, or Ms. Welton for that matter. Jamie taps his pen against his notepad, before using it to point at his ankle.

“I was in the academy at City. They told me I had some promise, might make it to the big leagues. But, I got injured.” He shrugs, like thoughts of what could have been don’t eat away at him in the night while he tries to find sleep. “Couldn’t play after that. I was lucky it happened when I were young, managed to switch careers without too much fuss. But, I always wanted to get as close to it as I could.” He leans forward. “You understand that, no?”

This is Jamie’s charm, what had made him as valuable a football player as he is a journalist. People underestimate him, have done so all his life whether it was in assuming he didn’t have the brains for tactics, or that he hadn't done his research thoroughly enough to sniff out a liar. In the world's eyes, he’s just some idiot boy from Manchester with the funny accent and incessant questions—but Jamie pays attention. He sees everything, every flinch and every tremor. If Roy Kent is a bloodhound on the pitch, Jamie is a lion in the pressroom, ready to eat him alive.

Kent sits back, acknowledging Jamie’s win. He can tell Kent appreciates his candour, his unavoidably obvious hero worship probably helping things too, no doubt. God knows, Kent’s ego is bigger than a full crowd at Wembley.

“What do you think should make it into the article?” Kent asks, finally. His eyes have shifted from defensive to curious. “What ‘bears mentioning’?”

Jamie can tell this is some kind of test, but remains undaunted. “Easy—debuting with Chelsea at seventeen, and Chelsea secured the FA Cup the very same year. Taking home both the FA cup and the EFL cup in your first year as captain. The battering Chelsea dealt Wigan in 2010. Chelsea winning the 2012 Champions League under your captaincy. Becoming head gaffer at Richmond and leading them to a Champions League win on the first try.” Jamie tries not to laugh. “Your charity rap single.”

Jamie hears Keeley snort.

Kent keeps his gaze steady. “And my ‘lesser moments’?”

“England’s placement in the 2014 World Cup. Your transfer to Richmond, no offence—” he offers to the room. “Richmond being relegated as a result of your last game as a player.” After a moment Jamie adds, “Your injury.”

In an unprecedented moment of character, Kent doesn’t scoff or glare but simply takes it all in with a tilt to his eyebrows that speaks of unresolved grief.

Jamie pushes a little further. “You also tend to burn brightly on your first attempt, before it all fades away. I'm curious why that is.”

“You’d have better luck talking to my therapist,” Kent says, wry.

“That’s the headline right there: ‘Emotionally Stunted Englishman Tries Therapy, The World Finally Knows Peace.’”

Kent looks away and covers his mouth in an attempt to hide his grin. Jamie sits back satisfied, with only one last question.

“What time should I come in tomorrow?”

Jamie watches Roy compose himself, before he glances at the little group seated to Jamie’s left and Ms. Welton who still hovers by the door. The entire room seems to be holding their breath.

Kent stands and stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets, before giving Jamie one last glare. “Four a.m. training. We’ll meet at mine, Keeley can sort out the details. Don’t be late.”

☆

Jamie is at Kent’s house by 3:52am and the man is already outside in full gear, impatient as anything. He’s even tapping his foot, Christ alive.

“Morning,” Jamie says, cheery.

Kent just grunts. “You’re late.”

Jamie rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother correcting him, and instead asks about the workout.

“It’s not timed. We start now and keep at it until one of us fucking drops.”

Without any further preamble, Kent kicks things off with a light jog through his neighbourhood. It’s predictably posh, with terrace housing stretching as far as the eye can see and charming shops that crop up as they near the heart of Richmond. Jamie doesn’t bother asking any questions for the moment, he finds it best at times to subvert expectations and allow people to brood awhile. Unfortunately for him, it seems Kent might be a world-class champion at brooding.

Kent has them stop at Richmond Green, the grass still dewy and the sky a dark ash. Jamie watches Kent assess him, with his arms crossed and his brow furrowed.

“Let’s see you do some burpees,” he says.

Jamie raises his eyebrows but complys.

After a set, Kent grunts and says, “Your form is sloppy. Again.”

Things quickly devolve from there with Kent barking orders, running Jamie through a ridiculously extensive workout routine and correcting his form whenever it falters. Kent’s hands are warm and arrogant—much like the man himself—as they familiarise themselves with Jamie’s body, turning in a knee or straightening out his back. When Jamie isn’t focused on executing endless squats or lunges or sit-ups, he wonders faintly if this is what having a collapsed lung feels like.

Jamie is in the middle of holding a plank when Kent says, “Alright, we’ve got about five minutes left. Go ahead and ask your questions.”

“Erm,” Jamie gasps, trying to shift his weight to take some of the strain off his shoulders. “Do you feel like you’ve earned Richmond’s current success?”

Kent plants his foot in the centre of Jamie’s back, making him drop lower and causing his abs to tense up. A bead of sweat rolls from Jamie’s hairline, behind his ear, and down his neck. Fucking hell.

“Sorry, could you repeat that?”

Evil is what this man is, a proper fucking psycho.

“Since coach Lasso’s absence, Richmond have continued to hold their place as a top team.” Jamie takes a shuddering breath, his muscles trembling in complaint. “Can you really claim all the credit, when another man paved the way?”

He hears Kent make a growling sound above him, and feels that foot between his shoulder blades again, more insistent.

“‘Standing on the sidelines lapping up another man’s glory.’” Jamie laughs.

Kent presses with his full weight and Jamie collapses to the ground with a thud. He digs the heel of his trainer into Jamie’s back for added effect, which Jamie thinks is mean. At least he can blame his flush on the exertion and not on any weird thrill he may gain from Roy’s scrutiny.

“I’m not riding anyone’s coattails. I fucking earned this. I did my time, I know my shit. Who the fuck are you to tell me anything, pretty boy?”

Jamie rubs his face into the grass. The dew feels nice against his flushed cheeks, and he doesn’t even care that it’s probably getting mud in his eyelashes.

“Oi.” Roy toes at his side, and Jamie rolls over onto his back, still breathing hard.

“Richmond has performed well, everyone from the pundits to my fucking nan would agree, but their plays have been uninspired. You’ve become complacent,” Jamie says. “I’ve seen the footage, same as everyone else—only I’m not cowed by your snide attitude, I’ll say it to your face. You’ve been coasting on Lasso’s victories, staying with what works and avoiding risks. You’ve barely even changed formation in years.” Jamie sits up and squints at Kent, the early morning sun hurting his eyes. “You’re Roy fucking Kent. You made your own way, you always have. Not sure when you started pulling your punches.”

Kent is silent and still. Jamie figures he’ll need to chew on that for a while before he’ll be ready to respond.

“I can’t believe you do this every morning,” Jamie complains, as he stumbles to stand. He bends over, with his hands on knees, still trying to catch his breath. He’s in decent shape, loves hitting the gym and is proud of the way he’s managed to sculpt his body—but even he didn’t have the stamina of a professionally trained athlete.

“I don’t.” Roy’s smile looks sinister.

“What?”

“Normally, I sleep in until about half-seven.”

Jamie blinks, slowly. “What the fuck, Kent.”

“You’d better hurry if you want to shower and make it to the club in time,” the man says, nonplussed. “You reek.”

Jamie takes a sniff of his armpit. He did reek.

“Enjoyed our chat.” Kent tosses this final parting over his shoulder as he jogs off, his lips curled into a smirk.

Huffing, Jamie turns and begins trying to flag down a cab. He feels outraged and almost impressed by Roy’s bit of trickery. That bastard, Jamie thinks. Two could play at this game.

☆

When Jamie returns to Nelson Road after a thorough scrub down, the rest of the day amounts to that of a typical info piece: lurking about in an attempt to gather intel from all the eyes and ears at present. The key is knowing the difference between someone just looking for their fifteen minutes eager to be named alongside one of the greats, and someone who actually has something insightful to contribute. Usually, it’s a person often overlooked, hidden in plain sight.

“Yeah, pretty sure he meets with the ladies every Friday,” Will says. “Oh, unless it’s the beginning of the month—then he has to skip out because of his bookclub.”

“Amazing,” Jamie says, jotting everything down. Yoga and bookclub, God it’s Christmas. Who would have thought Roy Kent was such a massive nerd? If Jamie uncovers a pair of reading glasses, he’ll just about faint. Will the Kit Man has quickly become a fontful of valuable information.

“What can you tell me about his private life? He seeing anyone, casual or serious? Does he have any friends that he gets together with frequently? Old footie mates?”

“No,” Will says, shaking his head and stuffing more towels into the wash. “Him and Keeley gave it a go once, but that was ages ago. I know he meets up with his old teammates from Chelsea like once a month—last time it was a pub crawl, over in Knightsbridge? But other than that, he really only spends time with his niece.”

“Sound,” Jamie says. “Seriously, this is all dead helpful, Will.”

“Is it?” His face brightens and he twists his body around, bashful. “Well, I’m just happy to be of assistance. Oh, just wait until you hear about the time Roy narrowly avoided an accident out on the pitch when he had ice cream before a match!”

Jamie lets out a laugh. “Later, alright? Got a couple more people I need to interrogate.”

He gives Will a fist bump and goes to pull open the door to the boot room, only to run smack into Kent himself.

No one says anything for a moment. Jamie becomes fixated on his breathing, with the proximity of his chest brushing Kent’s on each inhale and the smell of him soothing.

Kent narrows his eyes and flicks his gaze from Jamie to Will, the latter of which is now frozen by the wash. Jamie isn’t one to crack under pressure, but clearly the kit man is made of softer stuff.

“I didn’t tell him about Marbella!” Will blurts.

Kent hangs his head and sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Have you been blabbing to the journalist we hired?”

Will’s eyes go wide. “He didn’t tell me that! He said he was the coordinator hired for your birthday! Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?”

“Technically, I only have to disclose it if I use what you say as a direct quote,” Jamie says.

Kent points at him. “You, out. And you—” He pointed at Will. “What have we talked about? ‘What goes on in the boot room…’?”

“‘Stays in the boot room,’” Will finishes glumly.

“Good lad.”

Jamie tries to use the opportunity to slip away unnoticed, edging past Kent and into the hallway.

“Oi, not so fast.”

Before Jamie can tuck it away, Kent snatches his notepad out of his grip.

Jamie sighs. “Is it your mission to make my job as painful as possible?”

“Obviously,” Kent says, reading through his notes.

“Sure you don’t need your glasses? Wouldn’t want to be responsible for any eyestrain, pretty sure that’s elder abuse.”

“It’s not the size of type that’s the issue, your writing is just appalling.”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Jamie scoffs.

Roy meets his eyes over the notepad and though his mouth is still its perpetual flat line, his eyes are dancing with mirth.

“You looking to go through my bins next?” Kent says, gesturing with the notepad. “Or interview my housemaid?”

“I am very curious about the state of your shower drain,” Jamie deadpans. “Can you imagine the hair?”

A huff of laughter escapes Kent and Jamie grins.

“You ready to make my job easier and answer a few of my questions now?”

Kent watches him. Jamie can’t place his expression; it appears almost weary, before it’s wiped clean and replaced with practised indifference.

