Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The locker room at Nelson Road Stadium had never felt quite so cold.

Jamie Tartt had been back at Richmond for three weeks now, and the chill that greeted him every morning hadn’t thawed even a degree. He’d known it would be like this - coming back with his tail between his legs after flaming out at Man City, after being the biggest prick the team had ever seen before he left. He’d been working on himself, trying to be better, trying to show them he’d changed. But most of them weren’t interested in seeing it.

“Alright, alright, alright!” Ted Lasso’s voice echoed through the room with that relentless positivity that somehow never felt forced. “Who’s ready to make some magic happen out there today?”

Jamie kept his head down, slowly pulling his training kit from his locker. Every movement sent a sharp, stabbing pain through his ribs - left side, maybe two of them cracked, possibly three. His head was pounding, a dull throb that had been there since he’d woken up on his kitchen floor at four in the morning, surrounded by broken glass and upturned furniture.

You’re fucking soft, Jamie. Always have been. That’s why you lost. That’s why you’ll always be a failure.

His dad’s voice still rang in his ears, beer-soaked and venomous. James Tartt Sr. had shown up around midnight with Denbo and Bug in tow - his dad’s mates, if you could call them that. More like enablers. Witnesses. Participants.

Jamie had known his dad would come after the match against City. Richmond had lost 3-1, and Jamie had been useless on the pitch, trying too hard, wanting too desperately to prove something to everyone. Win or lose, his dad always found a reason to “teach him a lesson.” But this time he’d brought backup, and the lesson had been particularly brutal.

They’d been careful, though. They always were. Not a mark on his face - nothing that would be visible in photos or interviews. Just his torso, his back, his ribs. Places that could be hidden under a kit. His dad had shoved him into the kitchen counter so hard Jamie was pretty sure he’d blacked out for a second. When he came to, Bug was smashing his coffee maker against the wall while Denbo rifled through his fridge, helping himself to Jamie’s beer.

“Oi, Tartt!” Isaac’s voice cut through his thoughts. The captain’s tone wasn’t friendly. “You gonna stand there all day or actually get dressed?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” Jamie muttered, trying to keep his voice steady.

He could feel their eyes on him - Isaac, Colin, even Sam, who was usually kind to everyone.

They were waiting for him to fuck up, to prove he was still the same selfish prick who’d abandoned them for a shot at glory. And he got it. He really did. He’d been awful to them before.

Jamie gingerly pulled his training top over his head, biting back a wince as the fabric dragged across his ribs. The concussion - if that’s what it was - made everything feel slightly disconnected, like he was piloting his body from somewhere far away. He’d thrown up twice this morning, and the locker room lights felt like they were drilling directly into his skull.

“Right then, let’s get out there!” Coach Beard clapped his hands once, and the team started filing out towards the pitch.

Jamie stayed back, his hand gripping the edge of his locker. He couldn’t do this. Not today. He needed to go to a doctor, needed to get checked out, needed to-

“You coming, Jamie?” Ted had appeared beside him, all concerned eyebrows and kind eyes.

Jamie opened his mouth, and the words just came out. “Coach, I... I can’t train today. I’m hurt.”

The locker room, which had been mostly empty, suddenly felt very full again. Isaac had stopped in the doorway. So had Colin. And Richard. They were all staring at him now.

“Fucking typical,” Isaac muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Of course he’s hurt,” Colin added, his Welsh accent dripping with sarcasm. “First hard training session this week and suddenly he’s injured.”

“I’m not-” Jamie started, but his voice sounded weak even to his own ears.

“What is it this time?” Colin crossed his arms. “Hair not sitting right?”

“Fuck off,” Jamie said, but there was no heat in it. He was too tired, too hurt, too dizzy to put up a proper fight.

“Hey now, fellas,” Ted interjected, holding up his hands. “If Jamie says he’s hurt, then-”

“He’s full of shit, Coach,” Isaac said flatly. “He’s done this before, remember? After you benched him, he suddenly had some mysterious injury that nobody could prove.”

Jamie’s stomach twisted. That wasn’t true - or at least, Jamie was injured then as well.

His dad had paid him a visit after that match too, furious at the fact that Jamie could be so incapable as to let himself get benched.

But technically, to the eyes of everyone else on the team, he had pulled that shit before. But that was old Jamie. New Jamie was trying to be better, trying to be a team player, trying to-

But they didn’t know about last night. Or the time before that. They didn’t know about his dad, about Denbo and Bug, about the way his ribs felt like they were grinding together with every breath. They just saw Jamie Tartt making excuses, just like he always did.

“I can train,” Jamie heard himself say. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Let’s just... let’s go.”

Ted’s brow furrowed. “Son, if you’re actually hurt-”

“I said I’m fine.” Jamie grabbed his water bottle and pushed past them, heading for the tunnel. Behind him, he could hear the muttering, the confirmation of everything they already believed about him.

“See? Knew he was faking.”

“Fucking attention-seeking prick.”

“Can’t believe Coach brought him back.”

***

The sunlight hit Jamie like a physical force when he emerged onto the pitch, and he had to squint against the pain it sent shooting through his head. The grass seemed to tilt slightly under his feet, and he stumbled before catching himself.

“Alright!” Ted’s voice boomed across the field. “We’re gonna start with some passing drills, then move into a practice match. Roy, you wanna take them through the warm-up?”

Roy Kent, who’d come back as a coach and seemed even more perpetually furious than he’d been as a player, grunted his assent. “Right, you lot. Five laps, then stretching. And I want to see some fucking effort out here today.”

His eyes landed on Jamie when he said it, and Jamie felt himself shrink under that glare.

The team took off running, and Jamie forced himself to keep pace. Every step sent shockwaves up through his body, his ribs screaming in protest. His vision kept blurring at the edges, going grey and fuzzy like a TV losing signal. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on keeping his breathing steady even though every inhale felt like knives.

You’re soft, Jamie. Pathetic. Can’t even take a few hits without crying about it.

He pushed the voice away, pushed through the pain. He’d trained through worse. He could do this. He had to do this, because if he stopped now, if he admitted he couldn’t handle it, then they’d all know they were right about him.

The laps felt like they took hours. By the time they finished, Jamie’s kit was soaked through with sweat, and he was pretty sure he was about to pass out. The stretching was a special kind of torture - bending and twisting his damaged torso while trying to look like everything was perfectly normal.

“You alright, Jamie?” Sam appeared beside him during the stretches, seemingly genuine concern in his eyes. Sam was one of the few who seemed to see that Jamie was trying to change, who gave him the benefit of the doubt.

“Yeah, course,” Jamie lied, forcing a grin that probably looked more like a grimace. “Just tired, innit.”

Sam didn’t look convinced, but he nodded and moved on to his own stretches.

The passing drills were manageable - Jamie’s feet still knew what to do, even if his brain was operating at half capacity. Muscle memory took over, and for a few minutes, he could almost pretend everything was fine. But then they moved into the practice match, and everything went to shit.

Ted divided them into two teams, and Jamie found himself on the opposite side from Isaac, which meant Isaac was going to be gunning for him. The captain had something to prove, always did when it came to Jamie.

The whistle blew, and the game began.

Jamie’s first touch was heavy, his second even worse. The ball bobbled away from him, and Bumbercatch swooped in to steal it, giving Jamie a smug look as he passed it upfield.

“Wake up, Tartt!” Roy bellowed from the sideline.

Jamie tried. He really fucking tried. But his body wasn’t responding the way it should. His reactions were too slow, his movements sluggish. The concussion was making everything feel like he was underwater, and his ribs sent fresh waves of agony through him every time he pivoted or jumped.

“For fuck’s sake, Jamie!” Colin shouted after Jamie misplaced a simple pass. “Fuck’s wrong with you today!”

“Sorry,” Jamie muttered, but nobody heard him, or they just didn’t care enough to listen.

Ten minutes in, he lost the ball to Isaac - something that shouldn’t have been possible - but Jamie couldn’t get it back, couldn’t use his core strength without feeling like his ribs were going to puncture his lungs.

“Come on!” Isaac yelled, frustrated. “This is fucking training, Tartt! Put in some effort!”

“I am!” The words came out sharper than Jamie intended, defensive.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Isaac shot back, already moving downfield.

The match continued, and Jamie’s performance only got worse. He missed a shot that should’ve been easy, let the ball bounce off his chest when he should’ve controlled it, mistimed a tackle and ended up on his arse while Jan Maas sailed past him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you today?” Montlaur demanded, offering a hand to pull Jamie up - not out of kindness, but so the game could continue.

Jamie took the hand, biting back a gasp as the movement sent fresh pain exploding through his torso. “Nothing. Just having an off day.”

By the time Ted blew the final whistle, Jamie was barely staying upright. His vision kept tunnelling, going dark at the edges before swimming back into focus. He was pretty sure there was blood in his mouth - he must’ve bitten his tongue at some point without realising it.

“Good work out there, fellas!” Ted called out, ever the optimist. “Hit the showers, and we’ll see you tomorrow for-”

“Tartt.” Roy’s voice cut through the post-practice chatter like a knife. “Need a word. My office. Now.”

Jamie’s stomach dropped. Roy wanted to talk to him. Roy Kent, who already hated him, who’d watched him have possibly the worst training session of his life, wanted to have a private conversation. This was going to be bad.

“Yeah, alright,” Jamie managed, his voice coming out raspier than he intended.

The other players were heading back towards the locker room, some of them shooting Jamie looks - pity from Sam and Jan Maas, irritation from Isaac and Colin, barely concealed satisfaction from Montlaur. They all thought Roy was going to tear into him. They were probably right.

Jamie followed Roy back inside, each step feeling like he was walking towards his own execution. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, the fluorescent lights too bright, too harsh. He could feel sweat trickling down his back under his kit.

Roy’s office was small and sparse, exactly what you’d expect from Roy Kent. A desk, a couple of chairs, some tactical boards on the wall. Roy closed the door behind them, and the click of the latch sounded very loud in the quiet room.

“Sit,” Roy commanded, moving behind his desk.

Jamie sat, and immediately regretted it as his ribs protested the change in position. He kept his face neutral, or tried to. Couldn’t let Roy see. Couldn’t let anyone see.

Roy was staring at him with those intense, penetrating eyes that had once been compared to a lion’s - back when Roy was still playing, still the fearsome warrior of the pitch. Now he was a coach, but he was no less intimidating.

“Right,” Roy said finally, crossing his arms. “What the fuck was that?”

Jamie swallowed hard, tasting copper. “What was what?”

“Don’t be a prick. That. Out there. That wasn’t just bad, Jamie. That was... that was fucking concerning.”

The word ‘concerning’ hit Jamie like a punch. He’d been expecting anger, expected Roy to scream at him about effort and commitment and not being a lazy twat. Concern was somehow worse since he didn’t know what to expect.

“I’m fine,” Jamie said automatically. “Just an off day, like I said.”

Roy leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Bullshit. I’ve seen you play, Jamie. I know what you look like on an off day, and that wasn’t it. That was… something else.”

Jamie’s heart was hammering against his damaged ribs, each beat sending fresh pain radiating through his chest. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t have this conversation. Not with Roy Kent, not with anyone.

“I said I’m fine,” he repeated, but his voice cracked slightly on the word ‘fine,’ betraying him.

Roy’s eyes narrowed, and Jamie knew - just knew - that Roy had caught it. Roy Kent might be a lot of things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. He’d been in football long enough to recognise when a player was hiding something, when the bravado was covering up something darker.

The silence stretched between them, heavy and oppressive. Jamie kept his eyes fixed on a point just past Roy’s shoulder, unable to meet that penetrating gaze. His head was pounding, his ribs were screaming, and he was so fucking tired. Tired of pretending, tired of hiding, tired of always having to prove he was strong enough, good enough, worth keeping around.

You’re nothing, Jamie. You hear me? Fucking nothing. And you always will be.

“Jamie-” Roy started, his voice softer now, almost gentle.

But Jamie couldn’t hear this. Couldn’t hear kindness from Roy Kent, couldn’t handle whatever was about to come out of his mouth, because if Roy was nice to him right now, Jamie was pretty sure he’d fall apart completely. And he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t be weak. Not here, not now, not ever.

“Can I go?” Jamie asked, still not meeting Roy’s eyes. “If you’re done, I need to shower.”

Another long pause. Then Roy sighed - a heavy, frustrated sound that seemed to fill the small office.

“No,” Roy said finally. “We’re not done. Not even fucking close.”

Jamie’s hands clenched into fists on his thighs, his fingernails digging into his palms. The pain was grounding, gave him something to focus on besides the panic rising in his chest.

“Sit there and listen,” Roy continued. “Because we’re going to have a conversation, whether you like it or not. And you’re going to tell me the truth about what’s really going on.”

Jamie finally looked up, meeting Roy’s eyes. There was determination there, yes, but also something else. Something that looked almost like... caring. Like Roy actually gave a shit, which made no sense because Roy Kent hated him. Everyone knew that.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Jamie said quietly.

“The truth,” Roy replied simply. “For once in your fucking life, Jamie, just tell someone the truth.”

And Jamie sat there, ribs broken, head pounding, his father’s words still echoing in his skull, and realised he had absolutely no idea how to do that.

Chapter Text

Roy wanted the truth. But the truth meant staying here longer, meant explaining that he’d let his dad beat the shit out of him like he always did, meant admitting he was too weak to fight back against a middle-aged alcoholic and his two pathetic mates.

Roy would think he was pathetic. Everyone would. And Jamie couldn’t handle that right now - couldn’t handle another person looking at him with disappointment or disgust or, worst of all, pity.

He needed to lie down. Needed to leave. Needed to be literally anywhere but in this office under Roy Kent’s scrutinising gaze.

“I had a late night,” Jamie said finally, the lie coming easier than the truth ever could. “That’s all. Just... stayed out too late, didn’t get enough sleep.”

Roy’s expression changed instantly. The concern vanished, replaced by something hard and cold and furious.

“You fucking what?” Roy’s voice was low, dangerous.

“I just went out, yeah?” Jamie continued, digging himself deeper because it was too late to stop now. “Lost track of time. Had a few drinks. Not a big deal.”

“Not a big-” Roy stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Are you taking the piss right now? You come back here, you beg for a second chance, you tell everyone you’ve changed, and then you’re out partying the night before training.”

“I wasn’t-”

“Don’t.” Roy pointed a finger at him. “Don’t fucking lie to me more than you already have. You show up here, claim you’re hurt to get out of training, then when that doesn’t work you drag yourself through the worst practice session I’ve ever seen, and now you’re telling me it’s because you were out drinking?”

Each word hit Jamie like a physical blow. His head was throbbing, his vision swimming, but Roy’s voice cut through the pain with perfect clarity.

“This is exactly what everyone said would happen,” Roy continued, his voice rising. “That you haven’t changed. That you’re still the same selfish prick who only cares about himself. And you know what? They were fucking right.”

You’re nothing, Jamie. You hear me? Fucking nothing.

“I tried to tell Isaac to let you have another chance,” Roy said, pacing now like a caged animal. “I said maybe you’d grown up, maybe City had humbled you. But no. You’re still the same. Still making excuses, still putting yourself first, still not giving a shit about this team or what we’re trying to build here.”

Jamie’s jaw clenched. The words were too familiar, too close to the poison his dad had been spewing just hours ago. Soft. Pathetic. Useless. Never good enough.

“You want to be here, Jamie? Then fucking act like it.” Roy stopped pacing, turning to face him dead on. “No more late nights. No more excuses. You show up every single day ready to give everything you’ve got, or you can fuck off back to Manchester and find another club that’ll put up with your bullshit. Because I’m done. We’re all done.”

Jamie sat there, taking it. Every word. Every accusation. He deserved it anyway, didn’t he? For lying, for being weak, for letting his dad get to him, for not being strong enough to just push through the pain without anyone noticing.

“And another thing-” Roy started.

But Jamie couldn’t. He couldn’t sit here anymore, couldn’t listen to more reasons why he was a disappointment, a waste of space, not worth the effort. He stood up - too fast, his ribs screaming in protest - and fixed Roy with a glare that he hoped looked defiant rather than desperate.

“You done?” Jamie asked, his voice flat.

Roy stared at him, something flickering across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or more anger.

“Yeah,” Roy said finally. “I’m done.”

“Good.” Jamie headed for the door. “Sorry for wasting your time, Coach.”

The apology was hollow, meaningless, just words to get him out of this office and away from Roy’s disappointment. He didn’t wait for a response, just yanked the door open and walked out, keeping his spine straight and his pace steady even though every step felt like torture.

The locker room was mostly empty now - everyone else had showered and left. Jamie grabbed his bag without bothering to change out of his kit, without showering, without doing anything except getting the fuck out of Nelson Road Stadium as fast as his damaged body would carry him.

