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Jamie Tartt was sixteen years old when he first realised his father would likely kill him one day, the first time a forearm pressed against his throat and made it impossible to breathe, the first time Jamie recognised he might have survived the night, but his luck wouldn’t last forever.
It was the first time Jamie learned it was safer not to fight back.
It had only been a little shove—a slight push after James had grabbed Jamie’s hair in his fist and pressed his face so close to his that James’ alcohol-tinged breath made his eyes water. Just enough to give Jamie some space, nothing compared to the marks his father’s hands had left on Jamie’s body over the years, but that was all it took to set James off. That was all it took for him to ensure Jamie never forgot this particular lesson.
Being in London, hours from Manchester and with the safety of distance, had made Jamie complacent. He forgot the number one rule his father instilled in him: never fight back. He forgot it was useless to stand up to his dad; it would only end in more suffering.
Jamie relearned that this night through a boot crashing onto an outstretched hand. He was reminded of it as he felt and heard the delicate bones in his hand crunch as a sharp cry of pain tore from him. He learned it again when he couldn’t suppress the agonising scream that ripped from his throat when his father stomped on his hand for a second time.
All the fight Jamie had left shattered with his hand, leaving him whimpering on the floor and dizzy with pain. He was stupid to think he could fight back, and it wouldn’t end with Jamie alone and suffering.
“You put your hands on me again,” James said, fisting Jamie's hair and forcing him to look at his father. “And I’ll break your other fucking hand, too.”
Shoving Jamie’s head back onto the floor, Jamie listened as the snickers and footsteps of the trio diminished as they walked back into the London night—no need to stay. James Tartt did what he came to do. He reminded his son who was in charge, and is was never going to be Jamie.
Jamie curled into a ball for as long as he could and pretended that his Dad hadn’t shown up and shined a spotlight onto his broken soul in front of everyone and then came back and shattered both his peace and his hand with the stomp of a boot. He lay there until the pain became unbearable and he was forced to sneak a glance at his hand. One look told Jamie he needed to see a doctor. He couldn’t move it anymore, and it was swollen and misshapen in ways hands weren’t supposed to be.
He should have stayed at Roy's, he lamented while sitting in the A&E waiting room. At least then, his pain would be confined to his heart and not both his soul and agonising hand. Instead of sleeping in Roy’s probably lush guest room, he was in an A&E waiting room, pain, regret and embarrassment his only companions. He pulled his hat lower, hoping no one recognised him, and readjusted the ice pack on his throbbing hand. How many times had interactions with his father ended with him in hospital or lying to a well-intentioned physio? How many times had his dad left evidence of his particular brand of love on Jamie’s body?
His father’s lessons, taught through bruises and abrasions, left nothing open for interpretation. Days like today made Jamie unsure how he made it to 24, uncertain how much more he could take before he broke and shattered completely, before there was nothing left to put back together.
And because the only breaks Jamie ever caught involved his father and his bones, Roy fucking Kent walked into A&E as he waited. He really was here, there, and every-fucking-where, weren’t he? Jamie slumped lower in the plastic chair, good hand to the brim of his hat, attempting to block his face. How had Roy known he was here?
Jamie watched through his fingers as Roy spoke to the woman at the front desk. A thin layer of terror drummed through his body as he waited for Roy to turn, fix his gaze on him, and storm over, but the woman simply buzzed the waiting room door open.
“Are you Jamie Tartt?”
Jamie was so preoccupied watching Roy that he hadn’t noticed the kid approach him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Roy stop and slowly turn towards him.
Fuck.
Jamie awkwardly signed the piece of paper the kid’s mom offered with his left hand as Roy rushed towards him like he was heading for an opposing player on the pitch: head down, determined.
Furious.
What was it about Jamie that made the older men in his life want to wrap their hands around his neck and squeeze? What was it about Jamie that made him an easy thing to hurt, to hate, to need to fix either via conditioning, insults or pain?