“Got a thing right now.” Kent hands back the notepad and wanders past Jamie in the direction of the car park.

“Perhaps later then!” Jamie calls after him, adding under his breath, “Prick.”

Despite Kent’s lack of cooperation, the rest of Jamie’s morning proves to be fruitful. He wanders into the treatment room to chat with Gail, one of the club’s physios. She fills him in on much the same gossip Will had: that Kent tends to keep to himself, that his obsession with details often lends itself to strangely thoughtful actions on his part, and that despite listening to murder podcasts during their massage sessions back when he was a player, she could still hear all the weird noises Kent made. Fascinating points of thought definitely, but not things he could utilise for his article. Besides, Gail becomes much less interested in the proceedings when she realises the information isn’t being used for Kent’s obituary. (“He’s not even dead.” “In the world we live in, I think it’s smart to be prepared.”)

Jamie also pays a visit upstairs, wandering about the office space and making small talk with the staff posted on the second floor. Marjorie tells him that the longest conversation she’d managed to have with Kent was when he changed her van’s tire one night after training ran long, and that the only thing Kent had asked her was whether she had any tools. (She hadn’t, but apparently it’d been no problem because Kent kept a toolkit in the back of his gaudy Mercedes G-Wagon.) Laughing Liam doesn’t say much, only manages to get out half of a joke Roy had told him once before he’s off and away, honking with laughter. Jamie decides to take that as his signal to depart.

Having exhausted a small fraction of his burning curiosity about Kent’s private life, Jamie goes in search of Higgins. It takes very little time to find the man, sitting on the hallway floor between two potted plants and munching on a rather pathetic looking salad. Jamie asked him earlier that day if they could have lunch together and Higgins had appeared delighted by his request. Jamie gets the impression the man is just pleased anyone is asking after him.

Originally, Jamie had intended to use the time to gain more insight into Kent as a professional and his behaviour as both coach and player. Instead, Jamie ends up listening to Higgins ramble on about his wife, his five sons, and their picture perfect family life. He thinks it all sounds rather nice; what it must be like to have a dad who cares that much, who loves so wholly and without shame.

“They sound lovely,” Jamie says. “Your family.”

“I’m the lucky one, aren’t I?” Higgins says. “They’re the ones who made me the man I am today. Every happiness and every hardship. It makes the journey a bit less bleak when you share it with those that understand.”

Jamie is still thinking about that when he runs into Keeley on his way back to the coaches office.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” she teases. Keeley looks stunning, with glittery eyeshadow and her hair done up all nice. She has one of those tiny handbags that looks like a tote and heels that make her almost the same height as him.

“Hm, scared what’ll happen if you’re left on your own too long with a handsome lad? Pavlovian, innit?”

Keeley shakes her head. “Never change, Jamie.”

They stand there, smiling at one another, and Jamie is reminded of a time when this would have gone to his head.

“What’s the deal with you and Kent?” he asks. “Old flame ready to be rekindled?”

“Me and Roy? God no, we’re just good friends now.”

“Uh huh.”

“Fuck off, just because you can’t understand the concept of men and women being friends—”

“Oi, I have loads of female friends, it’s not my fault they all happen to be lesbians. Just got much more in common.”

Keeley rolls her eyes.

“Why’d you break up anyway?”

“Is this journalist Jamie asking or my friend Jamie?”

“Both,” he says, grinning. “Nah, all jokes, just curious—strictly off the record, yeah?”

Keeley pauses, her hands worrying the handle of her bag. “Well, I think it was my fault mainly, seeing as how he broke up with me.”

Jamie gapes. “He broke up with you? I knew he was a daft old twat, but is he fucking mental?”

“It was kind of a mutual thing, but yeah, I think it had a lot to do with just being too… different.”

“Different?” Jamie frowns. “Different how?”

“We just wanted different things,” Keeley says, looking down the hall, her gaze unseeing. “After his injury, all he wanted to do was lay about, coaching U9s and getting wine drunk by half-four. I thought if I just got him working again with the pundit gig, you know, back with what he loved, he’d sort the rest out.”

Jamie thinks about those first few weeks after he injured his ankle, when all he did was lay in bed rotting away, wishing. He’s pretty sure it was the longest he’d ever gone without washing his hair.

“He can just be so frustrating. He doesn’t do well being left on his own, and yet hates taking other people's advice. He gets bored easily, but will never try anything new. I couldn’t even take a piss without him following me into the bathroom, and yet suddenly when he’s assistant coach he can’t possibly make time for us to be together!”

Jamie raises his brows. “Clearly there’s no lingering resentment.”

Keeley sighs. “There’s not, seriously. Sometimes I just remember it all and it feels like… I never understood him.”

“Well,” Jamie says. “Maybe after my article you’ll finally gain some insight.”

Keeley laughs and it’s only a little bit hollow. “You fanboy, this is practically your wet dream.”

“If it were there’d be a lot less clothes.” Jamie pouts. “And he wouldn’t be such a prick to me.”

“That half his charm,” Keeley says, and finally a real smile crops up onto her face. “You like a little rough.”

Jamie grins and winks. “You want me to walk you out?”

“Nah,” she says, already starting to drift away. “I can handle myself—the independent woman, right?”

“Hopefully not too independent that you can’t join me for coffee next Saturday?”

“It’s a date, babe.” She waves at him before she turns the corner and disappears.

As Jamie makes his way to the coaches office, he becomes pensive and moody. Probably just tired, he thinks, as he wanders into the room. From his perch in the doorway, he watches silently as Nate and Beard go over new tactics and discuss improvements to conditioning. Kent has returned from his mysterious errand and is sitting at one of the desks watching the two assistant coaches intently. Jamie really should be taking notes, but instead he’s caught up watching Kent’s hand as it scratches at the coarse hair of his beard.

Jamie sighs and drifts further inside the room. His eyes skim over the interior, from the posters to the spines of books, not finding anything worth his examination. There’s a commotion from the changing room, and he turns towards the large window overlooking the scene. He looks on with his hands stuffed into his fancy trouser pockets as the lads goof off, shouting out inside jokes and snapping each other with towels. The atmosphere is light, something that comes from years spent together developing familiarity and rapport. Envy pumps through Jamie’s heart so fiercely it’s nearly painful: so close yet so far.

From behind him, Jamie hears Kent bitching about the line up, unconvinced by Nate’s assurances. Before he can stop himself Jamie says, “You should have Álvarez as centre-mid.”

The noise in the office dies down, as the coaches all presumably turn to Jamie; he wouldn’t know, he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the young men enjoying their agility in the height of their prime.

“Rojas and Hughes should come up front—leave Álvarez to guide the boys through the plays, acting as playmaker. He has decent judgement calls midgame, acts well under pressure, good head for analysing a scene quickly and acting accordingly.”

There is only more silence, likely an exchange of glances between the three men, some silent conversation. Finally, Kent says, “If we wanted a journo’s opinion on tactics, we’d ask the fucking vultures in the pressroom.”

He says that and yet come training, they run Jamie’s formation. It works, perfectly.

From the sidelines Kent stands alongside Jamie, watching Beard and Nate wrangle the team into the desired positions.

He gives Jamie a sidelong glance. “You gonna gloat about this in your article?”

Jamie pauses a beat, and they both watch as McAdoo misses a corner kick and sends the ball sailing into the stands—hopeful a mishap doesn’t result in another broken window.

“Why’d you quit Chelsea, Kent? Why come to Richmond? You could have run out your career as a legend.”

“Kent,” he snorts. “Fucking hell, are we in school? Just call me Roy like a normal person. Or coach, if you can’t manage it.”

“Roy.” Jamie tries not to sound like he’s whining. “Why? Why did you give it all up?”

A sharp whistle sounds in the distance, probably Nate—he can be a bit overzealous.

“Best you come back tomorrow,” Roy says. “The rest of the day’ll just be weights and fucking paperwork.”

Jamie nods. Normally he might press, but he’s flagging from the three-thirty morning wake up.

“£10,000, and three days spent wearing bright pink in training,” Roy says, randomly.

“What?”

“That’s what Mourinho made me do as punishment for my red card.”

Jamie grins. “You’re taking the piss.”

“There’s pictures and everything,” Roy says, and begins to make his way towards the impromptu game of hitters and dodgers that has broken out. “None of which will be seeing the light of day.”

“Is that a challenge?” Jamie calls after him, and Roy simply flips him the bird.

☆

The next day Jamie meets Roy for lunch. It’s a little kebab shop in Mortimer Square by the westway, a bright red beacon wedged on the corner like a doorstop. The place is clean and the lighting decent, which is more than could be said for half of London’s restaurants. When they walk in, Jamie clocks immediately the framed photo of Roy hung up high on the wall, with his cramped girlish scrawl and sardonic single word inscription: Yum.

They order at the counter—a döner for Roy and two for Jamie. As they’re paying Roy says, “Don’t include the name of this place in your little rag. I’d like to still come here in peace.”

“This man,” Hus says, shaking his head as he takes down their order. “Cares only about himself. What about my business?”

Roy pulls out a handful of notes from his wallet, amounting easily to five hundred quid or more, and sets them on the counter. Hus gives Roy an unimpressed look and walks away grumbling. Roy shrugs and tucks the wad of notes underneath a tacky figurine of the Queen, before finding somewhere for the two of them to sit.

The interior of the place almost looks like one of those diners you’d see in old American films, with bright red vinyl booths and large floor to ceiling windows. Jamie wonders if the food also comes out in matching red plastic wicker baskets.

“Go on then,” Roy says. His arms are already crossed and he has on a surly expression. “You’ve got about seven minutes before our food comes out. After that I’m not answering any of your stupid questions.”

Jamie dutifully takes out his notepad and pen.

He’s been trying for most of the last day and a half, to not dwell on who exactly he’s been interviewing. It had been more fantasy than ambition, something secret he would take out and wish on, the chance to one day interview the Roy Kent. Jamie was fourteen when he first discovered journalism. He did alright in school, even if his teachers and professors thought him slow because he couldn’t stand being confined to a desk for six hours a day. It was worth it, in his mind, if it meant a way back to football, a way back to who he used to be, and—perhaps—a way back to Roy Kent. He still remembers the day his mum sat baby Jamie down in front of the telly to watch his very first footie match, Chelsea vs Man City. Of course, City had dominated and beat Chelsea 1–0, but that number six, sprinting about the pitch and tearing up the grass with fire in his eyes, was the only thing Jamie recalled about the match. He’d had questions then, even before journalism had revealed itself on the horizon. His questions had ranged from technical—why did you pass to Cole in the final minutes against West Ham, instead of taking the shot?—to one's more personal—did you ever wish your dad was someone else? He’s kept that yearning curiosity, to know and understand, as a lit ember in his heart—motivating him, encouraging him, as he dreamt of a chance that one day, if he could just prove himself…

Jamie knocks the end of his pen against the table, trying to collect his thoughts, trying to sort out what questions he could get away with asking.

Impatient in the face of his dithering, Roy slaps a hand over his pen, ceasing its movements.