His car was parked in its usual spot. Jamie threw his bag in the passenger seat and sat behind the wheel, his hands shaking as he tried to get the key in the ignition. It took three attempts.

He should go home. Should go back to his house, clean up the mess, pretend everything was fine like he always did.

But he couldn’t. The thought of walking back into that space, seeing the broken glass and upturned furniture, seeing the places where they held him while his dad-

No. He couldn’t go back there. Not tonight.

Jamie pulled out of the car park and drove, no destination in mind, just away. Away from the stadium, away from Richmond, away from Roy’s words that were too much like his father’s words. The possible concussion made driving dangerous, he knew that, but staying was more dangerous. Being alone with his thoughts was more dangerous.

He ended up at a hotel. Nothing overly fancy. Jamie paid for a room, ignored the curious look from the desk clerk, and took the key card without a word.

Room 271. Second floor. The door stuck a bit when he tried to open it, and the effort of shoving it made his ribs flare with fresh agony. Inside, the room was exactly what he’d expected - bland, boring, impersonal. A double bed with a generic white duvet. A TV on top of the dresser. A bathroom barely big enough to turn around in.

But it was perfect because there was no one here who wanted to hurt him.

Jamie dropped his bag by the door, didn’t bother turning on more than the lamp on the bedside table. His kit was still damp with sweat, clinging to him, but he didn’t have the energy to shower or change. He just kicked off his trainers and collapsed onto the bed, not even pulling back the covers.

The mattress was too soft, the pillows too flat, but Jamie didn’t care. He was horizontal. That was all that mattered. He closed his eyes, willing sleep to come quickly, to pull him under before his brain could replay the day’s events on an endless loop.

For a while, there was nothing. Just darkness and the sound of his own breathing, laboured and painful. Then his body finally gave up fighting and dragged him down into unconsciousness.

***

The dream started the way it had actually happened - with knocking on his front door.

Jamie was back in his house, the one he’d bought with his signing bonus from Richmond.

It was past midnight.

He’d been sitting on the couch in the dark, still in the clothes he’d worn to the match, replaying every mistake he’d made on the pitch.

The knocking came again. Loud, insistent. Aggressive.

He knew who it was before he opened the door. Some part of him had been expecting this all night.

His dad stood on the doorstep, Denbo and Bug on either side of him like a pair of ugly bookends. James Tartt Sr. was already drunk - Jamie could smell the beer from only a few steps away - and his eyes had that glassy, unfocused quality that meant trouble.

“Jamie, my boy!” His dad’s voice was too loud, too jovial. “Thought we’d come see how you were doing after that match, if you can call it that. It was quite a performance you put on.”

“Dad, it’s late-” Jamie started, but his dad was already pushing past him into the house, Denbo and Bug following like faithful dogs.

“Late? It’s never too late for family, son.” His dad headed straight for Jamie’s kitchen, helping himself to the fridge. “Bug, Denbo, make yourselves at home.”

Jamie should have told them to leave. Should have stood his ground, called the police, something. But he just stood there as his dad pulled out three more beers, tossed one each to his mates, and turned back to Jamie with that smile that wasn’t really a smile.

“So,” his dad said, taking a long drink. “Want to talk about what happened out there today?”

“Not really.” Jamie’s voice sounded small even to his own ears.

“Not really,” his dad repeated mockingly. “Not really. Well, that’s too fucking bad, because I want to talk about it. See, I had money on that match, Jamie. A lot of money. Money I don’t have anymore because my son couldn’t be bothered to play like a professional footballer.”

“I tried-”

“You tried.” His dad’s expression darkened. “You tried. All those years at Man City and that’s what you’ve got to show for it? Trying? They kicked you off because you weren’t good enough, Jamie. Because you’re soft. Always have been.”

The word ‘soft’ hung in the air like a curse. Jamie took a step back, his body already anticipating what was coming.

“I think Jamie needs to remember what happens when he disappoints people,” his dad said, not looking at Jamie anymore but at Denbo and Bug. “Don’t you think, lads?”

“Yeah,” Denbo agreed, setting down his beer. He was bigger than Jamie, broader, with hands like meat hooks. “Think he does.”

“Just a reminder,” Bug added. He was wiry, quick, with a mean streak that made him dangerous in a different way than Denbo. “Nothing personal, like.”

Jamie tried to run. That was the pathetic truth of it - he tried to run from his own father in his own house. He made it as far as the living room before Denbo caught him, fingers digging into his arm hard enough to bruise.

“Where you going, Jamie?” Denbo laughed. “Party’s just getting started.”

They dragged him back to the kitchen. Jamie fought - he did fight, despite what he told himself later - but it was three against one, and they’d done this before. They knew how to work together, how to overwhelm him.

“Hold him,” his dad ordered, and suddenly Bug had one of Jamie’s wrists, Denbo had the other, and they were slamming him back against the kitchen counter, pinning his arms, making it impossible to protect himself.

Jamie’s wrists burned where they gripped him. Bug’s fingers were like steel bands, cutting off circulation. Denbo held the other wrist against the counter edge, the pressure making Jamie’s bones ache.

“Please,” Jamie heard himself say, hating how weak it sounded. “Please, Dad, don’t-”

The first punch caught him in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. His dad had always known where to hit - never the face, never anywhere visible. Just the body, where bruises could be hidden under clothes.

“Soft,” his dad spat, punctuating it with another punch. “Fucking soft pussy. Can’t even take a hit, can you?”

Jamie tried to double over, instinct demanding he protect his torso, but Bug and Denbo held him fast. His wrists were screaming now, the pressure unbearable as they kept him pinned.

“You lost me three grand today, Jamie,” his dad said conversationally, like they were discussing the weather. Another punch, this one lower, and Jamie felt something crack. “Three. Fucking. Grand. Because you couldn’t be bothered to play proper football.”

“I’m sorry,” Jamie gasped out. “I’m sorry, I’ll-”

“You’ll what?” His dad grabbed Jamie’s face with one hand, forcing eye contact. His breath was toxic, beer and cigarettes and rage. “You’ll do better? That’s what you always say. But you never do, do you? Because you’re weak. Just like your mother.”

Another punch, and another. Jamie lost count. His ribs were on fire, each impact sending shockwaves through his entire body.

He tried to pull his wrists free, tried to break Bug and Denbo’s grip, but they held firm, their fingers digging in hard enough that Jamie knew there’d be marks.

“Please,” he tried again, and hated himself for begging. “Please stop.”

“Stop?” His dad laughed, stepping back. “We’re not done yet. Bug, why don’t you show Jamie that soft, spoilt losers don’t deserve to have nice things?”

Bug let go of Jamie’s wrist just long enough to reach over and grab the coffee maker from the counter. Then he raised it above his head and smashed it against the wall. Glass and ceramic exploded everywhere, shards raining down on the kitchen floor.

“Oops,” Bug said with a grin. “My bad.”

Denbo laughed, and then he was throwing things too. Jamie’s dishes, his glasses, the framed photo he kept on the counter of the Richmond team from before he’d left for City. Everything became projectiles, became weapons, became proof of his dad’s fury.

Jamie couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t do anything except stand there, too weak to move, and watch them destroy his home. His ribs were screaming, his head was spinning - at some point, his dad must have hit him in the head, though Jamie couldn’t remember when - and his wrists felt like they had been crushed.

“This is what happens when you disappoint me,” his dad said, suddenly in Jamie’s face again. “This is what happens when you’re not good enough. You understand me, son?”

Jamie nodded, or tried to. Everything was starting to go fuzzy at the edges.

“Say it,” his dad demanded.

“I understand,” Jamie whispered.

“Say that you’re not good enough, that you deserve this.”

“I-” his dad’s fingers gripped Jamie’s hair to keep his face upright. “I’m not good enough.”

“And?” His dad taunted.

“And- and I deserve this,” Jamie eventually said in a broken voice.

“Good boy.” His dad patted his cheek, almost affectionate. Then he turned to Bug and Denbo. “Let him go.”

They released his wrists, and Jamie immediately collapsed. His legs wouldn’t hold him anymore. He hit the kitchen floor hard, glass cutting into his palms, and curled into himself as best he could with his damaged ribs.

Above him, he heard his dad finishing his beer. Heard the bottle being set down on the counter. Heard footsteps moving towards the front door.

“You should really clean more often, it’s a right mess in here Jamie,” his dad called back. “And do better next time. If there is a next time.”

The door slammed, and then they were gone.

Jamie lay on his kitchen floor, surrounded by broken glass and spilled beer and the ruins of his life, and didn’t move. Couldn’t move. His wrists throbbed where they’d held him. His ribs were broken, he was sure of it. His head felt like it had been split open.

And all he could think was that his dad was right. He was soft. Weak. Not good enough. Never had been, never would be-

***

Jamie woke up gasping, his hands flying to his ribs as phantom pain shot through his torso. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was - the unfamiliar ceiling, the bland walls, the generic furniture.

Hotel. He was in a hotel. Not his house. Safe.

His heart was hammering, his breathing too fast and too shallow. The dream - the memory - was still so vivid he could smell the beer, could hear the glass shattering, could feel Bug and Denbo’s hands on his wrists.

His wrists.

Jamie looked down and saw the painful rings wrapped around his wrists. Even in the dim light from the bedside lamp, he could see them. Bruises, dark purple and black, circling both wrists like bracelets. Finger-shaped marks where they’d held him, where they’d kept him pinned while his dad-

He’d managed to ignore them all day, to push those marks out of his mind, to pretend they didn’t exist. But now, looking at them in the quiet darkness of this anonymous hotel room, Jamie couldn’t deny it anymore.

This had happened. All of it had happened. And tomorrow, he’d have to go back to Nelson Road and pretend everything was fine. Had to train, had to play, had to be Jamie Tartt the footballer and not Jamie Tartt the punching bag.

His wrists throbbed, a dull ache that matched the pain in his ribs and his head. Jamie pulled his sleeves down to cover the bruises, even though there was no one there to see them. Even though hiding them now was pointless.

Outside, he could hear traffic on the streets. Inside, there was just him and the evidence of what he’d let happen to him, again.

Jamie lay back down on the bed, didn’t close his eyes, and waited for morning.

Chapter Text

Jamie hadn’t slept. Not really.

He’d dozed in fits and starts, jerking awake every time his body relaxed enough for the pain to spike, every time his subconscious dragged him back to his kitchen floor. By the time weak sunlight started filtering through the hotel curtains, he’d maybe managed two hours total, and those had been more unconsciousness than actual rest.

The hotel bed had been shit - too soft in some places, too hard in others, with springs that dug into his damaged ribs no matter how he positioned himself. His neck was stiff, his head still pounding with that same dull throb that meant the concussion wasn’t getting better. And his wrists... his wrists had gone from purple to an almost black colour overnight, the bruises deepening, spreading.

He’d wrapped them in athletic tape he found in his training bag, winding it around and around until the marks were mostly hidden. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.

Jamie forced himself up, forced himself into the shower even though raising his arms to wash his hair made him want to scream. The hot water felt good for about thirty seconds before it started making him dizzy, so he switched it to cold and stood there shivering until he felt marginally more alert.

He had no clean clothes except his training kit, which was still damp and smelled like yesterday’s sweat and fear. Jamie put it on anyway. The fabric stuck to his skin, clammy and uncomfortable, and every movement as he dressed sent fresh waves of pain through his torso.

But he had to go to training. Roy had made that abundantly clear yesterday. No more excuses. Show up ready to give everything, or fuck off. And Jamie couldn’t fuck off, couldn’t lose this second chance, couldn’t prove everyone right about him being unreliable and selfish.

So he checked out of the hotel, got in his car, and drove to Nelson Road on autopilot, his hands tight on the steering wheel, his taped wrists aching.

***

The locker room was already half-full when Jamie arrived. He kept his head down, went straight to his locker, tried to be invisible. A few of the lads glanced at him - Sam with concern, Isaac with cold indifference, Colin with barely concealed irritation - but nobody spoke to him.

That was fine. Jamie didn’t want to talk anyway. Didn’t trust himself to open his mouth without something pathetic coming out.

He changed into fresh training gear, moving slowly, carefully. The new kit felt too tight across his ribs, like it was squeezing all the broken pieces together. He pulled the sleeves down as far as they would go, covering the tape on his wrists.

“Right then!” Ted’s voice boomed through the locker room. “Another beautiful day for some football! Let’s get out there and show that pitch who’s boss!”

The team filed out. Jamie followed, keeping to the back, trying not to breathe too deeply because deep breaths made his ribs feel like they were grinding together.

The morning was overcast, grey clouds hanging low and threatening rain. Perfect fucking weather to match his mood. Jamie’s feet felt heavy as he walked onto the pitch, like someone had tied weights to his ankles.

“Warm-up!” Roy bellowed. “Five laps, then stretches. And I want to see improvement from yesterday, Tartt. You hearing me?”

“Yeah,” Jamie called back, his voice coming out rougher than intended.

The laps were agony. Each movement jarred his ribs, sent shock waves up through his damaged body. His head swam, vision blurring at the edges. By the third lap, he was pretty sure he was going to be sick. By the fifth, he was running on pure spite and stubbornness.

Stretches were worse. Bending, twisting, reaching - all the movements that looked easy but felt like torture when your ribs were broken and your head was concussed and your whole body was one giant bruise.

“You alright, Jamie?” Sam appeared beside him again during stretches, that same genuine concern in his eyes.

“Yeah, fine,” Jamie lied automatically. “Just sore from yesterday.”

Sam didn’t look convinced, but he nodded and moved on.

They moved into passing drills. Jamie’s touch was still heavy, still off, but he was managing to keep the ball mostly under control. His movements were careful, measured, protecting his ribs without making it obvious that’s what he was doing.

Then they moved into a practice match, and everything went to shit.

Ted split them into teams again. Jamie ended up on the same side as Sam this time, opposite Isaac and Bumbercatch. The whistle blew, and the game began.

For the first ten minutes, Jamie managed. He wasn’t playing well - wasn’t playing anywhere near his usual standard - but he was keeping up, staying on his feet, not completely embarrassing himself.

Then Montlaur won the ball in midfield and sent it long towards Jamie. Jamie controlled it, turned, started moving upfield. He could see the goal, could see the angle he needed-

And then Isaac came out of nowhere and absolutely smashed into him.

It was a legal challenge, shoulder to shoulder, the kind of contact that happened a hundred times in every match. The kind of hit that normally Jamie would have absorbed, kept his feet, kept playing.

But his ribs - his broken, damaged ribs - took the full force of the impact.

Pain exploded through Jamie’s chest like someone had set off a bomb inside his torso. White-hot, blinding, all-consuming pain that drove the air from his lungs and nearly put him on his knees. He felt something shift, something grind together in a way that was deeply, horrifyingly wrong.

“Fuck,” he gasped out, but the word had no air behind it.

“Come on, Tartt!” Isaac was already moving on, chasing the ball. “Stop being soft!”

Jamie stayed on his feet through sheer force of will. He couldn’t go down. Couldn’t show that it hurt when for everyone else, it would have just been a normal hit. They’d know something was wrong, they’d ask questions, they’d-

He tried to keep playing. Tried to keep moving, keep running, keep being useful. But his body wasn’t cooperating anymore. Every step was rigid, stiff, his movements mechanical and wrong. He couldn’t rotate his torso, couldn’t pivot, couldn’t do anything that required his core because his core was fucking destroyed.

“Jamie!” Sam called, sending him a pass.

Jamie tried to control it, but his body was too rigid, too locked up with pain. The ball bounced off his shin and rolled away. Bumbercatch collected it and moved upfield.

“For fuck’s sake!” Colin yelled. “What the hell was that?”

Jamie tried to respond, tried to explain, but he couldn’t get enough air. His ribs were screaming, his vision was going grey and fuzzy, and he was pretty sure he was about to pass out right there on the pitch.

He had to move. Had to get away before anyone saw, before they realised something was actually wrong.

The ball was on the other side of the pitch now. Nobody was looking at him. Jamie stumbled towards the sideline, then kept going, past the coaches, past the bench, towards the building.

“Oi, Jamie!” He heard Roy’s voice behind him, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

He made it inside, made it down the corridor, found the nearest bathroom and shoved his way inside. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off the outside world, and Jamie immediately collapsed against the sink, his hands gripping the porcelain edge so hard his knuckles went white.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t get air past the pain in his chest. Every attempt at inhaling felt like knives stabbing into his lungs. Black spots danced across his vision, and the fluorescent lights were too bright, too harsh, drilling into his concussed skull.

Jamie tried to stay upright, tried to keep it together, but his legs were giving out. He slid down the wall, ending up in a heap on the cold tile floor, his arms wrapped around his damaged ribs, rocking slightly as he tried to remember how to breathe.