“Jamie, what the fuck are you doing here?”
He winced inwardly; he had let himself believe for half a second that Roy would be concerned rather than angry and that the look of danger on his face was intended for Jamie’s father, not him.
“Oh. Um–thought I should get this checked out,” Jamie nodded at his ice-pack-covered hand. “I fucked it up when I– when I–”
He trailed off, hoping Roy didn’t need him to finish, hoping his coach would believe the lie that rolled so easily off his tongue.
“Why the fuck didn’t you say anything? I would’ve brought you.”
“Jamie Tartt?” the nurse interrupted. “This way.”
“Didn’t think it was that bad,” Jamie shrugged as he stood and followed. “But I couldn’t sleep, started hurting once the adrenaline wore off, I guess.”
“You still should’ve called me.”
“What’re you doing here, anyway? I didn’t ask anyone to call you.”
Jamie trailed the nurse as Roy stuck at his elbow like an unwanted shadow, inwardly sighing when Roy followed into the bed.
“Roy? What’re you doing in here?” a woman, the doctor according to her scrubs, asked as she entered, and the nurse helped Jamie onto the exam table.
It wasn’t shocking that someone recognised Roy Kent, but the familiarity with which she spoke confused Jamie as he tried to deduce their connection.
“I saw Jamie in the fucking waiting room,” Roy said as he fixed his gaze on Jamie, murderous and dark.
The doctor, seemingly unphased by Roy’s simmering anger, glanced down at the iPad in her hands, recognition gliding across her face as she looked between the pair.
“I’m Dr O’Sullivan,” she introduced herself. “Roy, why don’t you wait for me in the hallway?”
“I’m not leaving him,” Roy said, settling into a chair and crossing his arms.
“Um, yeah, he can stay,” Jamie said quietly, recognising he had no choice.
“Okay,” Dr O’Sullivan glanced again at Roy before smiling at Jamie and removing the ice pack from his swollen hand. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I punched me–I, uh, I punched someone.”
He looked to Roy, who stared unblinkingly at Jamie’s raw, discoloured hand. The doctor didn’t ask for further details; she simply walked Jamie through the exam, having him squeeze this and rotate that, checking different areas for pain.
“Well, Jamie. I suspect your hand is fractured, but we’ll get an X-ray to be sure. I’ll have Hannah get you something for the pain as well. Once I review the X-rays, we’ll go from there, okay? Do you have any questions?”
Immense relief flooded through him at the thought of imminent pain medication. Jamie considered himself to have a high pain threshold, but every slight movement of his hand was sending lightning bolts of pain up his arm.
“Thanks, doctor,” Jamie said, Roy’s eyes still boring into him.
“Someone will be in soon to take you for x-rays. Is that for me?” the doctor asked, pointing to the plastic bag on the seat beside Roy.
Roy looked between the doctor and Jamie, and if he hadn’t known better, he would have thought Roy looked apologetic when he said, “I don’t have enough kebabs for all of us.”
“That’s fine,” the doctor said, taking the bag.
“Hey! What the fuck!”
“Thanks, Roy!” she called over her shoulder as she left the room.
“Did she just take the food you brought?” Jamie asked, even more perplexed than before.
It had smelled good, and Jamie was suddenly ravenous at the implication of food.
“Yeah,” Roy said with a weird calm that confused Jamie enough that he tried to think if his father might have given him a head injury, too.
“If no one called you, then why are you here?” Jamie asked, hoping to get an answer to at least one of his questions.
“I couldn’t sleep. I told Ruth I’d bring her food.”
Jamie tilted his head in confusion. That didn’t explain anything.
“Does Keeley know you’re here?” Jamie asked.
“No.”
Jamie bit his lip, “Look, mate, I know this isn’t my business, but it kind of is because I still care about Keeley, so, like, why are you bringing a random woman food in the middle of the night?”