“What is this?” Roy asks, as Hus comes out to bring their food. Roy ignores his döner, whereas Jamie feels no such compunction. He digs in with enthusiasm and already feels a spot of sauce drip onto the end of his chin.

“You run out of questions or something? Can’t be hard, asking me basic shit like, where I grew up—”

“Ladbroke Grove,” Jamie says, munching away.

There’s a pause. “Or how old I was when I first got called up for the National team?”

“Twenty-one technically, but come on—we both know you weren’t actually a starting player until at least twenty-four.”

“What are my parents' names?”

“Yosef and Avivah.” Jamie rolls his eyes. “Mate, this is easy work.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” Roy won’t take his gaze off Jamie’s face, looking at him with something like disbelief. “First hat-trick.”

“Twenty, it was against Spurs in 2002.”

“The first car I bought.”

“An Aston Martin DB7. It was green, your short-lived experiment with colour.”

“First famous person I shagged after joining Chelsea.”

“Depends, it was reported that you and Moss hooked up during Lampard’s New Year’s Eve party at the turn of the century but, any self respecting Roy Kent fan knows you shagged Gershon back before you even played for Chelsea.”

“Still get the Christmas cards,” Roy says with a nod. “But she wasn’t the first.”

Jamie scoffs. “Cheryl does not count, piss off.”

“Guess that means you don’t know about Beckham then?”

“Victoria?” Jamie asks, chewing.

“Sure.”

There’s a beat of silence, as Jamie’s brain is rewired.

“Fucking hell,” Roy says, breezing past the live-grenade he’s just tossed into the ring. “How do you even know all this shit? You some kind of stalker?” He appears to be warring between horror and amazement.

“I do my research,” Jamie says, defensive.

“Lad, that ain’t research, it’s borderline harassment. I’m gonna have to get a fucking restraining order.”

“Fuck off.”

Roy laughs, finally digging into his döner. “What are you bothering interviewing me for? Seems to me you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Almost,” Jamie says, wiping his hands off with a napkin. “Still a lot I don’t know.”

They look at one another and Roy picks up on what Jamie isn’t saying—there’s a lot you won't tell me.

“Keeley was the one that put me up to this shit,” he says, randomly. “Told her I’d only do it if I got to pick the reporter. Figured it would all fall apart after that.”

Jamie thinks he should be flattered, but is too busy being annoyed on Keeley’s behalf. He’s also become distracted watching Roy rip bites out of his döner like it has personally offended him.

“What made you pick me?”

Roy’s eyes flicker over his person, never settling on one spot. He has tzatziki in his beard and oil lining his lips; it’s disgusting, and yet Jamie still wants to plant one on him.

“C’mon,” Roy says. He stands, finishes his last bite and gathers their bits of rubbish. “Got to get to this thing Rebecca signed me up for, some sort of visit to my niece’s school.”

“How convenient and totally not staged.”

“The kids aren’t bothered,” he says, binning their rubbish before he opens the door for Jamie. “They’re just happy someone actually cares.”

☆

Jamie already knows objectively that Roy is good with kids. It’s common knowledge that the infamous party-boy has reigned in some of his more outrageous behaviours over the years, prompted (as many speculated) by the birth of his niece. Phoebe remained a fixture at Richmond home games while Roy was still a player, the two of them walking out from the tunnel hand in hand almost every match. Roy doesn’t hide her, and yet he staunchly refuses to show her off. There are many tales from the press of their encounters with Roy, when he’s come to “procure” any pictures they planned on releasing of his niece, her privacy and autonomy always at the forefront of his mind.

As it turns out, Roy is better than good with kids. If he were to be unkind, Jamie would chalk it up to Roy’s emotional immaturity. But, as he watches Roy do headers with the primary school students, offering his encouragement and approval, smiling and laughing when one girl bounds over to Roy with a grass snake clutched in her hand, giving one boy a hug and pat on the head when he falls and skins his knee, Jamie thinks that perhaps Roy Kent is more tender hearted and feeling than anyone has ever given him credit for. Though Jamie may poke fun, saying that Roy is a mean old codger who’s stuck in his ways, it’s apparent Roy cares for the community he’s become a part of and seeks to nurture it—even if it’s in his own brutish way.

Jamie waits outside the school as Roy wraps up his visit, signing t-shirts and forearms and sheets of homework. When he rejoins Jamie, he has Phoebe in tow and is grumbling something about how she has invited Jamie to come along to Roy’s suit fitting.

“If you so much as mention her your article,” Roy says, pointing a finger. “I’ll come for you in the middle of night and tear you limb from fucking limb.”

“Fine by me,” Jamie says. “Makes for a great story.”

“Wouldn’t be able to write it though, with no arms.”

“It’s the 21st century, grandad. Could just use speech to text.”

“He is right you know,” Phoebe chimes in, holding her uncle’s hand and looking up at him with a cheery smile. “Kokoruda’s nan uses it to send messages because she can’t see.”

Jamie gives Phoebe a fist bump and Roy chooses to ignore their rebuttal with a grunt of, “C’mon.”

All in all, for a warning issued by Roy Kent, it’s impressively restrained.

The three of them make their way down Richmond Road toward Twickenham, the noise of the cars going past only a dull roar on the otherwise peaceful thoroughfare. The canopy of trees and beige masonry fencing soon transitions into shops lining either side of the road as they arrive at Church Street. There are loads of people milling about despite the gloomy sky, crowding the pavement and lingering in the doorways of shops. The dour weather is far too common an occurrence to keep anyone at bay.

They stop when they reach the tailor shop, and Jamie notes how it stands out amongst the rest of the businesses; while the other store faces are plain in colour with palettes not extending further than beige or brown, the tailor shop is painted a pale moss green.

“I would think this place wouldn’t meet your standards,” Jamie says. “From colour alone.”

Roy rolls his eyes, as he opens the door to let Phoebe and Jamie enter first. “Don’t disrespect my tailor. Anthony is top class.”

The inside of the shop smells of shoe polish and linens, overlayed with a wafting of potent, woodsy cologne. It reminds Jamie a bit of a bookshop or possibly Ollivander’s wandshop—a building cosy yet almost alive with possibilities, waiting for the right owner to come and claim an item that would endeavour to bring out the best of the one who chose it.

The trio walk further into the shop, Phoebe shaking off Roy’s hand to make a beeline for the wingback chaise lounge, artfully displayed in the corner of the room. The rest of the place is furnished with dark mahogany: two tables displaying bundles of different fabrics, several three-piece bookcases piled with more fabric choices, and all alone towards the back of the room a large desk. The wallpaper is a deep green colour just a shade or two darker than that of the exterior building, sconces are placed equal distance apart lining the walls, and an impressive chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Other trinkets are deposited accordingly around the room: three mantel clocks with golden hands, a frankly hideous deer head mounted on the far wall above the desk, and another two seats, one armchair and one sofa both chesterfields, crammed into all the organised mess.

“Kent,” the old man behind the desk greets. He fits in with the spirit of the place: ancient and dressed in a suit of dark green, with a twinkle in his eye that spoke of a soul not yet jaded. “I see you brought Ms. Phoebe with you today.” His eyes find Jamie. “And another guest, how unusual.”

“Afternoon Anthony,” Roy says, reaching out to shake the man's hand. “Here for that Armani piece you’ve got for me.”

Anthony waves him away. “Already in dressing room one hung up for you. Go try it on if you must, we both know it will fit.”

Roy grins and leaves to go change. Jamie stands there gazing at all the stuff, unsure if he should sit and wait or poke about.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” Anthony approaches soundlessly, suddenly at Jamie’s side and face impassive with hands held behind his back.

“Erm, no. Just here for that one.” Jamie gestures in the direction of the changing rooms.

Anthony looks Jamie over, his gaze steady and exacting. “We have a glen check that would suit your complexion.” He wanders over to one of the bookcases as Jamie follows behind. “Ah, here we are.”

Anthony holds up a roll of fabric, light grey with skinny red lines forming a check pattern. “This will do quite nicely.”

“Thank you,” Jamie says, politely. “But I’m not looking for anything at the moment.”

He looks over at Phoebe—for reassurance? for rescue?—but she is far too busy trying all the hats on display and waving to passersby out the front window.

There’s the sound of a curtain being drawn aside and both Anthony and Jamie turn to see Roy exiting the dressing room. The suit he has on is simple yet elegant, a dark charcoal with a matching coloured tie. It’s typical Roy Kent fare and yet the cut of the garments makes the lines of his body sharp and arresting, lending to the illusion of a king awaiting his subjects.

“Hm,” Anthony says, eyeing the white pocket square. “No, that won’t do. Let me get the one in burgundy.”

Roy adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket as Anthony disappears into the back. “You should let him make you a suit. It might not be as brash and tasteless as what you're used to, but Anthony is fucking good at what he does.”

Jamie rolls his eyes and draws closer. “And you wonder why I call you an old man?” He fixes his tie and smoothes the lapels of Roy’s jacket down. “If you’re shopping here, I definitely can’t afford it.”

Roy is still beneath Jamie’s hands. He looked up to find the other man staring at him intently.

“I’ll put it on my tab, then.”

“Piss off.”

“Why not?” It’s strange having all of Roy’s focus when it isn’t hostility. “You’re coming to the gala the day after tomorrow, yes? You should dress the part.”

“I already have things I could wear,” Jamie protests, but it’s half-hearted at best.

“Hm, let me dress you up. What’s the harm?”

As they stare at one another, Jamie becomes aware that he still has his hands pressed to Roy’s chest, the fabric underneath probably wrinkling from how clammy they’ve become.

Anthony returns then with a new pocket square in hand, just as Phoebe bounds over calling, “Uncle Roy! Uncle Roy!”

Jamie steps away feeling a bit flushed.

“What is it, Phoebe?” Roy asks.

“Can I get this hat? It would go perfect with my new holster.” The hat in question is a periwinkle cloche with a golden ribbon wrapped around the middle.

Jamie grins at Roy over Anthony’s shoulder, as the older man fusses with the pocket square. “A holster?”

“She’s been banging on about wanting to be a fucking cowboy lately and I made the mistake of mentioning it to Beard, who mentioned it to Lasso.” He shakes his head.

“Can I please get it, uncle Roy?” Phoebe asks again, always so polite.

“Alright, I’ll have Anthony add it to the tab.”

She cheers and spins around in a circle.

“All done, Kent,” Anthony says, stepping back. Roy turns and looks at himself in the full length mirror, just one sweeping glance before he nods.

“Right, this one here—” Roy says, gesturing at Jamie. “—needs his measurements done. Put him in something you think would look nice, I trust you. God knows, there’s no trusting his taste.”

Jamie's face wrinkled in offence.

“Tell Meredith to have it ready for the day after tomorrow.” Roy turns away and slips back behind the curtain of the changing room. “I’ll cover the cost.”

“As you wish,” Anthony says, already picking out the grey fabric he’d shown Jamie earlier and placing it atop his desk. “I’ll prepare dressing room two for us, just one moment.”

As the two men disappear, Phoebe peers up at Jamie with a serious expression.