Soft. Weak. Pathetic. Can’t even take a few hits.

The bathroom door opened, and Jamie’s head snapped up. Sam stood in the doorway, his expression worried.

“Jamie?” Sam took a step inside, letting the door close behind him. “Jamie, are you- do you need a medic?”

“No!” The word came out too sharp, too panicked. “No, I’m fine, I just-”

“You’re not fine,” Sam said gently, moving closer. “You’re sitting on the bathroom floor and you can barely breathe.”

“I said I’m fine!” Jamie’s voice cracked. “I don’t need a medic, I don’t need anything, just- just leave me alone.”

But Sam didn’t leave. Of course he didn’t. Sam was too good, too kind, too fucking decent to leave someone suffering on a bathroom floor.

“If you need medical attention-” Sam started.

“I can’t.” Jamie’s breathing was getting faster, more shallow. Panic was setting in now, real panic, because if Sam called a medic then they’d see the bruises, they’d see the damage, they’d ask questions and Jamie would have to explain that he’d let his father and his father’s mates beat the shit out of him, that he was too weak to fight back, too pathetic to defend himself. “I can’t, Sam, please, I can’t-”

The panic was spiralling now, out of control. His chest was too tight, his head was spinning, and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except sit there on this bathroom floor and fall apart.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Sam was sitting down beside him now, on the gross bathroom floor in his training kit, not touching Jamie but close enough that his presence was grounding. “It’s okay, Jamie. Just breathe with me, yeah? In and out.”

“Can’t,” Jamie gasped.

“You can,” Sam said firmly. “Look at me. Come on, look at me.”

Jamie forced his eyes up, met Sam’s gaze. Sam’s expression was calm, steady, no judgment or disappointment. Just concern and something that looked like understanding.

“Breathe in,” Sam said, demonstrating. “Count to four. One, two, three, four.”

Jamie tried. It hurt, god it hurt, but he tried.

“Good,” Sam encouraged. “Now out. One, two, three, four.”

They sat there for what felt like hours but was probably only a few minutes, Sam talking Jamie through breathing exercises until the panic started to recede, until his heart rate slowed, until he could think again.

“Better?” Sam asked finally.

“Yeah,” Jamie said quietly. “Yeah, thanks.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not really.”

“Jamie-”

“I’m fine, Sam. I just…” Jamie trailed off, not sure how to finish that sentence. Just what? Just having a panic attack on a bathroom floor? Just falling apart?

Sam was quiet for a moment, just sitting there beside him. Then he said, “You’re not fine, Jamie. And that’s okay. You don’t have to be fine all the time.”

Something about those words, about the genuine kindness in Sam’s voice, made Jamie’s throat tighten. He blinked hard, willing himself not to cry like a fucking child.

“I feel bad,” Jamie heard himself say. The words came out small, broken. “For being such a prick to everyone. Before, I mean. Before I left. I was awful to all of you, and I know that, and I’m trying to be better now, I am, but…” He shook his head. “It’s not working. Nothing’s working. They all still hate me and I don’t blame them but I don’t know what else to do.”

Sam’s expression softened. “They don’t hate you, Jamie.”

“Yes they do.” Jamie laughed, but it came out bitter. “You’ve seen how they look at me. How they talk to me. Like I’m still that same selfish twat who only cared about himself.”

“That’s because they’re scared,” Sam said. “Scared that you’ll hurt them again. Hurt the team. But that doesn’t mean they’ll never forgive you. It just means you have to give them time. Keep showing them you’ve changed. Eventually, they’ll see it.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then that’s their loss,” Sam said simply. “Because I can see you’re trying, Jamie. I’ve seen it from the first day you came back. You’re not the same person who left for Man City.”

Jamie wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that his efforts weren’t completely invisible, that someone could see he was different now. But it was hard when every day felt like pushing against a brick wall, when every attempt to connect was met with coldness and suspicion.

“Thank you,” Jamie said quietly. “For... for this. For sitting with me and not calling me pathetic or-”

“Why would I call you pathetic?” Sam looked genuinely confused. “You’re going through something, Jamie. That doesn’t make you pathetic. It makes you human.”

Human. When was the last time someone had treated Jamie like he was just human, not Jamie Tartt the footballer or Jamie Tartt the disappointment or Jamie Tartt the prick? When was the last time someone had sat with him in his worst moment and not made him feel like he was fundamentally broken?

Sam started to get up, and Jamie automatically moved to follow. The movement made him wince - a sharp, involuntary reaction to the pain in his ribs that he couldn’t quite hide.

Sam’s eyes sharpened immediately. “Jamie-”

“I’m fine,” Jamie said quickly, standing up too fast and regretting it as the bathroom tilted sideways. “Just stiff from training.”

“That wasn’t a stiff wince, Jamie. That was a hurt wince.”

But Jamie was already moving towards the door, already putting distance between them before Sam could press further. “I’m fine. We should get back before they think we’ve both fucked off.”

He was out the door before Sam could respond, moving as quickly as his damaged body would allow. His ribs were on fire, his head was pounding, but at least he could breathe again. That was something.

Chapter Text

Jamie had barely made it five steps down the corridor when a hand landed on his shoulder. He flinched - couldn’t help it - and turned to find Roy Kent standing there, with Beard and Nate flanking him.

“A word, Tartt,” Roy said. It wasn’t a request.

They led him to one of the small tactical rooms off the main corridor. Roy shut the door behind them, and suddenly the space felt very small, very claustrophobic.

“What the fuck was that?” Roy demanded. “You just walked off the pitch. In the middle of a drill.”

“I needed the bathroom-” Jamie started.

“Bullshit,” Roy cut him off. “You’re either injured or you’re not trying. Which is it?”

“I’m trying,” Jamie said. “I am, I’m just-”

“You’re just what?” Nate leaned forward. “Just tired from your late night? Just not in the mood? Just too important to bother with team training?”

“No, that’s not-”

“Then what is it, Jamie?” Beard’s voice was quieter but no less accusing. “Because from where we’re standing, it looks like you’re not putting in effort. It looks like you don’t actually want to be here.”

“I do want to be here!” Jamie’s voice rose, frustration and pain and exhaustion making him defensive. “I’m trying, I’m doing my best-”

“That’s your best?” Roy stepped closer, getting right in Jamie’s face. “That shitshow out there is your best? Because if it is, then you need to seriously reconsider your career choices.”

Jamie felt his eyes burning. He blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing him break down. But they just kept going, kept yelling, kept telling him everything he already knew - that he wasn’t good enough, wasn’t trying hard enough, wasn’t worth the effort they were putting into him.

Soft. Weak. Pathetic. Nothing.

“You listening to me, Tartt?” Roy’s face was inches from his now, and Jamie could see every line of disappointment etched into his features. “Because I’m not going to keep wasting my time on someone who doesn’t give a shit.”

“I do give a shit,” Jamie said, but his voice came out small, broken. “I do.”

“Then prove it,” Roy said. “Get back out there and show us you actually want to be part of this team.”

Jamie had thought - had hoped - that they’d send him home. Tell him to get his act together, come back tomorrow, take a day to sort himself out. But no. They were sending him back out to train more, to push through, to keep going even though he felt like his body was literally breaking down.

“Yes, Coach,” Jamie said, blinking hard against the sting in his eyes.

Roy stepped back, and Jamie took that as his dismissal. He left the room, walked back down the corridor, emerged onto the pitch where the team was still running drills. Everyone looked at him. Everyone saw him coming back from getting chewed out by the coaches.

“Tartt!” Roy’s voice carried across the pitch. “Join the shooting drill. And actually try this time.”

Jamie jogged over to where Isaac, Colin, and a few others were taking turns shooting on goal. Each shot jarred his ribs, but he kept his face neutral, kept his movements as smooth as possible.

“About time,” Isaac muttered to Colin as Jamie joined the line.

The drill was simple: receive a pass, take a touch, shoot. Basic stuff. Jamie had been doing this since he was six years old. He should be able to do this in his sleep.

But when his turn came and Sam sent him the pass, Jamie’s first touch was heavy. His second was worse. And his shot went wide, missing the goal entirely.

“Come on, Jamie!” Nate called from the sideline. “Focus!”

They ran it again. This time Jamie’s shot was on target but weak, easily saved by the keeper. Again and again and again, each attempt worse than the last because he couldn’t rotate his torso properly, couldn’t generate power, couldn’t do anything except go through the motions and hope nobody noticed how wrong everything was.

“Right, new drill,” Roy announced after Jamie had missed his fifth shot in a row. “Tartt, you’re doing one-on-ones with Isaac. Everyone else, water break.”

Oh fuck.

One-on-ones with Isaac meant defending, meant physical contact, meant Isaac running straight at him with the ball. And Isaac didn’t pull punches - not with Jamie, not after everything that had happened between them.

“Coach, I-” Jamie started.

“Now, Tartt.”

Jamie took his position. Isaac stood twenty yards away with the ball, a determined look on his face. The whistle blew, and Isaac charged.

Jamie tried to defend properly, tried to get into position, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Isaac easily got around him, shouldered him aside - just a normal amount of contact, nothing aggressive - and Jamie felt his ribs shift again. He went down on one knee, catching himself on his hands, fighting to not double over completely.

“Get up,” Roy ordered. “Again.”

They ran it again. And again. And again. Each time, Isaac got past him. Each time, Jamie’s defence was slower, weaker, more pathetic. His ribs were screaming, his head was spinning, and he was pretty sure he could taste blood in his mouth now.

The rest of the team finished their drills. Ted started sending people to shower, telling them good work, see you tomorrow. One by one, they filtered off the pitch, heading inside. But not Jamie.

“Tartt, stay,” Roy said. “You’re not done.”

Jamie stood there on the pitch, alone except for Roy, as the last of his teammates disappeared inside. The grey sky seemed to press down on him, heavy and oppressive. His legs were shaking, his whole body was shaking, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep standing.

Roy walked over to him slowly, deliberately. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t softer - if anything, it had gotten harder, sharper.

“You know what your problem is?” Roy didn’t wait for an answer. “You think everything’s about you. Always have. You come back here expecting everyone to just forget what a selfish prick you were, expecting us all to welcome you with open arms because you’ve decided you’re sorry now.”

Jamie’s throat tightened. He kept his eyes on the grass, couldn’t look at Roy’s face.

“But that’s not how it works,” Roy continued. “You don’t get to waltz back in and have everything be fine just because you want it to be. You burned every bridge here when you left. You treated your teammates like shit, you abandoned them when they needed you, and now you’re surprised that they don’t trust you?”

“I know,” Jamie said quietly. “I know I fucked up-”

“Do you?” Roy stepped closer. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re still the same Jamie Tartt. Still making excuses, still half-arsing it through training, still thinking the rules don’t apply to you.”

“That’s not-”

“You remember the first time we met?” Roy asked, and there was something bitter in his voice now. “When you were first transferred to Richmond? Young, cocky, thought you were god’s gift to football.”

Jamie did remember. He remembered it vividly - the anxiety filled morning of waking up in a new city, of not knowing anyone there. Walking into the training ground for the first time, seeing Roy fucking Kent in the flesh, his hero, his idol. He’d been so excited he could barely breathe.

“Even then,” Roy said, “you were a prick. Strutting around like you owned the place, talking shit to players who’d been there for years, acting like you were better than everyone else.”

“I was excited!” The words burst out of Jamie before he could stop them. “I was excited to meet you, yeah? You were Roy Kent. I’d watched you play since I was a kid, I had your poster on my wall, I thought you were-” His voice cracked. “I thought you were so tough. And I thought that maybe, if I could just be strong like you, then my dad wouldn’t have to beat me silly to drill his lessons into my head. I looked up to you so much Roy, and then you didn’t give two shits about me. You looked at me like I was nothing, and that reinforced everything I’d been taught my whole life. So yeah, I acted like a prick. I thought if I couldn’t get you to like me, at least I could get you to notice me.”

The admission hung in the air between them. Jamie’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his nails digging into his palms through the tape around his wrists.

And suddenly, unbidden, a memory crashed over him - twelve years old, sitting in his bedroom, looking up at the poster of Roy Kent on his wall. Roy standing in his kit, fierce and powerful and everything Jamie wanted to be. A bruise was blooming on Jamie’s face from where his dad had backhanded him earlier, and his ribs had hurt from the kicks, and he’d sat there staring at that poster thinking if Roy Kent was here, he’d protect me. If Roy Kent was here, I’d be safe.

The thought hit him like a physical blow, and suddenly Jamie couldn’t breathe again. Couldn’t stop the tears that were suddenly burning in his eyes, couldn’t hold back the sob that wanted to escape his throat.

“Fuck,” he gasped out, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I-”

But the tears were already falling. Silent at first, then coming harder, his shoulders shaking with the force of trying to hold them back. He was crying on the fucking training pitch, in front of Roy Kent, and he couldn’t stop, couldn’t control it, couldn’t do anything except stand there and fall apart.

“Jamie-” Roy’s voice had changed completely, all the anger gone, replaced by something that sounded like alarm. “Shit. Okay. Come on.”

Roy’s hand landed on his shoulder - gentle, careful - and guided him towards the bench on the sideline. Jamie let himself be led, let Roy sit him down, because his legs were shaking too badly to hold him up anymore anyway.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie choked out between sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry-”

“Shh, it’s alright,” Roy said, and he was sitting beside Jamie now, close but not touching except for that hand still on his shoulder. “Just breathe, yeah? Just breathe.”

But Jamie couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t do anything except cry like a child, all the pain and fear and exhaustion of the last few days - the last few years - pouring out of him in ugly, broken sobs that he couldn’t contain.

He’d looked up to Roy Kent. Had wanted to be like him, strong and fierce and unbreakable. Had wanted Roy to protect him from his dad, to save him, to make everything okay. And instead, Roy had barely looked at him. Had treated him like he was nothing special, just another cocky kid with delusions of grandeur.

So Jamie had made himself impossible to ignore. Had been louder, cockier, more obnoxious. Had pushed and pushed until Roy had no choice but to notice him, even if that notice came with irritation and disdain.

And now here he was, crying on a bench while Roy Kent sat beside him, probably thinking he was pathetic, probably regretting ever letting him come back to Richmond.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie said again, his voice broken and small. “I’m sorry for making a scene, I just- I can’t-”

“You’ve got nothing to apologise for,” Roy said firmly. “Whatever’s going on with you, whatever you’re dealing with, you don’t have to apologise for having feelings about it.”

Jamie shook his head, trying to pull himself together, trying to stop the tears. But they kept coming, kept falling, kept betraying how not-okay he really was.

“Come on,” Roy said, standing up. “I’m taking you back to mine. You can-”

“No.” Jamie was on his feet before Roy finished the sentence, stumbling back a step, putting distance between them. “No, I’m fine, I just- I need to go.”

“Jamie, you’re clearly not-”

“I’m fine!” Jamie’s voice came out too loud, too sharp. He wiped at his face with his sleeve, smearing tears and probably making himself look even more pathetic. “I’m sorry for... for all of this. For being shit at training, for crying like a fucking baby, for- for everything. I’ll do better. I promise, I’ll do better.”

“That’s not-” Roy started, reaching out.

But Jamie was already moving, already backing away, already running like he always did when things got too real, too close, too dangerous. His ribs screamed in protest, his head spun, but he kept going, kept putting distance between himself and Roy’s concern, because he couldn’t handle this. Couldn’t handle kindness or caring or anyone trying to help him.

“Jamie!” Roy called after him, but Jamie didn’t stop.

He ran across the pitch, towards the building, towards anywhere that wasn’t here. Away from Roy’s worried eyes and gentle voice, away from the bench where he’d broken down like a child, away from the training ground where everyone would know by tomorrow that Jamie Tartt had cried in front of a coach.

His car keys were still in his bag in the locker room. He’d have to go back for them eventually, but not now. Not when his face was red and tear-stained, not when he could barely see through the blur in his eyes, not when everything inside him was screaming to just run.

So he did. He ran until his ribs felt like they were tearing apart, until his lungs burned, until he couldn’t run anymore and he ended up collapsed in some spare room, hidden from view, trying desperately to remember how to breathe.

And all he could think about was that poster on his wall. Roy Kent, fierce and strong and everything Jamie had wanted to be. Everything Jamie had needed when his dad’s fists were flying and there was no one to protect him.

Roy Kent, who’d just tried to help him, and Jamie had run away.

Because that’s what he did. That’s what he’d always done.

He ran.

Chapter Text

Roy stood on the empty pitch, staring at the spot where Jamie had disappeared around the corner of the building. Every instinct he’d honed over decades of football - of reading players, understanding body language, recognising when someone was hurt - was screaming at him that something was very, very wrong.