“She’s my fucking sister,” Roy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index fingers. “I didn’t tell Keeley yet because she’s asleep.”
The dark hair, the eyebrows, and the lack of reaction to the Roy Kent Effect made much more sense suddenly.
“Oh,” Jamie said, feeling doltish, but was thankfully saved by an orderly arriving to take him for x-rays. “You don’t have to wait, man, I’m fine.”
Jamie attempted to sound nonchalant without begging. Roy Kent sitting with him, staring at him like he was all fucking concerned, was not something Jamie could handle at the moment, no matter how much he didn’t want to be alone, no matter how many years he spent looking to a Roy Kent poster for comfort. He should have stayed home, waited until Monday and, just seen the physios, and kept with his story that the damage to his hand happened when he punched his Dad. But the pain had gotten to him, and he wasn’t sure he could go another 36 hours without relief.
He climbed slowly into the wheelchair and prayed Roy was gone by the time he returned, pushing down the tiny voice that wanted to beg his coach to stay.
When Roy was gone when the orderly wheeled Jamie back to the exam room, disappointment and relief fought for dominance in his chest, tightening with each breath.
The pain medication had brought his hand from stabbing to a dull throb, but it did nothing to quiet the noise in his head. The match, the scene in the changing room and his dad’s visit after continued to replay in his head like a movie Jamie never wanted to see. Try as he might, the sound of the delicate bones in his hand snapping reverberated non-stop between his ears, and Jamie wondered how many sequels there would be before the franchise abruptly ended in blood.
The walls began to close in on Jamie, and just as he was debating running from A&E and not looking back, dealing with his hand and Roy another time, Dr O’Sullivan returned. Roy trailed behind her, and warmth spread through Jamie’s belly unbidden. However, it turned sour quickly as he shifted on the bed, and pain reminded him unceremoniously that this wasn’t a social visit.
“You need anything else for pain? Are you doing alright?” the doctor asked.
Jamie shook his head as she smiled at him without it reaching her eyes. Jamie didn’t need to graduate medical school to know it wasn’t good news. He knew as soon as Dad’s foot connected with his hand, but still, it’s the hope that kills you, innit?
“Do you want the good news or bad news first?”
“Uh, bad, I guess,” Jamie said, scrubbing his good hand across his face.
“I reviewed your scans,” she said, turning the iPad around so Jamie could see the image. “Unfortunately, as suspected, your hand is broken. You can see the second, third and fourth metacarpals.”
Some of the breaks he could see clearly as she pointed them out; others just looked like shadows. Roy’s face was clear, comparatively; it looked murderous. Jamie knew his dad had done a number on his hand, but the gravity of it was hitting him with an official diagnosis. Jamie was always a slow learner, wasn’t he? But this message was indeed received loud and clear.
Jamie bit his lip before asking the doctor, “Wait, what’s the good news?”
“You can have the kebab after I set your hand,” she said sheepishly.
Whereas he had been starving mere moments ago, Jamie suddenly felt nauseous. He was beginning to sweat in the small room at the idea of his hand being reduced.
“You alright?” Roy asked.
“Yeah, that’s fine, coach,” Jamie said, wiping his left hand on his forehead.
A nurse appeared and worked with the doctor to give Jamie more localised pain medication. Roy stayed to the side, his eyes boring into him like another X-ray machine until the doctor was ready to set the fractures. Roy grabbed his good hand, and Jamie stared at it, not quite comprehending that Roy Kent was holding his hand. Roy offered Jamie comfort and consistency for the second time that night, while his father only offered pain and embarrassment.
“Squeeze if it hurts,” Roy nodded at him.
With Jamie distracted, Ruth snapped his hand back into place, a groan leaking from his throat as he squeezed Roy’s hand tightly. The older man rubbed soothing circles into the back of Jamie’s hand as another bone was reset. Heaving gulps of air, Jamie tried to breathe through the pain before a third fracture stabilised. Roy rubbed his back, and Jamie tried not to look as helpless as he felt.