“Uncle Roy says all press are nasty leeches who sell lies and secrets to ruin peoples lives.” She frowns. “Do you want to ruin his life?”

“No,” Jamie says. “I’m trying to celebrate it, actually. All his hard work during his career.”

Phoebe nods, solemn. “You’ll have to be sure to mention all the important bits.”

“Oh? What might those be?”

“Well, he really likes reading and he’ll usually talk to himself out loud when he does. He can be silly sometimes, like the time he pretended not to know who Roy Kent was when someone wanted a picture while we were getting ice cream. He lets me practise my makeup on him when mum isn’t around to help, and now I’m really good at eyeliner! Oh, and he’ll always let me eat the corner pieces of the school cake even though that’s the best bit.”

Jamie smiles at Phoebe, a pang in his chest. What a thing it was, to be so full of joy and protected from the worst parts of humanity. Roy may not be Phoebe’s father, but he’s done a fair job better than most.

“Are you chatting about me to him?” Roy asks, as he comes up behind them.

“Only the most embarrassing things,” Phoebe teases.

“Right, let’s go. Keeley said she could watch you until I’m finished with my—” His eyes dart to Jamie and away again. “Thing.”

“Okay,” Phoebe says. “Goodbye, Jamie.”

“Bye Phoebe,” he says, giving a little wave. “Lovely meeting you.”

Roy pauses with one hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. He squints at Jamie and seems to be mulling something over in his head.

“Let’s go for a drink,” he says, finally. “After work tomorrow.”

“Alright,” Jamie says, tucking his hands into his pants pockets. “Alcohol seems to be the only solution left to break your silence.”

Roy huffs a laugh and shakes his head, bidding goodbye to Anthony and ushering Phoebe out the door—lest she find another garish hat.

Jamie turns back to Anthony with a sigh, and follows him to dressing room two.

☆

It’s still early when Jamie finds himself back on Church Street thirty minutes later with advice to return tomorrow for his fitting. The sky is just barely starting to darken as Jamie takes out his phone and pulls up a recent text thread. He scrolls through it to find the address he’s looking for. It appears to be only a short distance away from where he is; a quick stop at a corner store, an enduring cab ride with a chatty cabbie, a handful of notes later, and Jamie is transported outside an unassuming block of cream coloured houses.

He spins around, trying to orient himself as he looks for the right address. When he finds it, he walks up the steps and uses the knocker to announce his arrival. He hears footsteps and laughter as someone from inside shouts, “Coming!”

The door opens to an older woman in loose fitting fitness wear, holding a glass of rosé. Her mouth drops open at the sight of Jamie.

“Hello, there,” Jamie says, putting on his most charming smile. “I was wondering if—”

“Oh my word, you’re that lad from the telly.” She turns to call over her shoulder, “Girls, come quick! You’ll never believe who’s at the door.”

Suddenly, another four women are crowding the frame, all trying to get a decent look at Jamie.

“You’re Jamie Tartt! Nicole, what’s Jamie Tartt doing turned up at your doorstep?”

“No, that’s not him. Must just be someone who looks like him.”

“How d’you figure that?”

“Honestly, Maureen. What would Jamie Tartt be doing here?”

“Maybe he’s moved on from ‘bombshells’ and is looking for something a little more sophisticated.”

“Ha! He had better keep looking then!”

“You’re just bitter because you still have a husband, eyes can’t go wandering.”

“Husband or not…”

“Rachel, you slag!”

“Did Roy invite you?” The question is directed at Jamie but, like all the others, appears to be rhetorical. “I always knew he was just blowing smoke when he called your hair ugly!”

Jamie blinks. “Sorry, he what?”

“What the fuck is going on out here?” Roy is suddenly there, towering behind all the women with a face full of confusion. It clears when he locks eyes with Jamie, who gives him a sheepish wave.

“Hey there, Royo.”

All the women turn to look at Roy, with a mixture of awe and betrayal. “You know him?! Did you invite him?”

“And without telling us!”

Roy looks between the five women before settling his gaze back on Jamie. The look in his eyes says they will be exchanging words later, and Jamie sends out a silent prayer to the universe that he can somehow miraculously cool the man’s temper in the next few hours.

Roy’s eyes flick downward and spot the bottle of wine in Jamie’s hand. His lip curls.

“Lauren,” he says, trying to get his expression under control. “Why don’t you grab that bottle Jamie’s brought. The rest of you can go get set up, we’ll be right behind you.”

“He’s even more handsome in person,” one of them—Maureen—gushes.

Lauren comes over to take the bottle from Jamie, exclaiming when she reads the label, “Oh, Côtes de Provence. See, he is a man of taste!”

The women titter amongst themselves as they make their way back inside, not without sneaking a few more glances behind as they do.

As soon as they’re out of ear shot, Roy is up in Jamie’s face and whispering furiously. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Didn’t you hear them? You invited me.” Jamie smirks. “And you know I wouldn’t dream of missing Friday night yoga.”

“Fucks sake, get in.” He shoves Jamie inside, and shuts the door behind them. “They don’t know I’m a fucking footballer, alright? Keep your mouth shut.”

He moves past Jamie and heads towards the noise coming further inside. Jamie takes a moment to look around, venturing through the hallway and into the kitchen. There’s a mess left out on the counter—empty jaffa cake wrappers, a variety of half-eaten biscuits, pork scratchings, and what looks to be the remains of a charcuterie board. Already four empty wine bottles sit amongst the carnage, and Jamie hears the sound of a cap being twisted off in the distance, signalling the fifth.

Jamie makes his way to the living room, where the women and Roy are lounging across two sofas. There are yoga mats rolled out and on the telly is a YouTube video all queued up, though no one seems to be in any hurry to get started.

“Usually we have a quick nash before we get on with it,” Nicole pipes up, gesturing with her wine glass. “Gets everything moving and the blood flowing.”

“Sometimes flowing in the wrong direction,” Lauren laughs. “The bathroom’s just down the hall.”

“God, just look at his bone structure. I can’t believe they voted you off in favour of Danthony, absolute wankers the lot of them.”

Jamie laughs, his cheeks flushing as he takes a seat on one of the empty yoga mats. He usually doesn’t get this kind of praise for his brief stint on Lust Conquers All. He only joined because a royal managed to make their way onto the program, and Pierce had wanted the scoop first. Jamie, of course, has no shame and was happy to go undercover as a contestant. It’s one of the things that earned him the reputation that landed him here, in a three day long verbal brawl against Roy Kent. The thing was that instead of praise, fans of the show typically had only had one particular question on their minds—

“Did you ever call Amy? She was so eager to make things work between you.”

“Nah, she weren’t the right girl for me,” Jamie says with a wink. “I prefer my partners a bit older.”

Jamie’s tongue lulls out of his mouth at the women’s cheers, and he catches Roy scowling in the corner of his eye.

The fifth woman of the group, fans herself dramatically, and one of the others calls out, “Still doesn’t mean you have a chance, Janice!”

“Oh, hush. Don’t listen to those other old birds, Jamie. They don’t matter in the least.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

“What is it you do now, Jamie?” Rachel asks.

“I work at the Independent as a reporter.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful! My son-in-law is in school for journalism.”

“Please, your son-in-law can barely spell his own name.” A throw pillow is launched across the room.

“I’m sure your family is very proud of you,” Maureen coos. “What a talented young man.”

“Should have stuck with that trashy television show,” Roy says. It’s difficult to take his sneer to heart when he’s swishing a glass of rosé. “You were better suited for it.”

Jamie perks up as Maureen and Lauren boo.

“Don’t act so above it all, Roy. You were watching Lust Conquers All every week, same as us,” Nicole teases.

“Fuck off,” Roy says, crossing his arms as he looks away. “I was coerced.”

“Oh please! Janice, didn’t he call you up that one time to make sure you recorded the new episode, because he’d come down with something and wouldn’t make it to yoga night?”

“Still have the message he left and everything,” Janice says, smug.

Jamie is practically buzzing with unbridled triumph as Roy scowls.

“Looks like we’re both fans, innit?” he says.

“You’re a fan of Roy’s?” The women look puzzled and Roy gives him a look.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Do any of you ladies have some extra shorts? I’d love to join you, propper.”

The next few hours see the seven of them gossiping about the hairdresser over in Camden who ruined Rachel’s hair once—apparently the cow has gotten fat and is living with her aunt who owns budgies—and running through a fairly basic yoga routine. (Though anything would feel basic after that sadistic workout Roy put Jamie through his very first day shadowing.)

The girls spend about half the time comparing notes with Jamie about his hair and skincare products, and the other half admiring Jamie’s figure as he executes crescent lunge and downward dog. If he holds a few of the poses a beat too long, just to give Roy the chance to sneak a look, there’s no harm in it.

The night ends with Jamie piled high with new products, all neatly tucked away in a goodie bag—Lauren is an Avon Rep and lets Jamie take some free samples, the darling. Roy is a wall of warmth and kinetic-energy beside him as they bid their goodbyes, and the girls beg Jamie to join them again next week.

As soon as they leave, making it past the houses to the narrow little ginnel running between, Roy drops all pretence and shoves Jamie against the brick facing.

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“Nothing, mate. Not the one with the problem here.”

“Couldn’t just wait until tomorrow?” Roy snarls. “Had to keep pushing in where you don’t belong.”

Jamie’s mouth thins out into a severe line. “This is my job, Roy. That’s why I’m here.”

“What, to sneak around and try and catch me out?” He scoffs and gives Jamie another shove.

Jamie circles his hand around Roy’s wrist and holds it. “I’m not your enemy.”

“You’re the fucking press.” Roy bares his teeth. “You’re all the same. You feign innocence and yet spend your days ruining good people’s lives. It’s what your lot fucking lives for, so hungry for things that don’t belong to you. Somehow, you feel entitled to my life—when I miss a penalty, a camera gets shoved at me with the grilling of a lifetime; when I party too hard I get raked across the coals, with all my wrongs thrown back in my face; when I suffer a crushing, bitter loss, when I have to retire from what I fucking love—what I am—because of some young fuckwit I brought down in a tackle that ultimately meant nothing, and I have to go on national television because ‘the people want to know’—” Roy is spitting and heaving, angrier than Jamie has ever seen him. “You fucking ruin peoples live, and then have the balls to say it’s just ‘part of the business’? You proud of yourself, yeah?”

“I’m not ‘the press’. I’m not just some dickhead looking to make a quick break.” Jamie lets go of Roy’s wrist and shoves him, hard. He feels angry and indigent. Roy barely budges, his hand still clinging to Jamie’s shirt. “Not everyone is out to get you, Roy. You don’t know me. Stop acting like you do.”

“You certainly want to know me,” Roy says, mean and wanting blood. “So eager. Careful not to get attached.” He spits the word like it’s poison.

“Don’t be daft,” Jamie snarls, shoving him again and gaining no distance. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” And he wouldn’t—it’s a rookie mistake, falling for your subject. Unfortunately for Jamie, he already committed that sin long before he ever took this job.