He couldn’t just let Jamie leave like that. Not in that state. Not when the kid had been crying like his heart was breaking, not when he’d looked so fucking terrified when Roy had offered help.

Roy headed inside, his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. The training ground was quiet now - everyone else had gone home, showered and changed and off to their lives. But Jamie’s stuff was still in his locker, Roy had noticed. Which meant he was still here somewhere.

He checked the bathroom first. Empty. Then the medical room. Also empty. The coaches’ offices, the kitchen, even Ted’s office. Nothing.

Roy was starting to worry that Jamie had somehow managed to leave without his things when he heard it - a sound coming from one of the spare rooms. Quiet, muffled, but unmistakable.

Someone crying.

Roy pushed open the door slowly, carefully. And there, on the floor between the benches, sat Jamie Tartt. Knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, his whole body shaking with silent sobs.

He looked so fucking small. So young. Nothing like the cocky, arrogant footballer who’d swaggered around this place before.

Roy moved closer, and Jamie’s head snapped up. His eyes were red and swollen, his face blotchy and tear-stained. And when he saw Roy, he flinched - an actual, visible flinch, like he expected Roy to hit him.

That flinch sent something cold straight through Roy’s chest.

“It’s alright,” Roy said quietly, lowering himself to sit on the floor beside Jamie - not too close, giving him space. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Jamie immediately started wiping at his eyes with his sleeves, trying to compose himself even though it was pointless. “I’m fine,” he said automatically, his voice thick and broken. “Just needed a minute.”

“Jamie-”

“I’m fine,” Jamie repeated, more insistent this time.

Roy took a breath. This conversation was going to be difficult, but it needed to happen. “I need to apologise to you,” he said. “For how I treated you when you first came here.”

Jamie’s hands stilled on his face. He looked at Roy with something like confusion.

“You were excited to meet me,” Roy continued. “And I was a miserable bastard who couldn’t see past my own shit to realise that you were just someone who needed... I don’t know. Guidance. Support. Something other than the cold shoulder I gave you.” He paused. “I’m sorry for that.”

“You don’t have to-” Jamie started.

“And I’m sorry,” Roy said, his voice harder now, “for whatever your dad did to you when you were younger. No kid should have to deal with that.”

Jamie’s expression changed instantly, closing off. He shook his head sharply. “No. No, you don’t- I deserved it. I was a shit kid, I was difficult, I-”

“Stop,” Roy said firmly. “You didn’t deserve it.”

“You don’t know that,” Jamie said, his voice rising slightly. “You weren’t there. I was awful. I talked back, I didn’t listen, I-” He was spiralling now, listing reasons why his father had been justified in hurting him. “When my dad gave me those lessons, it was for my own good. To make me better. To make me tougher. Because the world’s harsh and I needed to be ready for it.”

“That’s bullshit,” Roy said, and Jamie flinched again at the harshness in his voice. Roy immediately softened his tone. “Jamie, listen to me. There is no excuse - none - to ever hit a child. Ever. I don’t care what you did or didn’t do. You were a kid. Kids make mistakes. That doesn’t give anyone the right to hurt them.”

Jamie was shaking his head, not meeting Roy’s eyes. “You don’t understand-”

“My sister,” Roy said abruptly. “Ruth. She was married to this wanker. He hit her. Made her feel like it was her fault, like she deserved it because she’d burnt dinner or talked too long on the phone or even looked at him the wrong way.” Roy’s jaw clenched at the memory. “Did she deserve that?”

“No,” Jamie said immediately. “No, of course not. Ruth’s probably lovely, so it was his fault, not-”

“Exactly,” Roy cut in. “It was his fault. Not hers. And the same goes for you, Jamie. Whatever your dad did to you - it wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault.”

Jamie was quiet for a long moment, his breathing uneven. Then he nodded, a small movement that looked more like he was trying to appease Roy than actual agreement.

Roy could see it - could see that Jamie didn’t believe him. Could see years of conditioning and abuse that had convinced this kid that he deserved every hit, every insult, every “lesson” his father had given him. And Roy’s heart fucking broke for him.

“Come back to mine,” Roy said. “Just for tonight. Get some rest, have a proper meal, and we can figure things out tomorrow.”

For a second, Roy thought Jamie might actually agree. There was something in his expression - longing, maybe, or desperation. Like he wanted nothing more than to let someone take care of him for once.

But then Jamie’s face hardened. “It’s alright,” he said. “I can manage on my own. Don’t need to be soft about it.”

“Asking for help isn’t being soft-”

“I said it’s alright.” Jamie’s voice had gone flat, defensive.

Roy sighed, recognising a brick wall when he saw one. “Okay,” he said. “But if you need anything-”

He reached out to pat Jamie on the back - just a friendly gesture, nothing more - and his hand landed on what should have been a neutral spot on Jamie’s upper back.

Jamie let out a sharp cry of pain, his whole body jerking away from the touch.

Roy’s hand froze mid-air. “What the fuck-”

“I’m fine,” Jamie gasped out, but his face had gone pale, his breathing shallow.

“You’re not fine,” Roy said, his voice harder now. “Jamie, what happened?”

“Nothing. I just- I slept wrong, and-”

“Bullshit.” Roy moved to kneel in front of Jamie, blocking his escape route. “You’ve been off for two days. You can barely move without wincing. You just cried out from me barely touching your back. Something’s wrong, and you’re going to tell me what it is.”

“I can’t,” Jamie said, and there were tears in his eyes again. “Just leave it alone, Roy. Please.”

“Take off your shirt,” Roy said, needing to confirm his theory.

Jamie’s eyes went wide. “What? No-”

“Take off your shirt,” Roy repeated. “I need to see what we’re dealing with here.”

“Roy, please-”

“Now, Jamie.”

If Jamie had been in any better state - if he hadn’t just run himself into the ground during training, if he hadn’t been physically and emotionally depleted - he probably would have run again. But the exhaustion from training had kicked in, and he didn’t have it in him to fight. Not physically, anyway.

“Please, no,” Jamie said, his voice small and broken. “Please, Roy, don’t make me-”

But Roy didn’t give in. Couldn’t give in, not when every instinct was telling him that Jamie was hurt and trying to hide it.

Jamie’s expression changed then. Something shifted behind his eyes - calculation, desperation. And when he spoke, his voice was cold in a way Roy had never heard from him before.

“What, you need to see me at my worst to feel in control again?” Jamie said, each word precise and cutting. “Can’t play football anymore cause your knee’s all fucked, so you’ve got to get your kicks by ordering around players who actually can?”

Roy felt like he’d been punched. The words hit him right where they were meant to - right in his deepest insecurity, the wound that had never quite healed after his knee had given out and ended his playing career.

“That’s low,” Roy said, his voice dangerously quiet.

“Yeah, well, maybe if you weren’t such a has-been trying to relive his glory days through other people, you’d-”

“Enough.” Roy stood up abruptly. “You want to push me away? Fine. You’ve done it. Congratulations.”

Jamie’s face was set in hard lines, but Roy could see the fear underneath. The desperation. The kid was terrified, and he was lashing out like a cornered animal.

But Roy was too angry to be sympathetic right now. Too hurt by words that had been designed specifically to hurt him.

“You know what?” Roy said. “Figure it out yourself. Clearly you don’t want my help, so I’m not going to force it on you. Find your own way home.”

He turned and walked towards the door, his footsteps heavy on the changing room floor. Every step felt wrong - felt like abandoning someone who needed help - but Jamie had made it perfectly clear he didn’t want Roy’s concern.

“Roy-” Jamie’s voice came from behind him, helpless and broken.

But Roy didn’t stop. Didn’t turn around. He walked out of the changing room, down the corridor, out to the car park where his car was waiting.

He sat in the driver’s seat for a long moment, his hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to calm down. Trying to figure out what the fuck had just happened.

Jamie had deliberately pushed him away. Had said things specifically designed to hurt Roy, to make him angry enough to leave. Which meant Jamie was hiding something bad.

Something he thought was worse than being alone and hurt.

Roy should go back in there. Should ignore the hurtful words and help anyway, because that’s what you did when someone was in trouble.

But his pride was wounded, and his knee was aching from sitting on the floor, and he was so fucking angry at Jamie for not just accepting help when it was offered, even when that was the same thing Ruth had done with her abuser.

Jamie's words about his dad replayed in Roy’s mind.

It was for my own good. I deserved it.

But Roy shoved those thoughts away. Choosing instead to start his car and drive home, telling himself that Jamie was an adult who could make his own decisions. That if he didn’t want help, Roy couldn’t force it on him.

But the image of Jamie’s face - pale and tear-stained and terrified - stayed with him the whole drive home.

***

Back in the changing room, Jamie sat alone on the floor, his whole body shaking.

He’d done it. He’d pushed Roy away, just like he always did when people got too close. When they started to care, started to see past the walls he’d built.

He’d said horrible things. Things he didn’t even mean. Just to make Roy angry enough to leave before he could see the bruises, before he could find out the truth, before he could look at Jamie with that inevitable disappointment and disgust.

Jamie pulled his knees back up to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and let himself cry again. Because that’s all he seemed capable of doing lately - crying like a fucking child while his whole life fell apart around him.

His ribs screamed with every sob. His back ached where Roy’s hand had touched the bruises his dad had left. His wrists throbbed under their tape. And his heart hurt in a way that had nothing to do with physical injuries.

He’d had a chance. Roy had been trying to help him, trying to show he cared, and Jamie had thrown it back in his face with the cruelest words he could think of.

Because that’s what Jamie Tartt did. He ruined everything good in his life before it could ruin him first.

His phone buzzed in his pocket - probably Sam, or maybe Keeley checking in. But Jamie didn’t have the energy to look at it. Didn’t have the energy to do anything except sit here on this cold floor and wish he was someone different. Someone who could accept help without panicking. Someone whose father hadn’t systematically destroyed his ability to trust that anyone could care about him without wanting something in return. Someone who wasn’t so fundamentally broken that he drove away the one person who’d actually tried to help.

Eventually, Jamie forced himself to stand. His legs were shaky, his whole body protesting the movement. He grabbed his bag from his locker, didn’t bother showering or changing, and made his way out to the car park.

Roy’s car was gone. Of course it was. Why would he stay?

Jamie got in his own car and sat there trying to figure out what to do next.

He had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. Nothing except his car and the clothes on his back and the pain that was his constant companion.

Chapter Text

Jamie sat in his car in the empty car park, his hands trembling on the steering wheel. He’d cried so much in the past two days that he felt hollowed out, empty, like there was nothing left inside him except pain and exhaustion.

Training had completely fucked over his ribs. He could feel it - something was definitely worse now, something had shifted or cracked further when Isaac had slammed into him. Every breath was agony, every tiny movement sent shockwaves through his torso. And his head was still pounding, that same concussed feeling that made everything slightly unreal, slightly disconnected.

He needed to get home. Needed to lie down before he passed out. But when he tried to put the key in the ignition, his hands were shaking so badly he dropped it. Tried again, managed to get it in, but when he gripped the wheel and tried to focus on the road ahead, everything swam sickeningly.

He couldn’t drive. Not like this. Not when his vision was blurry and his reactions were shot and he could barely sit upright without wanting to scream.

But he couldn’t leave his car here overnight. Someone would notice, would ask questions. And he couldn’t call a taxi because then how would he get his car back? And he couldn’t call Sam or Keeley because they’d want to help and he’d already burned that bridge with Roy and-

There was only one person Jamie could call. One person who wouldn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer, who wouldn’t try to take him to hospital or make him talk about his feelings.

One person who’d caused half his problems but who would at least understand why Jamie needed to hide them.

Jamie pulled out his phone with shaking hands and clicked on his dad’s number. It rang three times before he answered.

“Jamie,” his dad’s voice was gruff, slightly slurred. He’d been drinking. Of course he had. “What do you want?” Jamie hoped his dad hadn’t fucked off back to Manchester yet.

“I need-” Jamie’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, tried again. “I need a ride. From the training ground. Can you get a taxi here and then drive my car back to mine?”

There was a pause. Then his dad laughed, that mean, mocking sound Jamie knew so well. “You’re fucking joking. You want me to come get you because you can’t handle driving yourself home?”

“Please,” Jamie hated how small his voice sounded. “I just- I can’t drive right now. Please, Dad.”

Another pause, longer this time. Jamie could hear voices in the background - Denbo and Bug who were probably still at his house, still drinking his beer and destroying what was left of his life.

“Fine,” his dad said finally. “But you’re paying for the fucking taxi. And you better not waste my time, boy.”

The line went dead before anything else could be said.

Jamie sat there for another twenty minutes, watching the sky grow darker, until his dad’s taxi pulled into the car park. James Tartt Sr. got out, paid the driver - Jamie would hear about that cost later - and walked over to Jamie’s car.

“Move over,” his dad ordered, yanking open the driver’s side door. “I’m driving.”

Jamie unbuckled and shifted to the passenger seat, every movement pure torture. His dad got in, adjusted the seat and mirrors with aggressive movements that made it clear how annoyed he was, and started the car.

They’d barely made it out of the car park before the verbal assault began.

“You’re pathetic, you know that?” his dad said, not looking at Jamie, eyes focused on the road. “Can’t even drive yourself home. What kind of professional footballer can’t handle a bit of training?”

“I’m just tired-”

“You’re always tired. Always making excuses. That’s why City didn’t want you. That’s why you’re back at this shit club with these shit players.”

Jamie kept his eyes on the road ahead, tried to tune it out. He’d heard it all before. Had been hearing variations of these same insults his entire life.

“You think Roy Kent gives a shit about you?” his dad continued. “You think any of them do? They’re just using you, Jamie. Soon as you stop being useful, they’ll toss you aside like the trash you are.”

“Dad, please-”

“Please what?” They’d stopped at a red light and his dad’s hand shot out - a fake punch that stopped just short of Jamie’s face. Jamie flinched hard, couldn’t help it, and his dad laughed. “Look at you. Fucking pathetic.”

He did it again a few minutes later, and again after that. Each time, Jamie flinched. Each time, his dad laughed. Each time, Jamie felt a little more of himself crumble away.

***

They made it back to Jamie’s house in one piece, though Jamie wasn’t quite sure how given the way his dad was driving - too fast, too aggressive, swerving slightly like he was drunker than Jamie had realised.

When they pulled up, Jamie could see lights on inside. Denbo’s car that Jamie had given him the money for was still parked in the driveway.

“I’m not-” Jamie started. “Can you just drop me off? I don’t want to go in there.”

“Don’t be a baby,” his dad said, already getting out of the car. “Come on.”

Jamie’s options were to sit in the car all night or go inside. Neither was appealing, but at least inside he could lie down. Could close his eyes for a bit before figuring out what to do next.

He followed his dad inside, moving slowly, carefully. The house looked even worse than he remembered. More broken glass, more overturned furniture. Someone had put their fist through the wall in the hallway. Someone else had spilled beer all over his couch.

Bug and Denbo were sprawled in his living room, watching football on his TV. A Man City match - they were playing Arsenal, currently winning 2-1.

“Oi, look who’s here!” Denbo called out when he saw Jamie. “The prodigal son returns!”

“Sit down,” his dad ordered, shoving Jamie towards the couch. “Watch the match.”

Jamie sat, because what else could he do? His body was screaming at him to lie down, to sleep, to stop moving. But his dad was glaring at him, and Denbo and Bug were watching, and Jamie knew better than to show weakness in front of them.

The match continued. City was playing well - better than Richmond, better than Jamie had played for Richmond. Every good pass, every clever run, every shot on goal felt like a personal indictment.

“See that?” his dad said when City scored again. “That’s what real footballers look like. Not like the shit you’ve been playing.”

“Dad-”

“That should be you out there,” his dad continued. “If you weren’t such a fucking disappointment. If you’d been good enough, they’d have kept you.”

Jamie’s eyes were drooping. The exhaustion was overwhelming, pulling him under. Maybe if he just closed his eyes for a minute-

“And City won when?” his dad was saying. “When you left. Coincidence? I don’t think so. They lost because you weren’t good enough to help them. Lost because you’re mediocre at best, weighing them down.”

Jamie tried to focus on the screen, but everything was blurring together. His head was so heavy, his body so tired. He was about to doze off when his dad’s voice cut through the fog.

“Your mum was always weak like you,” his dad said, almost conversationally. “Must’ve gotten it from her side of the family. All soft, all emotional. No backbone.”

That woke Jamie up. His eyes snapped open, and he turned to look at his dad. “Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t talk about Mum.”

His dad raised an eyebrow. “What, you going to defend her now? The woman who didn’t love you? Who left you with me because she couldn’t handle being a proper mother?”