“All done. You did well, lad,” Dr O’Sullivan patted him on the knee and Jamie half-thought she would offer him a lollie. “Now, let's get you in a cast and out of here as soon as possible.”
True to her word, in less than an hour, Jamie and Roy sat patiently, waiting for Jamie’s cast to dry and discharge papers to be written. At the same time, Roy carefully fed the injured man a kebab, and Jamie complained about the lack of graffiti cast colours available. If he needed to keep his hand in a cast for four weeks, he at least wanted it to feel like him. Ruth, though, had convinced him that while a white cast might be bland now, he could decorate it any way he pleased with any number of colours or graffiti. She even drew a miniature doodle on it to get him started while Roy signed his name.
Jamie stared at the signature for a long while, thinking of how chuffed young Jamie would have been to have Roy Kent sign his cast. He might almost find the injury worth it, at least until it interfered with football.
Once he was ready to be discharged, Ruth instructed her brother to bring his car to the entrance, and Roy looked tentatively back at the pair before the doctor shooed him from the room.
“The discharge papers have all the relevant information, and the Richmond staff will likely develop their own treatment plan for your recovery, but do you have any questions for me?” Dr O’Sullivan asked as she helped him into a sling to help support the injury.
Jamie’s brain might as well have been filled with mashed for all the thoughts he could form currently.
“Okay,” the doctor said, seemingly sensing his inability to process everything that had happened and starting to write on his discharge papers. “Here’s my number if you have any questions or if Roy is, well, Roy.”
“Cheers, thanks,” Jamie offered.
An orderly arrived with a wheelchair, and Ruth waved him off, forcing him to leave it in the doorway.
“Is there anything you want to talk about while Roy’s gone? Doctor-patient confidentiality covers anything you tell me. Do you feel safe at home?”
“What?”
“Hand fractures aren’t uncommon, but your injury is not consistent with what we would see with someone throwing a punch.”
“No–it was. I’m fine. Yeah, of course, I’m safe at home.”
“There are resources available to you for support groups,” Ruth said, adding a pamphlet to his discharge papers. “I know it can be challenging to let people see that side, but I promise you, people care, and things can get better.”
“I’m fine–really. Thank you, Doc. I appreciate it.”
“Okay,” Dr O’Sullivan said, squeezing his knee before helping him into the wheelchair.
Jamie tried not to feel like he had disappointed her. He had only known her a few hours; it was silly to want to remain in her favour simply because she was Roy’s sister and she was kind to him.
“For the record. My brother is better at the supportive stuff than he pretends he is. If you need him, there’s no one else I would rather go to.”
The feeling of Roy’s arms wrapped around him made Jamie desperate to agree with her. Desperate to hope that he could open himself again to Roy and be glued back together in his arms. Desperate to hope that Roy could reduce the pain in his soul the same way his sister reduced his hand. Immobilise the pain, protect it, and let it heal. But he couldn’t ask Roy to do any of that. Not again, not after his father had proven again that there was nothing Jamie could do.
Not when it would just delay the inevitable.
Ruth chatted amiably while pushing the wheelchair towards the exit, and Jamie tried to pay attention, to nod and make noises at the right points, but her words went in one ear and out the other.
“It took him three days to wash it off fully. Oi, there he is!” Ruth said cheerily as Roy pulled the SUV to the curb. Judging by the look on Roy’s face, Jamie wished he could remember the rest of the story.
“Remind me never to let you near anyone I know again,” Roy said as he opened the car door for Jamie.
“Sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Jamie, but you have my number now; if Roy gives you trouble, you know where to find me.”
“Use that number, and I'll kill you,” Roy said, shutting the car door, pulling his sister into a quick hug and walking around to the driver’s side of the car.
Jamie was silent the rest of the ride, looking out the window, hoping Roy hadn’t noticed his knee bouncing in the passenger seat.