They both pant like the fight had been physical. Roy looks at Jamie, his eyes dropping to Jamie’s lips before darting back up—there and gone, and yet Jamie feels it like a brand. Roy opens his mouth, Jamie can see the words in his eyes but they never take form.

Roy pushes away from him. His big, heavy hand drags over Jamie’s person and smooths out the lines of his dress shirt. The heat of it feels like an ember and his body kindling, as it catches and leaves a blaze in its wake.

“Still on for that drink tomorrow?” Jamie asks, his voice hoarse.

Roy adjusts the collar of Jamie's shirt, his fingers brushing against Jamie’s neck. He won’t stop staring.

“First round’s on me,” Roy finally says.

“Mate, with what they pay you, every round should be on you.”

☆

It would have been blasphemous for Jamie to shadow the manager of Richmond and not see a footie match.

The stands are a flurry of activity as Jamie gazes down from his vantage point in the directors box. He sits at the end of the row, Keeley beside him adorned in a Richmond jersey. Jamie is still dressed in work clothes, but has opted for something more casual to show his support with his wine coloured knit turtleneck. Though, he gives thought to the passing fancy of wearing the name Kent on his back.

Down on the pitch, the coaches are conversing on the sidelines, Roy standing tall with his hands loose by his sides. He appears confident and relaxed, like he already knows they’re going to win. It’s really doing it for Jamie.

The Greyhounds start the game already on the backfoot. Their transitions are stilted and awkward as they fight to work out the kinks of their new formation. They can’t seem to shake their marks as Arsenal keeps up a tight and aggressive defence, providing little openings for attempts on goal. It’s risky using the new tactics with so little practice, and it shows with the score standing nil–1. It’s eighty minutes into the match and the Greyhounds are under pressure; this game will determine whether they hold their slim lead against Man City in the Premier League bracket—they need at least two goals.

The crowd watches as Richmond finally starts clicking, as Álvarez glides smoothly from one teammate to the next, acting as playmaker to net the Greyhounds their first goal of the game. Cheers flare with the notes of we’re Richmond ‘til we die! cresting over the noise. Jamie is on his feet and smiling so wide the muscles in his face spasm, joyous laugher pouring out of him. He and Keeley hold hands as they shout, “Come on Richmond!” down towards the pitch.

Jamie looks back at Roy below, clapping and shouting encouragement at the boys. A tie is good, but a win is better.

With less than a minute on the clock, Hughes manages to secure Richmond a penalty kick by making a meal of his fall after an opposing player checks him. McAdoo gets into position, Richmond’s current default for penalty kicks because of his excessive force making it near impossible to stop the ball from going into the net. It was still a risk, as Arsenal’s goalie had already saved eleven shots on target that match, including three from Richmond’s number 5.

As McAdoo gets into position, Jamie notices Álvarez making eye contact with Obisanya. It happens in the matter of an instant—McAdoo takes the kick but with a tenth of his usual force, leaving the goalie to dive for an incomplete shot and the rest of Arsenal stumbling to catch up. Álvarez takes advantage of the lag and has the ball in play before anyone can react. He passes it off to an inrushing Obisanya who smashes it into the back of the net.

They must have practised that play for ages; it was clean, it was flawless, it was fucking brilliant.

The crowd erupts into cheers, Keeley jostling Jamie’s arm as she screeches, and the Dogtrack echoes the sounds of he’s here, he’s there, he’s every-fucking-where, Roy Kent! Jamie’s eyes find Roy as the whistle blows, signalling the end of the match. He’s smug, Jamie can see that even from the top of the stands, basking in the victory as he shakes hands with Arsenal’s manager and goes to join the other lads on the pitch, celebrating. His head is held high and Jamie can’t help but admire how good winning makes him look; he wears success well.

After the match, Jamie sneaks down to the pressroom which is bursting with reporters. He sticks to the back wall, nodding and smiling at a few fellow journo’s before his attention is drawn up front, where Roy is going head to head with Gary Porritt.

“You don’t think it was foolish to change tactics mid-season? Having Álvarez play in the centre instead of at striker, during a game that could have cost you a vital win so close to the end of the season?”

Roy appears unfazed. “Still won, didn't we? I’d say it worked out fine in the end.” As he shifts his gaze, the noise in the room soars again. “Uh, you, goblin king.”

Lloyd Griffith looks nervous, as always, but has grown a spine in the last few years exchanging barbs with Roy in the pressroom.

“A two-tap penalty is a notoriously risky move, one that’s reliant on the element of surprise. Were you at all concerned it would fall through?”

Roy’s eyes briefly find Jamie over the heads of the other reporters, before flicking back to the front. He sits back in his chair, with his head tilted and posture cocky.

“Getting an awful lot of questions about our playing style,” he says to the room. “Something wrong with it?”

There was some murmuring but nothing loud enough to draw Roy’s attention. No one wanted to be singled out.

“My niece, she told me once that if a shark stops swimming it fucking dies—mental right? Something to do with them suffocating if they don’t keep moving forward against a strong current.” He pauses, settling his hands into his lap. “Now, I know some of you think that in the years since Lasso’s departure, Richmond have gone off, become unremarkable, nothing more than the same tactics recycled from the previous manager.”

The pressroom was eerily silent.

“I’d agree with you, we have become complacent.” He looks at Jamie again. “We thought we’d reached the top and were untouchable. But we need to keep moving forward, to keep taking risks. We used this play today as a reminder that Richmond hasn’t peaked just yet.” He grins then, all teeth. “The other teams would do well not to panic, seeing as sharks tend to be attracted to the ones that struggle.”

Jamie slips out as the noise in the room reaches a fever pitch.

He wanders down the hall toward the coaches office, the sounds of the team changing and celebrating echoing into the room—it feels less grating than it had the other day. Jamie props himself up on the edge of the desk, taking out his notepad and pen to jot down a few things from the match.

He’s still sitting there, swinging his legs and neck smarting from the awkward angle he’s remained hunched in, when Roy comes in after an indeterminate amount of time has passed. Roy flicks Jamie’s ear as he goes past to grab his bag and jacket.

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Jamie says, sliding off the desk and tucking his things back into his blazer. “Are we taking your car?”

Roy grunts in the affirmative, sliding his arms into his jacket.

“Congrats on the win,” Jamie says, before smirking. “Couldn’t have done it without me.”

Huffing a laugh, Roy turns and says, “Whatever you need to tell yourself, pretty boy.”

They make their way out to the car park together, Roy’s G-Wagon the only vehicle left. As Jamie climbs into the passenger seat, he catches the scent of leather and sandalwood, with notes of something like vanilla, surely the remnants of whatever products Phoebe uses.

Roy takes them to a pub near Richmond Green. The Crown & Anchor has a casual atmosphere, consisting of mainly regulars and football fans. The lamps from inside cast an orangey glow through the windowpanes and there are enough people about that they’ve overflowed and congregated outside the place in relaxed clumps. As they enter, several patrons do a double take as they’re eyes catch on Roy, however none are brave enough to say a word—no one fancies a headbut from Roy Kent.

Once inside, Jamie finds them a table while Roy orders them a couple of beers. There’s a warmth to the place, with cherry-stained wooden furniture and raucous conversation floating through the air. He spots three lads near the bartop eyeing Roy as he makes his way back over to Jamie, whispering furiously to one another.

“Looks like you’ve got some admirers,” Jamie says, nodding to the trio. The boys see him looking and attempt to act natural. Jamie tries to stifle a laugh.

“They’re a bunch of pricks,” Roy says, taking a seat. He sips at his beer and gets foam on his upper lip.

“So,” Jamie says, playing coy. “You’ve watched my show.”

Roy groans. “I only did because those five roped me into it.”

“Still watched it,” Jamie says, smug. He props his elbows on the edge of the table and puts his head in his hands. “Is that why you picked me? Because I’m well fit? Needed a little eye-candy around the office?”

“Will you let that go?” Roy looks off to the side. “The whole thing was becoming a fucking nightmare by then, you just happened to be the one they sent.”

“Uh huh,” Jamie says, unconvinced.

They each take swigs of their pints.

“You, uh,” Roy starts, trying for casual and missing by a mile. “You dated Keeley.”

“Wow,” Jamie says. “How long have you been waiting to ask that one?”

“You really can’t make anything easy, can you?”

Jamie shrugs. “Easy is overrated.”

“Someone tell you that once?”

“We’re here to talk about you,” Jamie says. “Why’d you and Keeley break up, then?”

Roy sighs, put upon, and leans back in his chair.

“She said things started to fall apart after you retired,” Jamie prompts.

“Not surprised, she’ll talk about me to anyone who’ll listen.” The words are bitter and hurt.

“If it helps, she broke up with me—said I were too selfish, that I wanted too much and gave too little.”

“Yeah, well, that just makes sense,” Roy says, and Jamie rolls his eyes.

There is a pause as Roy drags his finger through the condensation that has formed beneath his glass.

“I… Football was everything,” he says finally. “Losing it… I knew it was coming—after each game, I could feel the clock running out. Just, didn’t handle it very well, in the end.”

Jamie nods. “When I fucked my ankle, I drank an entire bottle of peach vodka I found under my bed and puked all over the floor. Looked a bit like a fish—the puke.”

Roy laughs. “I spent months doing fuck all except coaching my niece’s football team and getting wine drunk while watching episodes of bad reality television. Think I got you beat.” He seems to be considering something. “How’d you fuck your ankle?”

“Erm.” It’s Jamie’s turn to fiddle with his beer, uncomfortable. “My dad could be a bit rough. We was just messing around and I fell on it wrong.”

Roy gives him a look. “What, down the stairs?”

Jamie shrugs and Roy sighs.

“Dad’s are shit.” The statement is both inadequate and more than enough for Jamie. Roy raises his pint and Jamie mirrors him, knocking their glasses together with a light clink.

“You ever watch my retirement presser?” Roy asks, changing the subject.

“Course,” Jamie says, slapping a hand over his heart. “It was fucking brutal, mate. Cried right along with you.”

“Fucking fanboy,” Roy says, but there’s affection in it.

They smile at one another, content to enjoy their moment of companionable silence.

“You know,” Jamie says. “I used to love watching you play. Used to think one day we’d play for the same team.” He looks at Roy. The man's hair is longer than he usually keeps it, curly and lush. He’s wearing an easy expression on his face, like there’s nowhere Roy would rather be right now than sitting across from Jamie, dappled in soft light and still wearing his coach’s uniform. “You know how kids are.”

“Probably would have hated you,” Roy says. “Excitable prick who always thinks he knows best.”

“You’d have adored me. Weren’t quite a prodigy like you, but I was good.”

“We’ll have a kickabout,” Roy says, like he means it. “So as you can prove it.”

“I’ll kick your arse.”

Roy scoffs. “A legend versus a kid who barely made it out of U14s? I’d have you over my knee.”

“Sexy.” Jamie winks, and Roy rolls his eyes.

“I was impressed today,” Jamie says and Roy cocks his head. “You changed things up, tried something new. Must have been nerve wracking for you.”