“That’s not- she didn’t want to be away so much,” Jamie said, his voice harder now. “She just had to work a lot to support us. Not that you helped…”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” His dad laughed. “Not the fact that she was a useless, frigid bitch who-”

“Don’t fucking say that about her!” Jamie was on his feet now, adrenaline cutting through the exhaustion. “Not while I’m here. You want to talk shit about me, fine, but leave her out of it.”

His dad stood up too, and suddenly Bug and Denbo were standing as well, surrounding him. Three against one. Just like the other night.

“What are you going to do about it?” his dad asked, stepping closer. “Hm? What’s little Jamie going to do?”

“Get out,” Jamie said, talking to the three of them. “All of you. Get the fuck out of my house.”

They laughed. All three of them laughed, that same mocking sound Jamie remembered from when he was younger, when he’d try to stand up for himself and they’d just laugh and laugh until he gave up.

“Make us,” Bug said.

And suddenly they were advancing on him, backing him up against the wall. Jamie tried to push past them, tried to get away, but Denbo grabbed him and shoved him back down onto the couch.

“Nah, I don’t think we’re done here yet,” Denbo said.

Jamie tried to stand again, but Bug’s hand was on his shoulder, pushing him down. He was trapped, pinned, and his battered body didn’t have the strength to fight back.

What use was being an athlete when you were outnumbered? When you were already injured and exhausted and concussed? When the people attacking you had decades of practice in knowing exactly how to hurt you?

His dad’s fist caught him in the jaw - not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough to snap his head to the side, hard enough that Jamie tasted blood. Then Bug was kicking at his ribs, and Jamie curled in on himself instinctively, trying to protect the already broken bones that were screaming in protest.

“Pathetic,” his dad spat. “Can’t even defend yourself.”

Jamie tried to get away, tried to get to his feet, but Denbo grabbed him and shoved him back down. His head hit the floor hard, sending stars across his vision.

Then Bug and Denbo were holding him down - one on each arm, pinning him to the floor like they had in the kitchen. Jamie thrashed and kicked, tried to break free, but he was too weak, too hurt, too exhausted.

“Please,” he heard himself say. “Please, stop-”

But his dad was kneeling beside him now, and he had Jamie’s right wrist in his hands - his right wrist, his dominant hand, the one he needed for everything.

“This is for talking back,” his dad said. “For being disrespectful. For thinking you’re better than me.”

And then he twisted.

Jamie felt it happen - felt his radius and ulna spiral around each other, felt the bone give way with a sickening crack that he both heard and felt. The pain was indescribable, white-hot and all-consuming, radiating up his entire arm and exploding in his brain.

He screamed. Couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop it. Screamed until his throat was raw, until black spots danced across his vision, until the pain and the exhaustion and the head trauma all combined to drag him down into unconsciousness.

***

When Jamie woke up, he was still on the floor.

His body was one giant scream of agony - his ribs, his head, his jaw where his dad had punched him, and his wrist. Oh god, his wrist. He could feel it throbbing in time with his heartbeat, hot and swollen and wrong.

Jamie blinked slowly, trying to orient himself. He was still in his living room. The TV was still on - different match now, different teams. Bug and Denbo were still on his couch, beers in hand like nothing had happened. His dad was in the armchair, feet up, watching the screen.

It was dark outside. How long had he been unconscious?

Jamie tried to sit up, and the movement sent such a violent wave of pain through his wrist that he nearly passed out again. He bit back a cry, didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing how much he was hurting.

“Stop being such a bitch,” his dad said without looking at him. “It’s just a sprain.”

It wasn’t just a sprain. Jamie had broken enough bones in his lifetime to know the difference. This was broken. Badly broken.

He needed his phone. Needed to see what time it was, needed to figure out how long he’d been out. Jamie fumbled in his pocket with his left hand - his right arm was useless, hanging at an odd angle that made him want to vomit - and pulled out his phone.

The screen was cracked. Must have happened when he fell, when he was pushed. But it still worked, lighting up and causing his head to ache.

Missed calls from Sam. From Keeley. From Ted. From Roy - five missed calls from Roy.

And the date.

Jamie stared at the date, not understanding at first. Then it clicked, and his stomach dropped.

He’d been unconscious for a whole day. It was evening now - evening of the day after the day he’d last been conscious. He’d missed training. Had missed an entire day of training without calling in, without explaining, without anything.

They were going to kill him. Isaac was going to kill him. Roy was going to kill him. He’d just proven everything they thought about him - that he was unreliable, that he didn’t care, that he was still the same selfish prick who-

His phone started ringing in his hand, and Jamie nearly dropped it. Roy’s name flashed on the screen.

“Fuck,” Jamie whispered. His heart was racing, panic flooding through him. Roy was calling him. Roy was calling him, which meant Roy was angry, which meant Roy had probably realised Jamie had deliberately hurt him yesterday, which meant-

There was aggressive knocking on his front door. Loud, insistent, demanding.

Jamie looked at his phone, then at the door, then back at his phone. Roy was calling and someone was at his door and-

Oh god. Roy was at his door.

Roy had come here, to his house, to his destroyed house with his dad and Denbo and Bug still here, to probably scream at him for missing training and for saying those horrible things and to kick him off the team because Jamie had finally pushed too far and-

“Someone going to get that?” Bug asked lazily from the couch.

Jamie tried to stand, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His legs were shaking too badly, his broken wrist was cradled against his chest, and everything hurt so much he could barely think.

The knocking came again, louder this time.

“Jamie!” Roy’s voice came through the door. “I know you’re in there! Open the fucking door!”

His dad smirked at him with cold eyes. “Better answer that,” he said. “Before your coach breaks down the door.”

Jamie finally managed to get to his feet, swaying dangerously. He had to answer it. Had to face Roy, face the consequences of everything he’d done and everything he’d failed to do.

Had to open that door and let Roy see the disaster his life had become.

His broken wrist throbbed with every step towards the door. His ribs screamed. His jaw ached where his dad had punched it - there was probably a bruise already there, visible for everyone to see.

The knocking came again.

Jamie reached for the door handle with his left hand, his broken right arm hanging useless at his side.

This was it. The end of everything. Roy would see the state of him, would see his dad and his dad’s mates, would realise what a complete fucking mess Jamie was, and that would be it. No more second chances. No more Richmond. No more football.

Jamie’s hand closed around the door handle.

He took a breath - as deep as his broken ribs would allow - and opened the door.

Chapter Text

Jamie managed to get the door open - just enough to see out, not enough for Roy to see in.

He positioned himself half-behind the door, using it as a shield to hide as much of himself as possible.

Roy stood on his doorstep, and he looked furious. His jaw was clenched, his eyes hard, his whole body radiating anger.

“Where the fuck were you today?” Roy demanded before Jamie could even open his mouth. “You missed training. Didn’t call, didn’t text, nothing. Just completely disappeared.”

“I-” Jamie’s voice came out rough, damaged. He cleared his throat, tried again. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Sorry?” Roy’s voice rose. “After that shit you said to me yesterday? After pushing me away like that? And now you just don’t show up? What the fuck, Jamie?”

Jamie didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to explain that he’d been unconscious on his living room floor for a day, that his dad had broken his wrist, that he literally couldn’t have come to training even if he’d wanted to.

From inside the house, the sound of the TV drifted out - commentary from whatever match James, Denbo, and Bug were watching.

Roy’s expression darkened even further. “Are you fucking serious right now? You missed training to sit at home and watch football?”

“No,” Jamie said quickly, shaking his head which sent him a wave of nausea. “No, it’s not- I wasn’t-”

But Roy was already moving forward, trying to step inside, and Jamie panicked. He couldn’t let Roy see. Couldn’t let him see the state of the house, couldn’t let him see his dad and Denbo and Bug still lounging on his couch like they owned the place.

Jamie put his right hand up to push Roy back - instinctive, automatic - and the movement sent such blinding pain through his broken wrist that he cried out, his knees nearly buckling.

And in that moment of weakness, Roy pushed past him into the house.

“Jamie, what-” Roy stopped dead in the hallway, taking it all in.

The broken glass still scattered across the floor. The overturned furniture. The hole in the wall. The general destruction that Jamie’s house had been undergoing for days now.

Then Roy’s eyes landed on the living room, on the three men sprawled on Jamie’s couch and chair, surrounded by empty beer bottles, watching Jamie’s TV like they had every right to be there.

James looked up when Roy entered, a smirk spreading across his face. “Well, well. Roy Kent. In the flesh. Jamie, you didn’t tell me we’d have such distinguished company.”

Roy ignored him completely, turning back to Jamie instead. And Jamie watched as Roy’s eyes travelled over him - really looked at him for the first time since entering.

The bruise on his jaw, dark purple and obvious, from where his dad had punched him. The bruises on his arms, visible now because Jamie’s sleeves had ridden up. His right wrist, swollen and bent at an angle that wrists shouldn’t bend, cradled protectively against his chest.

Roy’s expression changed. The anger drained away, replaced by something else - horror, maybe, or realisation.

“Jamie,” Roy said, his voice completely different now. Soft. Careful. “What happened to your wrist?”

Jamie opened his mouth but no words came out. He could feel tears forming in his eyes, could feel everything he’d been holding together starting to crumble again.

Because Roy was looking at him with concern now, not anger. And that was so much worse. That meant Roy saw, really saw, and he was going to ask questions and Jamie was going to have to explain that he’d let this happen, that he’d been too weak to stop it, that he deserved every bit of it for being such a disappointment-

“He’s fine,” Jamie’s dad said from the living room. “Just being a dramatic little bitch. It’s hardly a sprain.”

Roy’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from Jamie. “Jamie. Did they do this to you?”

The tears were falling now, and Jamie couldn’t stop them. He nodded - just a tiny movement, but it was enough.

And Roy’s expression shifted into something Jamie had never seen before. Not anger, exactly, but a cold, controlled fury that was somehow more terrifying than rage.

“Right,” Roy said quietly. He looked at Jamie’s dad, at Denbo and Bug. “Get out. All of you. Now.”

“This is my son’s house-” Jamie’s dad started.

“I don’t give a fuck.” Roy said, his voice deadly calm. “You’re leaving. Now. And if I ever see any of you near Jamie again, I’ll make sure you fucking regret it.”

There was something in Roy’s voice - some promise of violence, of consequences - that made even Jamie’s dad hesitate. He looked at Jamie, then back at Roy, then slowly stood up.

“Come on, lads,” he said to Denbo and Bug. “Let’s leave the professionals to their little chat.”

They filed out, Denbo and Bug snickering to each other, his dad pausing at the door to look back at Jamie. “You’re going soft, boy. Just like I always said. Needing your coach to defend you against scary, old dad now. Fucking pussy.”

Then they were gone, and it was just Jamie and Roy standing in the destroyed hallway.

Jamie was shaking now, full-body tremors that he couldn’t control. The tears were still falling, and there was something in Roy’s eyes - something like understanding, like he’d finally put all the pieces together - that made Jamie want to collapse.

“You think you deserve this,” Roy said softly. It wasn’t a question. “All of this. You think you deserve to be hurt.”

Jamie couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe. But Roy must have seen the answer in his face, because he made a sound that was almost a growl.

“Come on,” Roy said gently, moving towards Jamie. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“No, I-”

“That wrist is broken, Jamie. Badly broken. And god knows what else they did to you. We’re going to the hospital, and that’s not up for debate.”

Roy’s hand landed on Jamie’s shoulder - his left shoulder, carefully avoiding anywhere that might hurt - and guided him towards the door. Jamie let himself be led because he didn’t have the energy to fight anymore, didn’t have the strength to keep pretending everything was fine.

He didn’t have a jacket. Didn't have shoes on, just stepped outside in socked feet. Jamie was in the training kit he’d been wearing for two days, stained with sweat and blood and god knows what else. But Roy didn’t comment on it, just guided him carefully to the car and helped him into the passenger seat.

The drive to the hospital was silent. Jamie kept his eyes on his lap, on his broken wrist that was throbbing with every heartbeat and bump in the road, as he tried not to think about what came next. The questions they’d ask. The forms he’d have to fill out. The looks he’d get when they realised what had happened.

What he’d let happen.

***

The hospital was bright and sterile and overwhelming. Roy stayed with him through all of it - through the triage, through the X-rays, through the doctor’s examination that revealed the full extent of the damage.

Spiral fracture of the radius and ulna in his right wrist. Three broken ribs on his left side, two cracked on his right. A clear concussion. Extensive bruising across his torso, back, and face.

Dr. Ashton - a middle-aged woman with kind eyes - asked the question Jamie had been dreading: “How did this happen?”

Jamie opened his mouth, the lies ready on his tongue. Fell down the stairs. Training accident. Tripped over something.

But Roy was sitting right there, and Roy had seen his dad, had seen Denbo and Bug, had seen the state of Jamie’s house.

Roy knew the truth now, and there was no point in lying anymore.

“My dad,” Jamie said quietly. “And his mates. They... they did it.”

Dr. Ashton's expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes softened. “I see. And has this happened before?”

Jamie nodded, not trusting his voice.

“Alright,” Dr. Ashton said. “We’re going to get that wrist set and casted, and I’m going to recommend you speak with someone about filing a police report-”

“No,” Jamie said immediately. “No police.”

“Jamie-” Roy started.

“No.” Jamie’s voice was firmer this time. “I can’t. Just... please, no police.”

Dr. Ashton exchanged a look with Roy, then sighed. “That’s your choice. But I’m going to give you some information about domestic violence resources, and I strongly encourage you to reach out to them.”

They set his wrist - a procedure that involved more pain than Jamie thought possible and left him with a bright blue cast from his knuckles to below his elbow. They wrapped his ribs, gave him painkillers and instructions for managing the concussion, and told him to rest for at least four weeks.

Four weeks. Jamie almost laughed. He couldn’t afford four weeks off. The team already thought he was unreliable, already doubted his commitment. Missing four weeks would just confirm everything they believed about him.

When they finally left the hospital, it was past midnight. Jamie still didn’t have shoes, and the hospital’s automatic doors opened onto a cold car park where the wind cut right through his thin training kit.

Roy shrugged off his coat without a word and draped it over Jamie’s shoulders. It was too big, hung past Jamie’s hands, but it was warm and smelled like Roy’s cologne and something about that made Jamie want to cry again.

“You’re coming to mine,” Roy said, leading Jamie back to the car. “And before you argue, that’s not up for debate either.”

Jamie didn’t have the energy to argue. Didn’t have the energy for anything except following Roy to the car and collapsing into the passenger seat, his casted wrist resting on his lap, his ribs aching with every breath.

***

Roy’s house was exactly what Jamie expected - nice but not ostentatious, everything in its place, a sense of quiet order that was so different from the chaos of Jamie’s life. Roy led him upstairs to a spare bedroom that was simple and clean, with a proper bed and curtains that blocked out the streetlights.

“Sit,” Roy ordered, and Jamie sat on the edge of the bed.

Roy disappeared for a moment, then returned with water, more painkillers, and what looked like some of his own clothes. “These might be a bit big, but they’re clean. Bathroom’s across the hall if you need it.”

Jamie nodded, not trusting his voice.

Roy helped him change - an awkward, painful process that involved Roy carefully manoeuvring Jamie’s injured arm through shirt sleeves while Jamie tried not to cry from the pain. The clothes were indeed too big, Roy’s t-shirt hanging loose on Jamie’s frame, but they were soft and clean and not covered in two days of sweat and blood.

“Right,” Roy said once Jamie was settled. “Get some sleep. We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”

But Jamie couldn’t let him leave. Not yet. Not without saying the thing that had been eating at him the entire trip to the hospital and back.

“Roy,” Jamie said, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

Roy paused at the door. “For what?”

“For missing training.” The tears were starting again, and Jamie couldn’t stop them. “I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to, I just- I was passed out, and I couldn’t-” A sob cut off his words. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Everyone’s going to be so mad at me, and Isaac’s going to hate me even more, and I’ve just proven that I’m exactly as unreliable as they all thought-”

“Jamie.” Roy was back at the bed, sitting down beside him. “Stop. No one’s going to be mad at you.”

Jamie shook his head frantically. “Yes they will. They already hate me, and now I’ve missed a whole day without calling, and they’re going to think I did it on purpose, that I just couldn’t be bothered-”

“They’re going to understand,” Roy said firmly. “When they know what happened-”

“No!” Jamie’s voice rose, panicked. “You can’t tell them. Please, Roy, you can’t tell them what happened. They can’t know. They can’t know how weak I am, that I let my dad do this to me, that I couldn’t defend myself-”

“You’re not weak,” Roy said, and there was steel in his voice now. “What happened to you doesn’t make you weak. It makes your father a fucking monster, but it doesn’t say anything about you except that you survived it.”

Jamie was crying properly now, full sobs that made his broken ribs scream but he couldn’t stop. He’d been trying to hold it together for so long, keeping all of this buried, and now that someone knew - now that Roy knew - it was all pouring out in an unstoppable flood.