“Oh, um, you can just take me home,” Jamie said, realising Roy wasn’t driving in the direction of his house.
“I don't think that's a good idea.”
“No, it’s fine—he won’t—I’ll be fine.”
Jamie corrected himself quickly, hoping Roy might’ve missed the he. As if he could be anyone else.
“I would feel better if you came to mine. As your coach.”
“Right, yeah, of course, Coach,” Jamie said, dropping his head, picking at invisible lint on his cast.
“I’m just texting Ted, telling him I won’t be in later,” Roy said as he pulled to a stop and turned off the car, presumably at his house.
“You don’t—”
“I don’t. But I am. I am choosing to, Jamie.”
Jamie opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Roy got out of the car, walked around to Jamie’s side, and offered his hand to help him out of the Mercedes.
“You’re sleeping for as long as you need, and then I'll make you whatever you want to eat. Tomorrow, you’ll check in with the physios for your rehab plan. And we’ll fucking go from there.”
“This—” Jamie said, gesturing at the sling, “—is nothing. I can still play.”
“Not with that cast, you can’t. And you’re not getting rid of that cast until your hand is fully healed.”
“But—”
“Not up to me, Jamie. But what is up to me is making sure you take care of yourself in the meantime.”
Roy unlocked his door, gesturing for Jamie to enter before him. Jamie kicked off his slides, glancing around the foyer. Roy touched his elbow, gently guiding him towards the guest room.
“Toilet,” Roy said, opening a door for the ensuite.
Jamie nodded, and Roy helped him undress and held the covers as Jamie slid into bed with his underwear, t-shirt and sling, willing Roy to leave the room as the lump in his throat grew larger and larger, threatening to escape. Roy slowly closed the door, and Jamie barely had time to shove his good fist into his mouth before the first sob escaped.
There was a time when Jamie was used to waking in unfamiliar bedrooms. But that time had passed, and shifting in the bed caused a stab of pain in a hand that quickly reminded him how broken it was. The pain brought with it unwanted memories of how and why he was in Roy Kent’s guest bed.
Jamie eased his arm out of the sling. Ruth said he didn’t need to wear it; it was more for comfort than any medical necessity. Jamie didn’t deserve comfort, and he didn’t deserve whatever Roy was cooking; the smell of it was making Jamie’s mouth water. A cursory glance at his phone showed an unruly number of missed notifications and a time of 16:58. He’d slept almost ten hours.
Slowly and awkwardly, he pulled on his bottoms one-handed and padded towards the smell of food. Roy stood with his back to him at the stove; a glass of water and a pill were next to the bottle of painkillers on the counter. Jamie grumbled at his casted hand. Doing anything for the next few weeks would be difficult, but that was the point, wasn’t it? He can’t forget Dad’s lesson with his dominant hand useless and covered with a cast.
“Take it,” Roy said without turning around.
Jamie did as he was told and sat at one of the stools by the island. His head swirled with different things he should say to Roy, each more inadequate than the last. A bowl clanging on the granite in front of him saved him from further thought.
Jamie lifted his right arm automatically, forgetting the cast covering his fractured hand. He struggled to resist the urge to knock the bowl to the floor with his broken hand, letting the bowl shatter into the same pieces his hand was in. Picking up the fork with his left hand, Jamie awkwardly speared a piece of chicken, grateful for the bite-sized pieces in the stirfry.
“Thanks,” Jamie offered gratefully between bites, watching as Roy ate his portion.
By the time he finished eating, Jamie’s anxiety threatened to spill from the pit in his stomach out his throat. His hand might be broken, but he was fed, had slept, and someone was sitting next to him with worry vibrating from him; the other shoe was coming, and Jamie could only hope to minimise the damage it inflicted.
“Thanks, um, for everything. I’m sorry about last night with me dad; it won’t happen again.”
Dad always said the best defence is a good offence. He might as well apologise before Roy had the chance to criticise him.