“I’m not nearly as skittish as you think I am,” Roy says, eyes full of heat. “Besides, a seasoned player like me is used to the eyes of the press. I should manage to keep some secrets away, even from the likes of you, fan boy.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Roy stares at him, his gaze full of intent. “Yeah.”

The fervent atmosphere is broken as a voice from the other side of the bar calls out, “You!”

Jamie glances over on instinct, only to do a double take when he sees Ashwood fuming and heading their way. Fuck.

“You bastard, you think you can get away with humiliating me in your little rag?” Ashwood hisses.

Jamie keeps his cool. “The Independent isn’t little, Mr. Ashwood.” He flicks his eyes down to the crotch of the other man’s pants. “Though, I can see how you of all people could make that mistake.”

Roy snorts into his drink and Jamie grins, tongue out.

Ashwood looks frightfully close to mauve. “You pompous shit.” He lunges for Jamie, but is brought up short when Roy grabs him by the scruff of his collar and sends him stumbling backwards.

“The fuck is your problem?” Roy asks.

“This boy is a loathsome, manipulative little prick!”

“Already got that all on my own, thanks,” Roy says, unbothered. “Piss off.”

“He ruined my life! Tried to make my son out to be some kind of fag! He’s not worth a second of your time.”

Jamie has moved to stand, and Roy looks between Ashwood and Jamie with a spark of interest.

“I didn’t do shit. That article was about your callus misuse of company funds and docking workers pay—all of which is true. Your son wasn’t even mentioned.”

“You tried to threaten me though,” Ashwood says, eyes wild. “Don’t deny it! You tried to use my son against me as a bargaining chip to get me to talk!”

Jamie doesn’t deny it.

“See?” Ashwood laughs, and it sounds thunderous in the now quiet bar.

“Go home, mate,” Jamie says.

Ashwood is back in Jamie’s face, barely held off by Roy’s hand on his chest. “You’re nothing but scum. You hacks think you’re noble, telling the truths about the world, when you’re just a bunch of hypocrites. Everyone has their secrets. Bet you’re just like him, my son, probably how you knew. Did you pay him? Have a cozy little lay together while you plotted against me, you filthy fucking cocksucker—”

There’s the sound of a sick crunch as Roy's forehead connects with Ashwood’s nose.

The man lets out a muffled yelp and clutches at his face, blood seeping from the cracks of his fingers. “Ow, what the fuck!” His gaze is incredulous as he looks from Jamie to Roy.

“Told you to piss off,” Roy says.

“Yeah, fuck off you twat!” the shortest of the trio by the bar heckles. There’s a chorus of concurrence from the rest of the crowd, and Ashwood begins to deflate.

“Bet you make your father proud,” he sneers at Jamie. Roy grunts in warning, but the man is already turning-tail and storming out of the pub.

“And stay out!” the skinny one of the three offers to Ashwood’s back.

Roy nods at them with a heartened, “Good lads.”

The boys try to play it off, but it’s obvious they're shitting themselves with excitement.

Jamie lets out a burst of laughter, holding the edge of the table as he pitches forward. Nothing about this week has felt real. He thinks faintly that he should warn Pierce, lest he be caught unawares come Monday when he’s greeted with a very outraged voicemail left in his inbox.

Roy reaches for his beer to drink the last few pulls, before he discards it and stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets.

“C’mon,” he says. “I’m starving. You can watch me eat a döner if you keep your questions to a minimum.”

“What, like I want to spend twenty minutes watching you get sauce in your beard?”

Jamie says this and yet he follows after Roy all the same, with a grin stretching from ear to ear.

☆

The venue for the benefit gala is glamorous and vast, packed with footballers and rich socialites alike. Jamie stands behind the paps and the press, watching as Roy walks down the red carpet and refuses to pause or pose for the flashing cameras.

He’d met Jamie earlier to drive them to the event together and deliver the brand new suit from Anthony. Despite having left all discretion up to the tailor, the result is rather nice. The white open-collar dress shirt allows Jamie to breathe for once, and the double-breasted jacket with red buttons to match the red dress shoes is much more daring than Jamie would normally wear day to day. It’s fucking mint. Jamie will definitely be sending flowers.

Roy looks double handsome as he stops at the end of the carpet, gesturing for Jamie to follow with a jerk of his head. It was on the car ride over that Jamie had noticed how well they complimented one another—Roy's burgundy pocket square coupled with Jamie's suit and its thin lines of plaid in cranberry. They look like a matching set.

As Jamie passes the line of paps and press he gives them all a cheeky salute, tongue wagging as he books it up the steps after Roy. Not his fault he was given entry and they weren’t. Besides, the invitation to the benefit gala was his last hurrah, the last thing before he was supposed to finish the article and show Pierce what he'd managed to acquire.

“You look hideous,” Roy says as they head inside. “I can’t believe Anthony made you something so garish, his reputation is on the line. You’re matching the carpet for fucksake.”

Jamie is indeed fighting for attention with the carpet and walls. The venue theme appears to be some British interpretation of Shanghai nights meets Casino Royale. There are lanterns hanging from the ceiling along with ornate chandeliers, the framing of the doors and mirrors is gilded gold, and a muted baroque wallpaper wraps around the room, cut off mid-way by red half-wall panelling.

The presentation drips with exorbitant wealth, the whole effect a bit overkill. Already there’s a sea of posh knobs bobbing about with the odd celeb in the mix, trying to exchange contacts and out-do one another.

“Piss off,” Jamie says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You’re just bitter because I’m taller than you.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re wearing lifts.” Roy knocks his fist into Jamie’s arm, playful. “I need a drink.”

There’s a dance to these charity galas, Roy had explained; dinner with a table full of people trying to work out how important you are, an auction for bidding on something definitely not worth the thousands of pounds people were shelling out, and live entertainment with music or dancing—the full monty.

The pair locate a waiter carrying a tray of champagne and Roy grabs one for each of them. Their table is just a little further off and, as they move towards it, they notice a few of their companions are already seated.

“Evening, lads.” Roy pulls out Jamie’s chair before sliding into his own. “Ready for training tomorrow morning?”

At the table, Hughes, McAdoo, and Obisanya all groan.

“Can’t we have a late training tomorrow, coach?” Obisanya asks.

“Nope. You’ll be running suicides until you fucking puke.”

For once, Jamie doesn’t envy them.

Dinner is predictably posh, with tiny portions and too many elements involved. Roy appears at ease and whether it’s the victory of yesterday's match or the many glasses of champagne, his posture is loose and his face is flushed. He has an arm slung around the back of Jamie’s chair. The knuckles of his fingers dig into Jamie’s armpit and the press of his bicep against his back feels obscene.

“Do you think they’ll have those little towels folded into ducks in the loo like last time?” McAdoo wonders aloud.

“I think they were themed, mate,” Hughes says. “Probably have dragons or something this time.”

McAdoo nods, mollified. “Dragons are alright.”

“I find these things to be all style and no substance," Obisanya says. "I mean look—” He gestures to his plate, where something that looks to Jamie like sea foam and a bit of grass clippings sits. “It’s not even real food.”

“You opened your own restaurant, yeah?” Jamie asks.

Obisanya nods, proud. “I was missing home and wanted to bring a part of it here, to Richmond.”

“You ever been?” Jamie asks Roy.

“Course,” he says, downing more champagne. “Still not better than a kebab, though.”

Obisanya smiles good naturedly and Roy grins back.

Hughes points at Jamie with a puzzled expression. He’s also several drinks in, sipping on something brightly coloured with a little umbrella balanced against the rim.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” Hughes asks, squinting. “I feel like I’ve seen you in something.”

Roy laughs and Jamie glares at him.

Hughs snaps his fingers. “That one film, what was it? With the tailors and anal sex.”

“Nah, bruv,” McAdoo says. “You’re thinking of Taron Egerton.”

“Ahh,” Hughes says, nodding.

“You know,” Obisanya chimes in. “The first Kingsman movie is a wonderful commentary on the very real struggle of overpopulation we all face today.”

“Yeah, except in that movie the guy blows everyone's heads off,” McAdoo points out. “Difficult to have a conversation with no head.”

Obisanya and Hughes nod solemnly, while Roy and Jamie snort into their drinks.

The conversation quickly turns to which film has the best underlying message, with The Truman Show, Do The Right Thing , and Les Misérables being tossed out as contenders, and a late entry from Higgins who passes by their table and offers up Wall-E.

Another course arrives—something again Jamie doesn’t recognise, with what looks like prawns?—and he watches Roy watch the boys with a fond expression.

“Oi, Jamie!” McAdoo says. “Did coach really buy out the house next to his because the neighbours were making too much noise?”

“Paid over one-mil to be a party crasher,” Jamie confirms.

“That’s our gaffer,” Hughes says, raising his glass in salute.

“I have a niece who needs looking after, and parties thrown at three o'clock in the fucking morning are not conducive to brain development,” Roy defends. To Jamie he says, “I don’t even want to know how you know that.”

“Dunno how you do it, bruv,” McAdoo says, shaking his head. “Following coach around all day. What does he even do?”

“Pretty much what you’d expect from any ol’ geezer: up before the sun, complains about the state of the youth, has a lay down in the middle of the day so he doesn’t get cranky.”

The entire table erupts with laughter warm and bright, even Roy joining in as he squeezes Jamie’s shoulder with his hand.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” he whispers, and Jamie can feel the breath on the side of his neck.

“It wouldn’t be so bad,” Jamie says, continuing to address McAdoo while he looks at Roy. “If the hairy prick gave a straightforward answer about something for once.”

There’s a round of ooo’s from the lads, and Roy raises a brow.

“Is that right? Well, go on then—” Roy gestures with his champagne flute. “It’s a special night, and I’m an open book.”

He sounds a bit drunk, but Jamie’s not one to back down when he finally gains the upper hand.

Jamie thinks for a moment, running through all the eager questions he had as a lad to the more melancholy ponderings as a teenager. Problem is, he’s a fair few glasses of champagne deep as well, so what leaves his mouth is, “Does your cock really have a curve in it?”

From across the table, Hughes chokes on a prawn. McAdoo pounds at his back and Obisanya winces in sympathy.

Roy lets a slow, sleazy grin unfurl starting from the corner of his mouth. “Will you be disappointed if I say no?”

“Technique and skill are always more important than natural born advantages. Exactly why I would have been a better footballer than you.”

If anything, the table looks more shocked that Jamie dares badmouth Roy Kent’s footie career than inquire about his sex life.

“Told you before,” Roy says. He leans in close and places a heavy hand on Jamie’s thigh. “Can’t settle anything without proof.”

As Roy flags down a waiter for another glass of champagne, Jamie excuses himself from the table to seek out the bar.

He's thankful for his open collar, it feels like he's sweltering in the crowded room. He orders something electric in colour that’s sure to give him a headache in the morning.

Jamie wonders if Roy is giving him the signal, before banishing the thought. Blokes could be skittish at the best of times, footballers doubly so. Though Roy may have had a certain reputation in the past—sneaking behind bars to dirty his knees in some ginnel—it wasn’t common knowledge. It came down to reputation; Jamie is being given the honour to pay homage to one of the greats, his idol and hero, and it wouldn't do to go mucking it all up because of some childhood crush from days gone by. Roy isn’t signalling him.