“Just sleep,” Roy said gently. “We’ll deal with everything else tomorrow. For now, just rest.”

He helped Jamie lie down, adjusted the pillows to support his ribs, made sure his casted arm was positioned comfortably. Then he moved towards the door again.

“Roy?” Jamie’s voice was small in the darkness.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“Get some sleep, Jamie.”

Roy left, pulling the door mostly closed but leaving it open a crack so light from the hallway spilled in. Jamie lay there in the unfamiliar bed, in Roy Kent’s house, wearing Roy Kent’s clothes, and felt something he hadn’t felt in days - safe.

His eyes were already drooping, the exhaustion and painkillers pulling him under. He let himself drift, let the darkness take him, too tired to fight it anymore.

***

Roy had made it halfway down the stairs when he heard it - a soft whimpering sound coming from the spare room.

He paused, listening. There it was again, followed by a distressed noise that made Roy’s chest tighten.

He went back up, pushed open the door gently. Jamie was asleep but clearly not resting - his face was scrunched up in distress, his breathing quick and shallow. As Roy watched, he let out another whimper, his head moving back and forth on the pillow.

“No,” Jamie mumbled in his sleep. “Please, stop, please-”

Nightmare. Of course he was having nightmares.

Roy moved closer and gently touched Jamie’s shoulder. “Jamie. Wake up. Come on, wake up.”

Jamie’s eyes flew open, and for a second he looked completely disoriented, panicked. He jerked away from Roy’s touch, his casted arm coming up defensively.

“It’s just me,” Roy said quickly, keeping his voice calm. “It’s Roy. You’re safe. You were having a nightmare.”

Recognition slowly filtered into Jamie’s eyes. “Roy?”

“Yeah. You’re at my house, remember? You’re safe here.”

Jamie’s whole body slumped, the tension draining out of him. “Sorry,” he said, his voice rough. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“You’ve got nothing to apologise for,” Roy said. “Nightmares aren’t something you can control.”

“I woke you up-”

“I wasn’t asleep yet.” Roy sat down on the edge of the bed again. “You want to try going back to sleep, or do you need a minute?”

Jamie was quiet for a moment, then said in a very small voice, “Can you... can you stay? Just for a bit? I don’t- I don’t want to be alone.”

Something in Roy’s chest cracked at the vulnerability in Jamie’s voice. This kid - this cocky, arrogant footballer who’d strutted around like he owned the world - was asking Roy to stay because he was scared to be alone.

“Yeah,” Roy said. “I can stay.”

He settled into the chair beside the bed, close enough that Jamie could see him in the dim light from the hallway. “Try to sleep. I’ll be right here.”

Jamie nodded, his eyes already drooping again. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, his body relaxing into genuine sleep.

Roy stayed in that chair for hours, watching Jamie sleep, making sure the nightmares didn’t come back. And he thought about the poster Jamie had mentioned - young Jamie looking up at Roy Kent’s picture, wishing for protection from his father.

Roy hadn’t protected him then. Hadn’t even known Jamie needed protecting. But he could protect him now.

And he would. Whatever it took, Roy was going to make sure Jamie was safe. Was going to make sure his father never touched him again. Was going to help Jamie understand that he was worthy of love and respect.

Even if Jamie didn’t think he deserved it, Roy was going to show him that he did.

Chapter Text

Jamie woke to sunlight filtering through unfamiliar curtains and a moment of pure panic before he remembered where he was. Roy’s house. Roy’s spare room. Safe.

His body felt like one giant bruise. Every breath was agony, his ribs protesting the simple act of inhaling. His wrist throbbed dully under its cast, and his head still felt foggy from the concussion. But for the first time in days, he’d actually slept - properly slept, not just passed out from pain or exhaustion.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and Roy’s voice came through. “You awake?”

“Yeah,” Jamie called back, his voice rough from sleep and crying.

Roy entered with a mug of tea and what looked like toast. “Thought you might be hungry. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Jamie said honestly, then winced. “Sorry, I-”

“Don’t apologise for telling the truth.” Roy set the tea and toast on the bedside table, then pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down. “We need to talk, Jamie. About what happened. All of it.”

Jamie’s stomach twisted. He’d known this was coming - knew Roy would want the full story - but that didn’t make it any easier.

“I know that this is hard,” Roy said, his voice surprisingly gentle. “But I need to understand what’s been going on. Can you do that?”

Jamie nodded slowly, took a sip of the tea to wet his dry throat, and tried to figure out where to start.

“It was after the match against City,” he said finally. “We lost, and I played like shit, and I knew - I knew my dad would come. He always comes after matches against Manchester. Doesn’t matter if we win or lose, he always finds something wrong with how I played.”

Roy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“He showed up that night with Denbo and Bug - his mates. They’ve been around since I was a kid. Used to watch or join in sometimes when my dad would…” Jamie trailed off, swallowed hard. “When he’d give me “lessons,” so to speak.”

“Lessons,” Roy repeated, and there was steel in his voice.

“That’s what he called them. Said he was teaching me to be tough, to handle pain, to not be soft like my mum.” Jamie’s hands clenched into fists - well, his left hand did. His right just ached. “I remember being nine, maybe ten, and I’d come home from school with a note saying I’d gotten in trouble for talking back to a teacher. My dad sat me down at the kitchen table and explained that the world was harsh, that people would try to break me, and I needed to be ready for it.”

“Jamie-”

“Then he punched me in the stomach. Said I needed to learn to take hits without crying.” Jamie’s voice had gone flat, emotionless, like he was recounting someone else’s story. “I threw up. He made me clean it up myself, said I was pathetic for being so weak.”

Roy made a sound that was almost a growl, but Jamie kept going. If he stopped now, he’d never get through this.

“That night after the City match, they came over. My dad was already drunk - beer, always beer. He was going on about how I’d lost him money, how I’d embarrassed him, how City was right to not take me back because I wasn’t good enough.” Jamie’s throat was tight now. “They beat me up pretty bad. Someone held, well pushed me against the counter and I think that’s when my ribs broke. Then Denbo and Bug held my wrists while my dad…” He gestured vaguely at his torso. “They were careful, though. No marks on my face. Nothing visible.”

“And then they trashed your house,” Roy said quietly.

“Yeah. Then they left, and I just... I stayed on the floor for a while. Didn’t know what else to do.” Jamie picked at the edge of his cast. “I tried to clean up some of it, but everything hurt too much. Eventually I just went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. My head was pounding - that’s when I realised the concussion had happened, I think - and my ribs were killing me.”

“You should have called someone,” Roy said. “Called me, called an ambulance-”

“And tell them what? That I let my dad beat me up? That I was too weak to defend myself?” Jamie shook his head. “I couldn’t, Roy. I just... I couldn’t.”

“So you decided to come to training the next morning.”

“Yeah.” Jamie let out a tired sigh. “Thought maybe I could push through it, you know? But I felt like shit, so I tried to tell you I couldn’t train. That I was hurt.”

Roy’s expression shifted, something like understanding and guilt dawning in his eyes. “When you said you were injured-”

“Everyone thought I was lying,” Jamie finished. “But I was actually hurt and they didn’t believe me. I could see it in their faces - they all thought I was just trying to get out of training because I was lazy or whatever.”

“So you said you were fine and trained anyway.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Jamie’s voice rose slightly, defensive. “If I kept insisting I was hurt when no one believed me, I’d just look like an even bigger prick. At least if I trained, I could prove I was trying.”

Roy leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Christ, Jamie.”

“I was shit at training, I know. My ribs hurt too much to move properly, and the concussion made everything feel disconnected. Then Isaac ran into me - normal contact, nothing dirty - and it felt like my ribs were exploding. I tried to keep playing, but I couldn’t, so I went to the bathroom and Sam found me.”

“Sam mentioned to me when you didn’t show up yesterday how you were having a panic attack,” Roy said.

“Yeah. He wanted to call a medic, and I panicked because if a medic saw me, they’d see the bruises, they’d ask questions, and then everyone would know.” Jamie’s voice cracked. “Everyone would know that I’m too weak to defend myself against my own father.”

“You’re not weak-”

“That’s what it feels like,” Jamie said quietly. “That’s what he always told me. That I was soft, that I was pathetic, that I’d never amount to anything because I couldn’t handle a few hits.”

Roy was quiet for a moment, and Jamie could see him processing all of this, fitting the pieces together.

“After training, you asked to talk to me,” Jamie continued. “And you ripped into me about being selfish and not trying, and then you mentioned when we first met, and I just…” He trailed off, recalling that moment. “I remembered being a kid and looking at your poster on my wall after my dad had beaten me up, wishing you could protect me. And then meeting you and you didn’t even care, and it just... it all came out.”

“I should have seen it,” Roy said, his voice rough. “Should have realised something was wrong instead of just being angry at you.”

“You couldn’t have known. I was hiding it.” Jamie took another sip of tea, his hands shaking slightly. “I said those horrible, awful things to you and I’m so fucking sorry, Roy. I didn’t mean any of it but I just couldn’t have you see-”

“It’s alright, Jamie. I’m not angry. You were hurting and needed an escape.”

Before continuing, Jamie looked up cautiously at Roy like he couldn’t believe someone had forgiven him.

“When you left, I stayed on the floor and cried like a fucking baby for who knows how long. Then I realised I couldn’t drive - I was too hurt, too dizzy, too exhausted. But I couldn’t leave my car there, so I called the only person I thought would help without asking too many questions.”

“Your dad,” Roy said flatly.

“Yeah.” Jamie’s laugh was bitter. “Stupid, I know. But I didn’t have anyone else. Couldn’t call Sam or Keeley because they’d want to help properly, and I couldn’t handle that. So I called my dad, asked him to come get me and drive me home.”

“And he came.”

“He came. Spent the whole drive telling me what a disappointment I was, how pathetic, how weak. Kept throwing fake punches at me to make me flinch and then mocked me for doing so,” Jamie’s voice was empty now, reciting facts. “When we got to my house, Denbo and Bug were still there. They had come back since that first night, just drinking my beer and wrecking my stuff. My dad made me sit down and watch the City match with them.”

“Jamie-”

“They were playing Arsenal. City scored, and my dad went off about how that should be me out there, how I’d let them down, how I wasn’t good enough to help them win.” Jamie’s hands were shaking now, his breathing getting faster. “I was so tired, Roy. I just wanted to sleep. But then my dad started talking about my mum.”

Roy leaned forward, his expression intense. “What did he say?”

“Called her weak. Said she was a ‘useless, frigid bitch’ who left me with him most days because she couldn’t handle being a proper mother.” Jamie’s voice was rising now, anger bleeding through the exhaustion. “And I told him not to say that, I said that she had to work, told him to stop talking about her like that. And he just laughed and said worse things. Then I told them all to get the fuck out of my house.”

“And they didn’t.”

“They laughed at me,” Jamie said, and he could hear the echo of that laughter in his memory. “Just like they used to when I was younger. When I’d try to stand up to them and they’d just laugh until I gave up. Then they were standing over me, and I tried to get away but Denbo grabbed me and shoved me back down.”

Jamie’s breathing was getting shallow now, his chest tight. Roy reached out and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder - his uninjured shoulder - grounding him.

“Take your time,” Roy said quietly.

Jamie nodded, took a breath that made his ribs scream. “My dad punched me in the jaw. Then Bug was kicking my ribs, and Denbo was throwing me around, and I tried to fight back but I was already so hurt, and there were three of them.” His voice was getting quieter now, smaller. “They pushed me down on the floor. Denbo and Bug grabbed my arms - one on each side, holding me down just like they did the first night.”

Roy’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“I tried to get away,” Jamie said, and there were tears in his eyes now. “I tried so hard, Roy. I wasn’t just letting it happen, I was fighting, but they were too strong and I was too tired and my body couldn’t-”

“I know,” Roy said firmly. “I know you fought, Jamie. But even if you hadn’t, this could never be your fault.”

“My dad knelt down beside me,” Jamie continued, his voice barely above a whisper now. “He had my right wrist in his hands - my dominant hand, the one I need for everything. And he looked right at me and said ‘This is for talking back. For being disrespectful. For thinking you’re better than me.’ And then he just... he twisted it.”

Jamie’s whole body was shaking now, the memory so vivid he could feel it happening again. “I felt the bones break. Felt them spiral around each other. It hurt so much I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything except scream. And they were all laughing, Roy. They were laughing at me while I screamed.”

“Jesus Christ,” Roy breathed.

“I remember seeing my wrist bent at this horrible angle, and my dad just let go and stood up like it was nothing. Like he’d just swatted a fly instead of breaking his son’s arm.” Jamie wiped at his eyes with his left hand. “That’s when I passed out. From the pain or the concussion or just... I don’t know. But I passed out, and when I woke up, it was a whole day later and they were still there, still in my house, still watching football like nothing had happened.”

“And that’s when I called,” Roy said.

“Yeah. I saw all the missed calls and realised I’d missed training, and I panicked because I knew everyone would be so mad at me, would think I’d done it on purpose.” Jamie’s tears were falling freely now. “Then you were at the door, and I thought you’d come to kick me off the team, to tell me I’d finally pushed too far and there were no more chances left.”

Roy was quiet for a long moment, just keeping his hand on Jamie’s shoulder while Jamie cried. Finally, he said, “Why didn’t you just tell me? When I asked what was going on, why didn’t you say your dad had hurt you?”

Jamie looked up at him, his face blotchy and tear-stained. “Because no one believed me when I said I was hurt the first time. When I tried to tell you I couldn’t train, everyone thought I was lying. Isaac, Colin, Montlaur, even the other coaches - they all thought I was making excuses. And you believed them, Roy. You believed I was just being a lazy prick who couldn’t be bothered to try.”

The words hit Roy like a physical blow. Jamie could see it in his face - the realisation, the guilt.

“So when you asked me what was really going on,” Jamie continued, “all I could think was that if I told you the truth - if I said my dad and his mates had beaten me up - you’d think I was lying about that too. Or worse, you’d believe me but think I was pathetic for letting it happen. For not being strong enough to defend myself.”

“Jamie-”

“I’ve spent my whole life being told I’m weak,” Jamie said, his voice breaking. “Being told I can’t handle pain, that I’m too soft, that I’ll never be good enough. And I thought if you knew - if anyone knew - that I’d let my dad do this to me again, it would just prove him right. That I am weak. That I am pathetic. That I deserve everything he’s ever done to me.”

Roy’s expression had gone from anger to something that looked like heartbreak. He stood up from the chair and carefully sat down on the edge of the bed beside Jamie.

“Listen to me,” Roy said, his voice rough with emotion. “None of this - not a single fucking bit of it - was your fault. You didn’t “let” your dad do anything. He’s bigger than you, he had two other men helping him, and you were already injured. There’s no scenario where you could have defended yourself against that, and the fact that you survived it doesn’t make you weak. It makes you fucking strong.”

“I don’t feel strong,” Jamie whispered.

“I know. But you are.” Roy’s hand moved from Jamie’s shoulder to very gently rest on his back - carefully avoiding anywhere that might hurt. “You came to training with broken ribs and a concussion and still tried to play. You survived years of abuse from a man who should have protected you. You’re sitting here right now, telling me all of this even though it’s tearing you apart. That’s not weakness, Jamie. That’s strength.”

Jamie wanted to believe him. Wanted so desperately to believe that he wasn’t the pathetic, soft failure his dad had always said he was. But years of conditioning didn’t disappear just because Roy Kent said they should.

“What your dad did to you as a child - those “lessons” - that was abuse,” Roy continued. “Plain and simple. A nine-year-old getting punched for talking back at school isn’t a lesson, it’s assault. Being held down and beaten for making mistakes isn’t discipline, it’s torture. And none of it - not one single second of it - was something you deserved.”

“He said he was making me tougher,” Jamie said weakly. “Said the world would eat me alive if I couldn’t handle a few hits.”

“That’s what abusers do,” Roy said. “They convince you that hurting you is for your own good. That they’re doing you a favour by breaking you down. But that’s bullshit, Jamie. The world doesn’t require you to be beaten by your own father to survive in it.”

Jamie was crying again, but this time it felt different. Not like breaking down, but like something releasing - some pressure valve that had been building for years finally letting go.

“I remember being twelve,” Jamie said suddenly. “I’d scored two goals in a youth match, and I was so excited. Ran home to tell my dad, thinking he’d be proud. But we’d lost the match 3-2, and he said my two goals didn’t matter because I’d let in three. Said I was selfish for celebrating when the team had lost.” Jamie’s voice was hollow. “He made me do wall passes in the back garden until it was dark and I couldn’t see the ball anymore. Mum was working and didn’t know what had been going on. Every time I missed one, he’d hit me. Said I needed to learn that individual glory meant nothing if the team failed.”