Jamie is nursing a bottle of WKD Blue when Roy saddles up beside him sometime later. He stands far closer than normal and their elbows brush.

“A whiskey. Neat,” Roy says. He shakes his head when the barman reaches to grab something mid-shelf; with his funds and ego, a man like Roy Kent drinks nothing less than top.

The barman looks to Jamie while Roy throws back his drink and then gestures for another. “Nah, I’m good, mate.”

Roy tilts his body in Jamie’s direction. His expression is as relaxed as Jamie’s ever seen it, smile soft and eyes crinkling. He looks handsome.

“You put anything in?” Jamie asks, referring to the live auction—up tonight is footballer paraphernalia from players of years past. He drums his fingers across the bartop, unable to settle.

“Yeah, some old boots,” Roy says. “You gonna bid on them?”

“Please, if I had that kind of dough, I’d buy better than some mangy old boots.”

“Hm, sometimes they auction off players at these things.” Roy grins with all his teeth.

“What, to spend the night with? Doubt you’d be able to manage it now, might nod off part way through.”

“Never had any complaints about my performance before.”

Jamie raises his eyebrows. “You’re plastered, mate. How much have you had?”

“Fuck off.” He motions to the bartender to pour him another. “I’m celebrating.”

Jamie eyes him, opening and closing his hands that are now sticky from the sweet liquor stuck to the bartop. “I’m off to the loo.”

He pushes away from the bar, making the trek to the side doors and the toilets beyond.

The lavatory is just as ridiculously lavish as the rest of the place—with crystal sconces, crown moulding, and these small fabric awnings with fringe above the mirrors.

Jamie laughs to himself as he washes his hands. The sound of the door opening audible over the water running. He looks up to see Roy behind him, their eyes meeting in the mirror. His collar is unbuttoned and the neck of his tie loosened. He looks rumpled and inviting, brown eyes warm from the endless piling of whiskey.

“Get lonely?” Jamie dries his hands and turns. “Come to have a peak at what the new models are packing, you nosey codger.”

Roy just stares at him, unsteady on his feet and properly sloshed. The mood is strange, with Roy’s intense silence and Jamie buzzing from all the drinks. Roy’s been giving him these eyes all evening, gaze almost physical, like an unexpected guest.

“If you’re ready to leave, I can drive.” Jamie grins. “Know it’s almost past your bedtime.”

Roy drifts closer, reaching for Jamie. Their chests brush and knees knock, the fabric of their suits whisper together like the sound of wings. Roy tilts his face, and it's almost as if he’s going to—

“Woah,” Jamie says. His eyes go wide as pushes against Roy’s chest. “The fuck are you doing?”

Roy stumbles back a step. “Nothing”

“No fucking way.” Jamie can’t believe it. “Are you coming onto me? Are you serious?”

There’s colour rising to his cheeks as Roy clenches his fists. “No, I wasn’t, I was just fucking—” Back against the wall Roy reaches for his most trusted friend: anger. “You came on to me. Flirting, and prancing about like some kind of—” He gestures, words eluding him.

Jamie feels like he’s in shock. “But—you’re Roy Kent.”

Roy laughs, and it sounds ugly. “There is no Roy Kent. Fuck that guy, a tosser really. Makes sense you wouldn’t go for it—what does he have on offer?”

“Hey, hey. That’s not—it’s a conflict of interest, mate.” Jamie tries to explain, reaches for him and speaks softly. The man is pissed, there’s no way he remembers any of this in the morning, and Jamie can’t bear that kind of disappointment.

He pulls out a small business card for the Independent with his personal number on the back. Jamie hands Roy the card and he takes it with a look of disbelief.

“We’ll see each other again.” Jamie brushes a finger against the slope of Roy’s jaw and the man sways a little under his touch. “Swear down.”

Roy blinks down at the small card in his hand. “After the article’s published?”

“After the article’s published,” Jamie echoes.

“Right.” Roy pockets the card and pulls out his phone. “I’m calling you a cab, then. You’ve got a deadline to meet.”

☆

The article drops Monday and by Thursday, Roy is a no-call, no-show.

Jamie had hoped, after coming into the office on Tuesday to find a bouquet of flowers left at his desk with an unsigned note that read: Not bad, that Roy would stay true to his word. Suppose Jamie forgot what footballers with an inclination towards men are like: distrusting and furtive, always ready to go back on their word if it might brew trouble for them. That doesn’t even bring into the mix the added deterrent of Jamie being a reporter. There shouldn’t be any hard feelings—there were no promises made that night, just a bloke who’d had one too many and become swept up in the mood of the evening.

And yet, Jamie is crushed. It isn’t even a question of whether or not Roy wants him—he does—but if Roy is willing to take the leap. Given his historically wary attitude about all things new and unfamiliar, Jamie isn’t holding out much hope.

When he comes into the office on Friday, Michelle intercepts him before he can get to his desk.

“You got a secret admirer we don’t know about?”

“What?” Jamie asks, digging through his bag for his phone.

“Benny just wants to know if the flowers are going to be a thing now, what with his allergies.”

“You could try to keep your contempt to yourself, you know!” Benny calls from his cubicle.

“What the fuck are you two on about?” Jamie finally locates his phone and sees he has a text from an unknown number.

“Your desk, Jamie.”

He looks up and even from four cubicles away he can see the red petals poking above the partition.

Jamie shakes his head as he opens his phone and finds a message that reads: Nelson Road’s pressroom at your earliest convenience. - RK.

“Jamie?”

“I forgot something,” he finds himself saying. He looks up at Michelle. “Think you could cover for me?”

She waves him off. “Just tell your boy-toy to send something for the whole office next time. It’s not like he can’t afford it.”

Jamie nods absently as he walks back the way he came. For the life of him, Jamie can’t work out what Roy’s deal is, what it is now that he could possibly be after. Jamie spends the entire cab ride to the Dogtrack running through the evening at the gala—replaying every touch and every look. It makes his head spin.

When he arrives at Nelson Road and walks down the blue and grey corridor, Jamie is surprised to find himself sentimental. He’s not the type to get attached to a job, the variety journalism provided being one of its main attractions. The idea that Jamie would miss the routine—the discussions about tactics, watching training from the sidelines, the sounds of the locker room at his back—surprises him, and yet it shouldn’t. He’s only ever had two great loves his whole life, and they could both be found on the grounds of Richmond.

Jamie is overcome with feelings of wistful longing that last only until he pushes open the door to the pressroom.

Roy is sitting in the front row with a book open in his lap. He looks up at the sound of Jamie entering, and moves to set the book aside. The door behind Jamie shuts with a resounding thud.

Roy takes a minute to look at Jamie, eyes crawling over his person in one slow stroke, before he gestures to the desk. “Take a seat.”

The anger that comes to him then is sudden, and surprising in its intensity. Jamie clenches his hands into fists. Fuck you, he thinks. Well and truly, fuck you.

“Jamie,” Roy says. “Please.”

He jolts, and realises that is the very first time Roy has ever said his name.

“Give me one good reason.”

They eye one another, at an impasse.

“I could still walk out of here, you know,” Jamie goads.

Roy doesn’t respond to his barb, and instead he reaches for a folded up newspaper that Jamie hadn’t noticed before. He opens it and begins to read:

“‘Make no mistake, Roy Kent is a man used to unending flattery and does not take kindly to the notion that he might still have need for improvement. However, he is also a man of contradictions, as the nation saw last week when Richmond’s manager used a fresh and highly risky play to secure another victory for the Greyhounds. It showcased his lust for new heights, a trait that had previously been the cornerstone of Kent’s identity and legacy, only now awakening from its recent dormancy.’”

Roy folds the paper back up and looks at Jamie with an intensity he doesn’t know how to parse.

“You keep asking me why I picked you,” Roy says, nodding at the newspaper that’s been returned to his side. “That’s why.”

Jamie wrinkles his nose. “You picked me because I’m mean to you?”

“No, you muppet,” Roy huffs. “I picked you because you’re a fucking prick.”

“What?”

“You are arrogant and smug, you act like you have it all figured out.”

“Fuck you,” Jamie says, bristling. “I don’t need to listen to this shit.”

“Jamie,” Roy says, and there’s a note of anguish in his voice. “I think you’re fucking brilliant.”

Jamie blinks, startled, and thinks he must have lost the plot somewhere.

Roy takes advantage of Jamie’s confusion to stand and walk over until they're almost nose to nose.

“You’re clever—much cleverer than me. You’re charming and keen to learn. You’ve got an eye for people, but you’re also driven and determined.” He pauses, and reaches to tuck a lock of hair behind Jamie’s ear. “You would have made a cracking footballer.”

“You’re a wanker,” Jamie says, past the lump in his throat.

Roy nods. “That’s fair.”

“Get over here.” Jamie pulls him in by his shirtfront and Roy goes.

The kiss is quick and hurts more than it feels good. Their teeth knock together and their noses dig into one another’s cheekbones, but all Jamie can focus on is that he finally has the chance to taste the heat Roy has been teasing him with.

They part for a moment, Roy pushing at Jamie until his back meets the edge of the desk. Roy follows and his hands come up to grip Jamie's waist.

“Look at you,” he says, quiet and reverent.

Jamie kisses him again, this time gentle and slow. Roy’s lips are warm and wet, and his beard tickles against Jamie’s face. Though Jamie might be bigger than Roy, his body has a certain give to it, supple like fruit plucked straight from the vine. Roy is lean, with corded muscle built from years of pushing his body to its limits. Jamie has no doubt that if Roy were so inclined, he could grab at Jamie by the handfuls, knead him to feel if he’s ripe, apply pressure until he bruised or broke skin.

He feels one of Roy’s hands attempt it, squeezing the notch of his waist before sliding down to cup him through his trousers.

Jamie pants against Roy’s mouth. “You worried we might get caught?”

“Thought you liked attention?” Roy’s hand is hot like an iron against the front of him. “I can feel how much you like it.”

“Not talking about me,” Jamie says as he drags his lips down Roy’s throat. “I’d be flattered to share the cover with Roy Kent.”

Roy laughs. “‘Football Legend Shags Darling Reporter for a Favourable Article’. The Daily Mail would shit themselves for that kind of headline.”

Jamie kisses Roy, sloppy as he moans into his mouth. They’re chest to chest and hip to hip, their knees knocking together each time Jamie’s body heaves and jerks. His body is flushed and sensitive, and everywhere he and Roy are connected feels like a dream. Roy pulls at the back of Jamie’s dress shirt from where it’s tucked into his slacks, rucks it up and presses a large hand to the skin of his lower back. It pitches Jamie forward and knocks their hips closer together. They both moan.

“I like you, Roy,” Jamie confesses on a gasp, whispered like a secret. “Maybe more than I like Roy Kent.”

“Think you made that clear in your article.”

“Fuck off,” Jamie pants. “I was just being nice then—professional courtesy.”

Roy bites at Jamie’s earlobe and rocks his hips in a slow grind. “‘Kent is a man made to win and he wears it well.’”