“Christ,” Roy muttered.

“I was covered in bruises the next day. My coach at the time asked me what happened, and I told him I’d fallen off my bike. He believed me.” Jamie said bitterly. “Everyone always believed me. I got so good at lying about where the bruises came from that it became second nature.“

Roy’s jaw was clenched so tight Jamie could hear his teeth grinding. “Your father,” Roy said slowly, carefully, “is a fucking monster. And everything he’s ever told you about yourself is a lie.”

“Then why does it feel so true?” Jamie asked, his voice small.

“Because he’s spent your entire life conditioning you to believe it,” Roy said. “But believing something doesn’t make it true, Jamie. You’re not weak. You’re not pathetic. You’re not soft. You’re a talented footballer who’s survived years of systematic abuse and still managed to build a career. That takes more strength than most people will ever have.”

Jamie wanted to believe him. Wanted to take Roy’s words and let them replace all of his father’s poisonous ones. But it was hard - so hard - to undo a lifetime of being told he was worthless.

“What happens now?” Jamie asked finally.

“Now,” Roy said, “you rest. You heal. You let those ribs mend and that wrist set properly. And you let people help you, which I know is going to be hard for you, but you’re going to do it anyway.”

“What about training? The team?”

“Fuck training,” Roy said bluntly. “The team can manage without you for a few weeks. Your health is more important.”

“But they’ll think-”

“They’ll think you’re injured, which you are. And when you’re ready - when you’re actually ready, not when you think you should be - we’ll tell them as much or as little as you want them to know. But that’s your choice, Jamie. Not mine, not your dad’s. Yours.”

Jamie nodded slowly, exhaustion crashing over him again. The painkillers were wearing off, and his whole body was starting to ache again.

“Get some more rest,” Roy said, standing up. “I’ll bring you lunch in a few hours. And Jamie?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re safe here. Your dad doesn’t know where I live, and even if he did, he’s not getting through my front door. I promise you that.”

Something in Jamie’s chest loosened at those words. Safe. When was the last time he’d felt actually safe?

“Thank you,” Jamie said quietly. “For everything. For believing me, for taking me to hospital, for letting me stay here. For... for not thinking I’m pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic,” Roy said firmly. “And you don’t have to thank me for basic human decency. Now sleep. We’ll deal with everything else when you wake up.”

Roy left, pulling the door mostly closed again. Jamie lay back against the pillows, his casted arm resting on his chest, and closed his eyes.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Jamie Tartt felt like maybe - just maybe - everything might actually be okay.

Chapter Text

The first week at Roy’s house was rough.

Jamie had nightmares almost every night - vivid, terrifying dreams where his dad’s fists were flying and Denbo and Bug were holding him down and his wrist was breaking over and over again. He’d wake up gasping, sometimes screaming, his heart racing and his body covered in cold sweat.

But every time, Roy was there. Sometimes he was already in the room, having heard Jamie start to whimper in his sleep. Other times he’d come running when Jamie cried out. He’d sit on the edge of the bed and talk Jamie through it, remind him where he was, that he was safe, that his dad couldn’t hurt him here.

“You’re at my house,” Roy would say, his voice steady and calm. “You’re safe. I’m right here. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

And slowly, over days and then weeks, the nightmares came less frequently. Jamie still had them - probably would for a long time - but they weren’t every night anymore. Sometimes he’d sleep through until morning, wake up without panic, without his dad’s voice echoing in his head.

Roy had hired some under-the-radar cleaning team to fix up Jamie’s place while he recovered. Jamie didn’t know the details - Roy had just mentioned it in passing, said it was taken care of, nothing for Jamie to worry about. Jamie had tried to argue, tried to say he’d handle it himself when he was better, but Roy had shut that down immediately.

“You’re not going back to that,” Roy had said firmly. “Not until it’s properly sorted.”

So Jamie stayed. Stayed in Roy’s spare room that was starting to feel less like a guest room and more like his room. Stayed through breakfast together, through Roy driving him to follow-up appointments, through quiet evenings watching football on TV with Roy making sardonic comments that made Jamie laugh despite himself.

It was nice. Better than nice, actually. It was the most stable, safe, comfortable Jamie had felt in... maybe ever.

But he couldn’t stay forever.

Three weeks after the hospital visit, Jamie’s ribs were healing well and his wrist was starting to itch under the cast in that annoying way that meant it was mending. He could move around without wanting to cry, could breathe deeply without his ribs screaming in protest. He was getting better.

Which meant it was time to go home.

Jamie brought it up one morning over breakfast - Roy’s surprisingly good fried eggs and toast that Jamie had gotten used to eating.

“I think I should probably go back to my place,” Jamie said, not quite meeting Roy’s eyes. “You know, get out of your hair. You’ve done so much for me already, and I don’t want to overstay my welcome or anything.”

Roy’s fork paused halfway to his mouth. “You’re not overstaying.”

“Yeah, but it’s been three weeks, and you didn’t sign up to have a lodger-”

“Jamie,” Roy said. “You’re not a burden. And you can stay as long as you need to.”

But Jamie could see something in Roy’s expression - something that looked almost like sadness - and he realised Roy was just being polite. Of course Roy wanted his space back. Of course he was tired of having Jamie around, taking up his spare room, eating his food, waking him up with nightmares. Roy had his own life, his own routine, and Jamie had been disrupting that for weeks.

“Nah, it’s alright,” Jamie said, forcing a smile. “I appreciate everything, but I should get back to my own place. Get back to normal, you know?”

Roy looked like he wanted to argue, but he just nodded slowly. “If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” Jamie said, even though it wasn’t what he wanted at all. What he wanted was to stay here, in this house where he felt safe, with Roy who made him feel protected in a way he’d never experienced before. But he couldn’t say that. Couldn’t admit that he’d gotten too comfortable, too dependent. Roy probably thought he was pathetic enough already without adding clingy to the list.

***

Roy drove him back to his house that afternoon. The drive was quiet, neither of them saying much. Jamie kept his eyes on the passing scenery, trying to ignore the growing knot in his stomach.

When they pulled up to Jamie’s house, it looked... normal. Like nothing had ever happened there. The windows were intact, the door was closed, everything looked peaceful and ordinary.

“You sure you’re okay to be here on your own?” Roy asked, his hands still on the steering wheel.

“Yeah, course,” Jamie said, injecting false confidence into his voice. “It’s my house. And you said the place has been cleaned up, so it’ll be fine.”

Roy still looked uncertain, but he nodded. “Call me if you need anything. Anytime, day or night. I mean it.”

“I will,” Jamie lied. He wouldn’t call. Wouldn’t bother Roy any more than he already had.

They got out of the car, and Roy helped Jamie carry the bag of clothes - mostly Roy’s clothes that Jamie had been wearing, since most of his own stuff had been at his house. Roy had told him to keep them, and Jamie had been pathetically grateful.

At the door, they stood for a moment in awkward silence.

“Right,” Roy said finally. “You’ve got my number. Use it if you need to.”

“Thanks, Roy. For everything.” Jamie meant it - meant it more than he could possibly express. “You didn’t have to do all this, but you did, and I... I won’t forget it.”

Roy’s expression softened. “You take care of yourself, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Roy hesitated, like he wanted to say something else, but then he just nodded and turned back toward his car. Jamie watched him drive away, watched until the car disappeared around the corner, and only then did he turn and unlock his front door.

The house was immaculate.

Jamie stepped inside and just stared. Every trace of the violence that had happened here was gone. The broken glass had been swept up, the furniture had been repaired or replaced, the hole in the wall had been patched and painted over. The coffee maker he’d watched Bug destroy had been replaced with a new one, sitting pristine on the counter. Even the spilled beer had been cleaned from the couch, and it looked brand new.

It was perfect. Clean and perfect and completely devoid of any evidence that his life had fallen apart here.

Jamie’s throat tightened, and before he could stop it, tears were spilling down his cheeks. Because Roy had done this. Roy, who’d found him broken and beaten, who’d taken him to hospital, who’d let him stay for three weeks, who’d sat with him through nightmares and never once made him feel like a burden. Roy had arranged all of this, had made sure Jamie’s house was safe to come back to, had erased the physical evidence of his father’s violence even if the emotional scars would take longer to heal.

Jamie sank down onto his clean couch and cried. For everything that had happened, for Roy’s kindness, for the loneliness that was already creeping in now that he was alone again.

He missed Roy already. Missed the safety of his house, missed the quiet companionship of breakfast together, missed having someone who actually gave a shit whether he was okay.

But Roy had his own life. Jamie needed to suck it up, needed to be grateful for what he’d been given and not ask for more. Needed to stop being so fucking needy and dependent and pathetic.

Jamie wiped his eyes, took a shaky breath, and tried to convince himself he’d be fine here alone.

***

Roy’s house felt too quiet.

He’d gotten so used to having Jamie around - used to cooking for two, used to the sound of footsteps upstairs, used to Jamie’s presence filling the space - that coming home to silence felt wrong.

Roy made dinner for one - a sad plate of pasta that he barely tasted - and ate it alone at his kitchen table. The chair across from him was empty, and he kept glancing at it like Jamie might materialise there with some self-deprecating comment about Roy’s cooking.

After dinner, he settled on the couch to watch the evening match. Arsenal was playing Liverpool, and normally Roy would be fully engaged, analysing tactics and shouting at the screen when players made stupid decisions. But tonight, he couldn’t focus. The couch felt too big with just him on it. There was no one to make observations to, no one to laugh at his comments, no one to debate with about whether that should have been a penalty.

It was too quiet.

Roy had lived alone for years. Had liked living alone, actually - liked the peace, liked not having to accommodate anyone else’s schedule or preferences. But three weeks with Jamie had changed something.

The house didn’t feel peaceful anymore, it just felt empty.

He’d enjoyed having Jamie around. Enjoyed their morning routines, enjoyed watching Jamie slowly relax and smile more, enjoyed being someone Jamie could rely on. And if Roy was honest with himself - which he was trying to be - he’d been disappointed when Jamie had said he wanted to go home.

Roy had wanted to argue, wanted to tell Jamie to stay as long as he needed, wanted to admit that he’d miss having him around. But he’d seen the determination in Jamie’s face, the need to prove he could stand on his own, and Roy had understood. Jamie needed to feel independent, needed to prove to himself that he wasn’t weak or clingy or any of the other things his father had convinced him he was.

So Roy had let him go, even though everything in him had wanted to insist Jamie stay.

Now he was alone in his too-quiet house, watching a match he didn’t care about, missing someone he’d only lived with for three weeks.

Roy turned off the TV and went to bed early, but sleep didn’t come easily. He kept thinking about Jamie in that house alone, kept wondering if he was okay, if he was having nightmares, if he needed help but was too proud or too scared of being a burden to ask for it.

Eventually, Roy drifted off into uneasy sleep.

He woke to his phone ringing. The screen showed 2:47 AM and Jamie’s name.

Roy answered before the second ring. “Jamie? What’s wrong?”

“I-” Jamie’s voice was thick, like he’d been crying. “I’m sorry for calling so late, well early, I just- can you come over? Please?”

“I’m on my way,” Roy said, already out of bed and grabbing clothes. “Are you safe? Is anyone there?”

“No, no one’s here. I just- I had a nightmare and I can’t- I can’t be here alone right now. I’m sorry, I know it’s an inconvenient time-”

“Don’t apologise,” Roy said firmly, pulling on jeans and a shirt. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Stay on the phone with me until I get there, yeah?”

“Okay,” Jamie said quietly.

Roy kept Jamie talking as he got in his car and drove - asked him mundane questions about nothing important, just to keep him grounded, to remind him he wasn’t alone. Jamie’s answers were short, his voice shaky, but he stayed on the line.

***

Jamie had made it maybe four hours alone in his house before the nightmare hit.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch because his bed felt too big and too empty, and he’d been jerked awake by his dad’s voice in his head, by the phantom sensation of hands holding him down, by the memory of his wrist breaking.

He’d woken up gasping, disoriented, his heart racing. For a moment he’d forgotten where he was - thought he was still on his living room floor with his dad standing over him - and panic had flooded through him so completely that he couldn’t breathe.

It had taken several minutes to calm down enough to remember he was alone, that his dad wasn’t here, that he was safe. But the fear hadn’t gone away. Every shadow looked threatening, every creak of the house settling made him jump. He kept expecting to hear his dad’s voice, kept expecting the door to burst open and Denbo and Bug to come strutting in.

He’d tried to tough it out, tried to tell himself he was being ridiculous, but the paranoia had just gotten worse. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his dad’s face. Heard his voice. Felt the pain of those fists, that breaking wrist.

Eventually, Jamie had given up and called Roy. Hated himself for it - for being so weak, so needy, so unable to handle one night alone - but he’d called anyway because the alternative was sitting here in terror until morning.

And Roy had answered immediately. Hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t complained about the late hour, had just said he was coming.

Jamie sat on his couch, phone pressed to his ear, listening to Roy’s voice as he drove. The sound of it was grounding, comforting. Reminded him that he wasn’t completely alone, even if he felt like it.

When he heard Roy’s car pull up outside, relief flooded through him so intensely it almost hurt.

Roy knocked softly on the door - probably didn’t want to scare Jamie by banging - and Jamie opened it immediately.

Roy stood on his doorstep in jeans and a rumpled shirt, his hair messy from sleep, concern written all over his face. And when he saw Jamie - saw his red, swollen eyes, his tear-stained face, the way he was shaking - his expression softened into something that made Jamie’s chest ache.

“Come here,” Roy said gently, and pulled Jamie into a hug.

Jamie went willingly, pressing his face into Roy’s shoulder and trying not to cry again. But Roy’s arms around him were so solid, so safe, that the tears came anyway.

“It’s alright,” Roy murmured. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

They stood like that for a long moment, Jamie clinging to Roy like a lifeline while Roy just held him and let him fall apart.

Finally, Roy pulled back slightly. “Tell me what happened.”

“I had a nightmare,” Jamie said, his voice hoarse. “About my dad. And when I woke up, I couldn’t stop thinking that he was going to come back. That he’d show up at the door with his mates, and they’d-” His voice broke. “I can’t stop being paranoid. I keep thinking I hear him, keep expecting him to be here, and I know it’s stupid but I can’t make it stop.”

“It’s not stupid,” Roy said firmly. “After what he did to you? It’s completely normal to be afraid he’ll come back. That’s not just paranoia, Jamie, that’s trauma.”

“I just-” Jamie’s hands were shaking. “I thought I could do this. Thought I could be here alone and be fine, but I’m not. I’m not fine, Roy. I’m terrified, and I hate that he’s made me this scared of my own fucking house.”

Roy’s jaw clenched, and Jamie could see the anger there - not at Jamie, but at his father, at the situation. “You shouldn’t have to feel this way,” Roy said. “You should feel safe in your own home. The fact that your father - someone who should have protected you - has made you this scared? That’s on him, not you.”

Jamie nodded, but the fear was still there, coiled tight in his chest.

“Come on,” Roy said, guiding Jamie back inside and closing the door behind them. “You need to sleep.”

“I can’t,” Jamie said. “Every time I close my eyes-”

“I know. But I’m here now, and I’m not leaving.” Roy’s hand was on Jamie’s back, steady and grounding. “Let’s go upstairs. You need proper rest, and you’re not getting it on the couch.”

Jamie led Roy up to his bedroom - Roy had never seen it before, and Jamie was suddenly self-conscious about the posters on the walls, the mess of clothes he hadn’t bothered to put away properly. But Roy didn’t comment on any of it, just kicked off his shoes and sat down on the edge of Jamie’s bed.

“Lie down,” Roy said.

“You don’t have to stay,” Jamie protested weakly. “I’m sorry for dragging you out here in the middle of the night-”

“Jamie. Lie down.”

Jamie obeyed, climbing into bed and settling on his side, his casted arm resting on the pillow above his head. Roy lay down beside him, close enough that Jamie could feel his presence.

“Try to sleep,” Roy said quietly. “I’ll be right here. If you have another nightmare, I’ll wake you up. You’re not alone.”

Jamie’s eyes were already drooping, exhaustion pulling at him. With Roy there, the fear was manageable. His dad wouldn’t come with Roy here. Roy wouldn’t let anyone hurt him.

“Thank you,” Jamie whispered.

“Go to sleep.”

Jamie let his eyes close, let himself drift. And this time, when sleep claimed him, there were no nightmares. Just darkness and peace and the quiet sound of Roy’s breathing beside him.

***

Jamie woke to sunlight streaming through his window and the smell of coffee.

For a moment he was disoriented - his room, but Roy’s coffee - before he remembered the night before. The nightmare, the panic, calling Roy at nearly three in the morning.