Jamie laughs, surprised. “Read it enough to memorise? God, you’re a self absorbed prick.”

“Hm, wonder where I picked it up.”

“Don’t try and flatter me. You were jerking off to positive pundit reviews while I was still in nappies.”

“You mean just yesterday?”

Jamie rubs himself off against Roy, and the slide is slick with how wet he is inside his pants. “I hate you.”

“Thought you liked me.”

“Worse.” Jamie turns to look at Roy. He doesn't say it, but Roy can read it in his eyes.

Roy drops to his knees. “I'm going to suck you off.”

“Don’t,” Jamie says, scrabbling at his shoulders. “Your knee.”

Roy ignores him. “Fuck off, my knee’ll be fine.”

His hands are eager as he unbuckles Jamie’s belt, yanking his trousers halfway down his thighs and pants along with them. Jamie feels the air lick at his skin, the chill making him feel like one giant wet spot—tears, sweat, come. Roy rests his forehead against Jamie’s naked hip, humming. He noses at Jamie’s soft centre, where his cock is pink and dewy, cradled in a soft nest of brown curls.

Jamie is trying not to pass out. His hands grip Roy’s shoulders with desperation and the edge of the desk digs into his plush backside. Roy glances up at him through his eyelashes, a smirk curling in the corner of his mouth. Jamie wants to paint the man’s face with his come.

Roy drags his lips up Jamie’s cock, his nose catching on the hanging shirttails, concealing a portion of his face. His lips part and he lets out a hot breath, pressing his tongue firm against Jamie’s shaft.

“Roy,” Jamie chokes out.

The attention to his cock is rough and unforgiving. Roy opens his mouth wider, tongue gliding up to the head, rosy and wanting. He laves at it, drinking from Jamie like a man dying of thirst. He shifts again and the shirttails fall away, allowing Jamie to watch as Roy finally takes him into his mouth. Roy’s tongue drags along the length of him, the head of his cock pushing at the spongy cushion of Roy’s throat and tempting Jamie to breach it.

“Roy,” Jamie moans again, like it's the only word he knows. He threads his fingers through the wayward curls at the back of Roy's head. “Wanna see you.”

Roy moans and Jamie pants at the sensation. He glances down as Roy shifts the waistband of his trackies lower to pull out his prick, heavy and straining. Jamie gasps and tugs Roy’s hair.

Slowly, they start up a rhythm. Roy hollows his cheeks and flexes his throat as he swallows around Jamie, pulling him deeper inside. Sweat drips from Jamie’s hairline as he tries to keep it together. He gives another yanks to Roy’s hair and the man allows it, sliding further onto Jamie’s cock with a moan.

It’s messy and the sounds are obscene. Roy’s hands have come up to paw at the back of Jamie’s thighs, heavy as they squeeze to test their give. Roy’s own cock bobs, neglected, as the man glares at Jamie from his spot at his feet. The look reminds Jamie of nights spent wanking under the covers, peaking out to catch a glimpse of that fervid stare hung high on his wall. Jamie can’t control himself, jackhammering in and out of Roy’s mouth as he clutches at the back of his head. Roy is gagging on every in-thrust, but makes no move to correct Jamie, as if content to let himself be degraded in this way. Jamie knows he must look pathetic, whining and squirming and making too much noise. His cock pops inside the tight channel of Roy’s throat and Jamie squeals.

Roy pulls off and looks Jamie over. “Seems like you’ve got a lot to say.” His voice is rough and hoarse, and he gets to his feet with his cock jutting angrily from his body.

Jamie arches his hips, desperate for a feel of him. Roy indulges him, hands sliding over his shoulders as he slots their hips together. Jamie trembles at the contact. It’s hot and slippery, and the feeling of Roy’s pubic hair against his prick makes Jamie’s eyes roll back. Roy grunts into his ear as they frot against each other. Roy’s movements are practised and Jamie can’t work out if it’s a result of years conditioning his body for sport or from sleeping with half of London. Regardless, the slide is smooth and Jamie reels when he remembers that it’s Roy Kent’s spit on his cock slicking the way.

Roy pulls back and chucks the bottom of Jamie’s chin with his finger, tilting his head so Jamie can glimpse the off-duty camera towards the back of the room.

“For the tape, Tartt,” Roy says, brushing his nose against his cheek.

Jamie drops his chin to his chest.

“What, shy?” Roy laughs. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

He gets a hand on Jamie’s lower back and while his other finds Jamie’s hip. Roy pushes the shirttails out of the way and knocks their foreheads together. They both watch the dirty grind of their cocks pressed together, and Jamie feels lightheaded. His length is curved towards Roy, like it’s begging to be nearer, and the tip of Jamie is flushed a glossy red as it nudges at Roy’s frenulum.

“It’s like they’re kissing,” Jamie says nonsensically.

Roy groans. He nestles in closer and it feels like one great wall of heat at Jamie’s front. Their lips brush and they exchange panted breaths, as Roy licks over Jamie’s lips. He reaches down to grip them both in his large fist and Jamie lets out a garbled moan. Roy’s other hand finds his arse and gives it a generous squeeze.

“Gotta make sure the camera gets all your good angles.”

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” Jamie pants out, squirming. “Watching me on the telly all day.”

He shoots Roy a grin and the man digs the tip of his thumb into Jamie’s slit. Jamie pitches forward and moans. He tilts his hips back and knees inward, his thighs flexing. Jamie wars with himself as he tries to get away, as he tries to find friction. He feels exposed as Roy’s eyes rake over him, catching on his neck flushing and cock bobbing, his soft underbelly on display.

Jamie feels dumbstruck as Roy draws in close, his nose brushing against Jamie’s cheek and he breathes out, “Jay.”

The fit inside Roy’s fist is tight and slick, the drag firm and mean, and Roy’s prick bullies its way through leaving little room for Jamie. His knuckles press against Jamie’s abdomen as it trembles and he bites at Roy’s shoulder, overwhelmed.

“Please,” Jamie says, eyes half lidded.

Roy pauses his movements on a downward stroke, just holding. Jamie tips his gaze back down to look. His foreskin is pulled back, his cock weeping from the slit and flushed a deep pink. Roy slides his hand back up and burrows his thumb into the soft head of Jamie’s cock. It jerks and spits, and Jamie whines high and shrill. Roy resumes his strokes, pistoning his hips as Jamie tries to hang on, the sounds filthy and sloppy.

“Look at you,” Roy says. His grin is sleazy and he’s grunting like a beast. “Is this how you’d let me use your hole?”

Jamie lets out a sob and comes, body jerking. He clutches at Roy’s shoulder, gasping as Roy strokes him through it and over the edge of nice into too much. He feels limp when Roy lets go and tips Jamie towards the desk. His movements are urgent as he makes Jamie lay back, sprawled across the surface. He leans over Jamie, one arm bracing himself, the other stripping his cock.

“God, look at you,” Roy rasps.

Jamie watches Roy, his frantic motions and handsome face, his brows drawn in and a flush high in his cheeks. Jamie cants his hips upward and presents his messy cock to Roy as a target.

Roy chokes and gasps, hips jerking as he comes. It pumps out of Roy unyielding, and drips down onto Jamie. He feels it across his prick and in the cease of his thighs, some of it sliding down to paint his taint. Roy’s cock gives another jerk at the sight before he collapses atop Jamie’s prone form.

They both lay panting, Jamie’s cheek against the desk and Roy’s bulk over his front. Jamie notices the tails of his shirt are damp with his come and he wrinkles his nose at the feel of them.

After they catch their breath, they clean up best they can. Roy manages to produce a pack of wipes from God knows where as they tidy themselves back to decency. Both their shirts are a lost cause, so they raid the boot room for spares. Jamie tosses his messy one into the bin.

“Those cost a fortune,” he says, mourning the treatment of his nice dress shirt.

“I’ll buy you more.”

Jamie smiles at Roy and looks away, suddenly shy.

They stink of sex and Jamie fusses with the pleats in his slacks, desperate to break the tension. He looks around the boot room as a thought occurs to him.

“Does this mean you'll finally tell me what Marbella is all about?”

Roy groans. “It was just—” He lowers voice, as if this was more shameful than what they just spent the last ten minutes doing. “I accidentally sent Will a picture of my dick when I went on holiday.”

Jamie bursts out laughing.

“It was a pathetic last attempt to show Keeley what she was missing, but I was seven frozen daiquiris deep at the time and now—Will thinks it’s bonded us together. He keeps trying to set me up on dates with his improv friends.”

There are tears in his eyes as Jamie doubles over.

“Fuck off,” Roy says, a smile creeping onto his face. “It’s not funny.”

“No, you’re right,” Jamie gasps out. “It’s fucking hilarious.”

“What, like you’ve never done anything fucking stupid before? I could name three things just from today alone.”

“Mate, I doubt any of them are ‘sending my coworker a picture of my cock’ stupid.”

“Dunno, I feel like joining a reality television program for work is difficult to beat.”

“Speaking of work,” Jamie says, getting himself under control. “Pierce was real impressed by my article, says I smashed it and wants to give me a promotion.”

Roy smiles at him, genuine and proud. “That’s fantastic, Jamie.”

“He offered me the chance to report on football exclusively,” Jamie says, practically vibrating in his excitement. “Adebayo has been talking about switching to politics for ages now, and Pierce has just been waiting for the right fit to replace him.”

Roy smirks. “I guess you are quite fit.”

Jamie laughs. “Suppose I’ll be seeing you here a lot now, yeah?”

“So long as it’s not only here.”

Jamie feels his breath catch, but he plays it off. “Well, you’ll definitely see me at yoga night next week.”

This time, Roy laughs. “Cheeky.”

He reaches for Jamie then, but just to hold. Jamie brings his arms up, his hands clutching at Roy’s back. The way Roy holds him close and tight, makes Jamie think of his younger self—the lad who’d just been told the news, that he’d never play competitively again. He remembers staring up at that poster of Roy Kent, thinking that he’d find a way. Thinking that they couldn’t leave him behind that easy.

“Do you think,” Jamie asks, muffled by the cotton of Roy’s shirt. “That if we had been teammate’s we would’ve been… I dunno.”

“I told you, I would have fucking hated you.”

Jamie wrinkles nose and pulls back to look at Roy. “But what if, maybe you were my coach—”

Roy looks thoughtful. “I might have trained you up right.” He pushes Jamie’s hair back from his face and smiles. “Moulded you into my starplayer.”

Jamie smiles back, bright and a little sad. “Sounds mint.”

They both stand there silently, mourning the ways in which some things will always be just out of reach.

“Hey,” Roy says, brushing a thumb under his eye. “Don’t sulk, got to keep moving forward.”

Jamie hums. “Like a shark.”

Roy smiles at him, fond.

“Plus, I’ve got Roy Kent now,” Jamie says, smug. “Didn’t even have to bid on him.”

Roy laughs loud and deep. Jamie thinks about all that he’s given up and all that he’s gone without. Maybe there are some things he will never have in the way that he wants, but this dream—with Roy Kent staring down at him—he’ll hang onto this.