Jamie sat up carefully, his ribs protesting slightly but not screaming like they used to. Roy wasn’t in bed anymore, but Jamie could hear movement downstairs.

He found Roy in the kitchen, making breakfast with the ease of someone who knew his way around a stove. Two mugs of coffee sat on the counter, and Roy was frying eggs in a pan.

“Morning,” Roy said without turning around. “Sleep better?”

“Yeah,” Jamie said, surprised to realise it was true. After Roy had arrived, he’d slept straight through until morning. “Thanks for... for everything. For coming over, for staying. I know it was-”

“Jamie,” Roy interrupted, turning to face him. “I need to ask you something.”

Something in Roy’s tone made Jamie nervous. “Okay?”

“Would you want to come back to mine?” Roy asked. “Properly, and stay with me.”

Jamie blinked. “What?”

“Your dad doesn’t know where I live,” Roy continued. “Which means you’d be safe there. No paranoia, no nightmares about him showing up at the door. You can actually rest and heal without constantly looking over your shoulder.” He paused. “And honestly? I liked having you around. The house felt too fucking quiet last night without you.”

Jamie’s throat was tight. “You... you want me to stay with you?”

“Yeah,” Roy said simply. “If you want to. No pressure - if you’d rather be here, I get it. But the offer’s there.”

Jamie felt something crack open in his chest - something warm and hopeful and terrifying all at once. Roy wanted him to stay. Not out of obligation or pity, but because he’d liked having Jamie around. Because the house had been too quiet without him.

“I’d like that,” Jamie said, his voice coming out smaller than intended. “I mean, if you’re sure you don’t mind-”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I minded,” Roy said. “Now sit down and eat your breakfast. Then we’ll pack up whatever you need and head back to mine.”

Jamie sat, picking up his coffee with shaking hands. This was the best news he could have received - better than he’d even dared to hope for. He wouldn’t have to be alone in this house, constantly afraid his dad would show up. Wouldn’t have to pretend he was fine when he wasn’t. Wouldn’t have to miss Roy’s quiet presence and steady comfort.

He could stay. He could be safe.

“Thank you,” Jamie said quietly. “For... for everything. For not giving up on me.”

Roy looked at him with an expression Jamie couldn’t quite read. “I’m not going to give up on you, Jamie. Not now, not ever. You’re stuck with me.”

And for the first time in as long as he could remember, Jamie Tartt felt like maybe - just maybe - he’d finally found somewhere he belonged.

Chapter Text

Living with Roy became Jamie’s new normal surprisingly quickly.

They fell into a routine - Roy made breakfast while Jamie set the table, they drove to training together, came home and made dinner while debating tactics or shit-talking other teams. It was comfortable in a way Jamie had never experienced before. Safe. Stable.

The nightmares still came sometimes, but less frequently. And when they did, Roy was just across the hall, ready to sit with Jamie until the panic faded and sleep became possible again.

Jamie’s ribs healed. The cast came off his wrist, leaving the skin underneath pale and strange-looking, but the bone had set properly. The concussion symptoms faded. Slowly, carefully, Jamie started to feel like a person again instead of a collection of injuries held together by fear and pain.

After four and a bit weeks, Dr. Ashton cleared him to return to training.

Jamie had been nervous about going back - worried about what he’d tell people, how they’d react, whether they’d still think he was unreliable after disappearing for over a month. But Roy had helped him come up with a simple explanation: broken wrist, needed time to heal, doctor’s orders.

It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was enough truth to satisfy curiosity without opening doors Jamie wasn’t ready to walk through.

His first day back, the team had been... surprisingly welcoming. Isaac had nodded at him in that gruff way that meant acceptance. Colin had asked how his wrist was healing. Even Bumbercatch had offered a “glad you’re back, mate” that sounded almost genuine.

His poor playing from before - the missed shots, the stiff movements, the bathroom breakdown - seemed mostly forgotten, or at least no one brought it up. Instead, they offered sympathy for his wrist, asked if it still hurt, told him to take it easy until he was back to full strength.

Jamie had expected suspicion, coldness, more proof that he’d never be forgiven for who he used to be. Instead, he got... acceptance. Understanding. A second chance that felt real this time.

Sam, especially, had been kind. He’d welcomed Jamie back with a genuine smile and hadn’t mentioned their conversation in the bathroom - the one where Jamie had broken down and admitted he felt like he was failing at being better. It was like Sam understood that Jamie needed a fresh start, needed to put that version of himself behind him.

Training went well. Jamie was careful not to push too hard too fast, conscious of Roy’s watchful eye and his own body’s limits. But it felt good to be back on the pitch, to be part of the team again, to be moving towards something instead of just surviving.

He hadn’t heard from his dad since that night. No calls, no texts, no surprise visits. Sometimes Jamie wondered if his dad was planning another “lesson,” but mostly, he tried not to think about it. Tried to focus on healing, on training, on building this new life where his father didn’t have power over him.

***

Three weeks after returning to training, Richmond won a match against Crystal Palace - a solid 2-1 victory where Jamie had assisted both goals and felt like himself again for the first time in weeks. The team was buzzing with energy, and when Isaac suggested they all go out to celebrate, Jamie had agreed without thinking twice.

The bar was crowded and loud, full of Richmond supporters who cheered when the team walked in. Jamie nursed a drink - just one, because he was hyperaware of not becoming his father - and let himself enjoy the atmosphere. The camaraderie. The feeling of belonging.

He was standing near the bar when Sam appeared beside him, his own drink in hand and a warm smile on his face.

“Great match today, Jamie,” Sam said, clinking his glass against Jamie’s bottle. “Those assists were brilliant.”

“Thanks, mate,” Jamie said, feeling himself relax. “Felt good to be back properly, you know?”

“I can imagine.” Sam took a sip of his drink. “It’s good to have you back. The team missed you while you were recovering.”

They talked easily for a while - about the match, about training, about Ted’s latest bizarre American sports metaphor that no one had quite understood. It was comfortable, easy, the kind of conversation Jamie had never thought he’d be able to have with his teammates.

Then Sam said, his tone carefully casual, “How did you break your wrist, anyway? You never really said.”

Jamie felt his stomach drop. No one had asked yet - they’d all just accepted the explanation that he’d been injured and needed time off. But of course Sam would ask. Sam who’d found him having a panic attack in the bathroom, who’d sat with him on the floor and helped him breathe, who’d seen more of Jamie’s breakdown than anyone except Roy.

“Oh, uh,” Jamie’s mind raced, trying to come up with something believable. “It was... some City fans. They were drunk, upset about me leaving, and they... yeah. They did it.”

It was close enough to the truth to be believable - the anger was right and the violence was right, and it didn’t reveal who the perpetrators actually were. Jamie thought it was a decent lie.

But the look on Sam’s face - absolute devastation, horror, guilt - made Jamie wish he’d said something further from the truth. Something that didn’t make Sam look like he’d personally failed to protect Jamie from the world.

“Jamie,” Sam said, his voice thick with emotion. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry. I should have- I should have come to visit you while you were recovering. Should have checked on you, made sure you were okay. I knew something was wrong that day in the bathroom, and I just let it go, and then you disappeared for weeks and I didn’t-”

“Sam, it’s fine,” Jamie said quickly, panic rising in his chest. Sam’s voice was getting louder, and people were starting to glance over, and Jamie couldn’t have this conversation here, not in front of the team, not where anyone could overhear. “Really, it’s okay. My dad’s done this sort of thing before, so-”

He realised his mistake the second the words left his mouth.

Sam’s expression changed, confusion flickering across his features. “Your dad?”

Jamie could see it happening - could see Sam’s mind working, putting pieces together. The panic attack in the bathroom. Jamie’s insistence that he couldn’t see a medic. His desperate need to hide whatever was wrong. And now this slip, this mention of his dad being there when Jamie was supposedly attacked by City fans.

“I meant-” Jamie started, but it was too late.

“Jamie,” Sam said slowly, his eyes widening. “Was it your dad who broke your wrist?”

“I have to go,” Jamie said abruptly, already moving away from the bar. “I just remembered I need to-”

“Jamie, wait!” Sam called after him, but Jamie was already pushing through the crowd towards the exit.

His heart was racing, his breathing getting shallow. He’d fucked up. He’d been so careful for weeks, and now he’d slipped up in the worst possible way, and Sam knew, Sam fucking knew, and soon everyone would know and they’d all look at him with that same devastated expression and think he was pathetic and weak and—

Jamie burst out of the bar into the cool night air and immediately pulled out his phone to call a ride home. His hands were shaking so badly it took three attempts to open the app.

“Jamie.”

Sam was next to him, must have followed him out. Jamie kept his eyes on his phone, couldn’t look at Sam’s face, couldn’t handle seeing pity or disgust or whatever Sam was feeling.

“Jamie, please look at me.”

“I’m fine,” Jamie said, his voice tight. “Just need to get home, forgot I have to-”

“Jamie, please.”

Something in Sam’s voice made Jamie’s resolve crumble. He looked up, trying desperately to keep his expression neutral, to not let Sam see how not-fine he was.

But the second their eyes met, Jamie felt tears start to fall. Just a few at first, then more, until he was standing outside a bar crying in front of Sam Obisanya while people walked past and probably stared.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie choked out. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I shouldn’t have said anything, I-”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Sam said gently, his hand hovering near Jamie’s shoulder like he wanted to comfort him but wasn’t sure if touch would be welcome. “It’s okay, Jamie. Come on, let’s sit down.”

He guided Jamie to some outdoor chairs off to the side, away from the main entrance where fewer people would see them. Jamie sank into one gratefully, his legs shaking too badly to hold him up anymore.

Sam sat beside him, close but not crowding, and waited. Just waited, giving Jamie space to fall apart without rushing him or demanding explanations.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie said again once he could speak past the tears. “I’m so sorry, Sam. I shouldn’t have lied to you, I just- I didn’t want to tell people, couldn’t let anyone know-”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Sam said firmly. “Jamie, was it your dad? Was he the one who broke your wrist?”

Jamie nodded, not trusting his voice.

“And the panic attack in the bathroom? Was that because of him?”

Another nod.

Sam made a sound that was almost a sob. “Jamie, I’m so sorry. I should have- that day in the bathroom, I knew something was really wrong, and I just let you brush it off. And then you disappeared for weeks and I thought maybe you’d left the team again, or you were angry at us, or- I didn’t realise you were hurt. I should have checked on you.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Jamie said, wiping at his eyes. “I didn’t want anyone to know. That’s why I…” He trailed off, not sure how to explain.

“Tell me,” Sam said gently. “Please. I want to understand.”

Jamie took a shaky breath. If Sam already knew the worst of it - if he’d already figured out Jamie’s dad had broken his wrist - then there wasn’t much point in hiding the rest. And maybe it would feel good to tell someone. Someone other than Roy, someone who’d been there that day.

“That day,” Jamie started, his voice rough. “That day in training when I was really shit. I’d already been injured. My dad and his mates - Denbo and Bug, they’re always around - they came to my house after the City match. We’d lost, you know, and I’d played badly, and my dad... he wanted to teach me a lesson.”

Sam’s jaw clenched, but he stayed quiet, letting Jamie continue.

“They beat me up pretty bad. Broke my ribs, gave me a concussion, trashed my house. But they were careful - no marks on my face, nothing visible. So when I came to training the next day, I thought maybe I could push through it. But I couldn’t, and I tried to tell Roy I was hurt, tried to say I couldn’t train.”

“But no one believed you,” Sam said quietly, understanding dawning in his eyes.

“Yeah. Everyone thought I was making excuses, that I was trying to get out of training because I was lazy or whatever. I could see it in everyone’s faces that they thought I was lying.” Jamie’s hands were shaking again. “So I said I was fine and trained anyway. Figured if I kept insisting I was hurt when no one believed me, I’d just look like an even bigger prick.”

“Oh, Jamie,” Sam breathed.

“Training was awful. My ribs were killing me, and the concussion made everything feel wrong, and I couldn’t move properly. Then Isaac ran into me - normal contact - and my ribs just... it felt like they were exploding. I tried to keep playing but I couldn’t, so I went to the bathroom.”

“And I found you,” Sam said.

“Yeah. And you wanted to call a medic, and I panicked because if a medic saw me, they’d see the bruises and ask questions and everyone would know. Know that I’d let my dad do that to me. That I was too weak to defend myself.” Jamie’s voice cracked. “The panic attack - it wasn’t just from the injuries. It was from knowing I’d failed at proving I’d changed, that everyone still thought I was unreliable, that I’d shown up hurt and no one believed me and I couldn’t even train properly to prove them wrong.”

Sam’s eyes were shining with tears now. “Jamie, I’m so sorry. When you said you felt bad about how you’d treated everyone, when you were sitting on that bathroom floor - I had no idea you were also dealing with all of this. I should have pushed more, should have-”

“You helped me,” Jamie interrupted. “You sat with me and helped me breathe and told me I was trying, that you could see I’d changed. That meant everything, Sam. You were the only person who seemed to see that I wasn’t the same Jamie who left for City.”

“But I didn’t help enough,” Sam said, his voice thick with guilt. “I let you walk away still hurt, still in pain. And then after training when the coaches pulled you aside, I thought they’d handle it. I thought they’d see something was wrong and help you. But they didn’t, did they?”

Jamie shook his head. “They yelled at me for not trying. Got in my face and told me I wasn’t good enough, that I needed to prove I wanted to be there. I thought they’d send me home, but they sent me back out to train more.” He let out a bitter laugh. “I could barely stand by that point, but I kept going because what else was I supposed to do?”

“You could have told them the truth,” Sam said gently.

“I couldn’t. No one believed me when I said I was hurt - why would they believe me about my dad? They’d either think I was lying to get sympathy, or they’d believe me and think I was pathetic for letting it happen.” Jamie wiped at his eyes again. “Either way, I’d lose. So I kept quiet and pushed through and hoped no one would notice.”

“But Roy noticed.”

“Eventually, yeah. After I missed a whole day of training because I was passed out on my living room floor after my dad broke my wrist.” Jamie held up his now-healed right wrist. “Roy came to my house and found me, and he saw everything. Saw my dad and his mates, saw the state of me, saw that I was still trying to hide it even then. He’s the one who took me to hospital, who let me stay with him while I healed, who…” Jamie’s voice broke. “Who protected me when no one else ever has.”

Sam was crying now, tears slipping down his face. “Your dad did this to you again? After the first time?”

“Yeah. I was stupid - I called him to drive me home from training because I was too hurt and concussed to drive myself. He came, and he spent the whole drive telling me what a disappointment I was. When we got to my house, his mates were still there. They made me watch the City match with them, and my dad started talking shit about my mum, and I told him to stop, and…” Jamie shrugged. “They beat me up again. Worse this time. And my dad broke my wrist right in front of me - held it in his hands and twisted it while Denbo and Bug held me down so I couldn’t get away.”

“Oh Jamie,” Sam whispered. “Jamie, I’m so sorry. Your dad was so wrong - everything he did to you, everything he said - none of it was your fault. You’re not weak for what happened to you. You’re not a disappointment. You’re not any of the things he told you.”

“That’s what Roy says,” Jamie said quietly.

“Because it’s true.” Sam reached out tentatively, and when Jamie didn’t pull away, he put his hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “You’re one of the strongest people I know, Jamie. Coming back after everything that happened, still trying to prove yourself to a team that didn’t trust you, surviving all of that abuse - that takes more strength than most people have.”

Jamie wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that surviving made him strong instead of pathetic. But years of his father’s voice in his head made it hard.

“Does anyone else know?” Sam asked. “Besides Roy?”

“Nah. Just you now. And I’d like it if- if you didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. I’m not ready for everyone to know.”

“Of course,” Sam said immediately. “Your story isn’t mine to tell. But Jamie, if you ever do want to tell people, or if you need help, or if you just need someone to talk to - I’m here. Always.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the sounds of the bar muffled behind them, people laughing and celebrating while Jamie’s world felt like it was tilting sideways.

“We should probably leave,” Sam said finally. “Get you home. Where are you staying now? Not at your house, I hope.”

“Nope. I’m living with Roy. My dad doesn’t know where he lives, so it’s... it’s safe there.”

Sam nodded, standing up and offering Jamie his hand. Jamie took it, letting Sam pull him to his feet.

“Come on,” Sam said. “Let’s get out of here. We can go somewhere quieter, or I can take you straight home if you’d prefer.”

“Somewhere quieter sounds good,” Jamie said. He wasn’t ready to face Roy yet, wasn’t ready for the understanding he’d see in Roy’s eyes, the concern that would make Jamie feel like he was falling apart all over again.

They walked away from the bar together, leaving the noise and celebration behind. And for the first time since the bathroom floor weeks ago, Jamie felt like maybe he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

Maybe Sam understanding, Sam knowing, wasn’t the end of the world.