“That’s not what I’m worried about, Jamie. We’re not letting your father get anywhere near you when you’re wearing a Richmond kit. I’m worried about when you’re not.”
“You don’t need to worry,” Jamie’s false bravado died on his lips.
Roy Kent spent almost a year despising Jamie and everything he did. Where was that version of Roy when he wanted to curl into a ball and hide from the world? Where was that version when he wanted to forget last night ever happened?
“It’s too late for that, Jamie. Because when I dropped you off, your hand didn’t look like that,” Roy said, pointing at his injury. “So either you fell, or fuck, dropped something on your hand, I don’t know, either you had an accident, which I can’t imagine you would lie about, or your Dad showed up and did that to you. So which one is it?”
Jamie’s head dropped, his hands moved against his will, attempting to fit under his shirt hem, only the cast made it clumsy and impossible, and he hissed in pain the sudden movement caused. Roy pulled an ice pack from his freezer and led Jamie to the couch, placing a pillow on the arm of the settee to elevate his injury and gently adding the ice to the cast. Jamie fisted his good hand under his shirt, the familiar stretch of fabric a normalcy he clung desperately to.
“Say I believed you. Why didn’t you call me?” Roy asked. “I would’ve taken you to A&E.”
“No one wants to sit in A&E in the middle of the night, least of all with someone they don’t even like.”
“I like you.”
Jamie scoffed, “You don’t, mate. It’s fine.”
“You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“I’m here because you feel sorry for me. Poor Jamie with the dick Dad. I don’t need your fucking pity.”
“Is everything a fucking fight with you?” Roy asked.
“Then why am I fucking here? You don’t want me here. I don’t want to fucking be here. Just let me fucking leave, man.”
“No,” Roy said emphatically.
“You already said I can’t play with this,” he gestured at his cast. “So I can’t fuck things up anymore for meself; just let me leave.”
“That’s what you think? I only care if you can play? That this was your fault?”
“I’m no good to you off the pitch. You said it yourself: I need to score more goals. I can’t score from the bench.”
“You’re twisting my fucking words.”
“No, I’m not, mate, that’s exactly what you said," Jamie countered."
“Well, I didn’t fucking mean it like that. When you’re on the pitch, yeah, you needed to score more fucking goals. And you have. But I’m talking about outside of football.”
“There is no outside of football.”
“Is that what he tells you?”
Jamie doesn’t reply. Can’t bring himself to say no. Can’t bring himself to lie.
“He’s wrong to think that. And he’s wrong to hurt you.”
He can’t bring himself to lie about that, either. Not anymore, not when Roy had already seen into his soul the night before, not when Roy was the first person besides mummy to see Jamie in all his cracked perfection and show him love and not disdain. Jamie swallowed the lump building in his throat, fighting the urge to let it flow from him, to cry in Roy’s arms for a second day in a row.
But last night was different. The team was there, and Roy had to do something. This was more than Roy signed up for with him. Jamie might’ve spent half his life looking up to Roy Kent on the telly or on his fucking wall, but Roy’s only actually given a shit about anything Jamie-related for 24 hours.
“I can’t let—I don’t want your father ever to hurt you again, Jamie.”
“He won’t—he didn’t. He—”
“He broke your fucking hand!”
Jamie flinched at the decible but said, “my fault, innit? I hit him. Course, he would be fucking mad.”
Jamie should have realised the night would always end in pain.
“It’s not your fault.”
Jamie scoffed, “Deep down, I’m a prick, ain’t I? At my core, like. That’s what you said, innit? Course, it’s my fault.”
“Jamie–”
“No, I mean, really, man, you, of all people, are going to act surprised that I pissed someone off to do this? You going to tell me you haven’t wanted to do it yourself?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Roy asked, voice rising, and Jamie braced for what was coming.
“You spent half a season wishing you could’ve beat me fucking head in. You actually told me you were out to get me at Keeley’s last year. Don’t act like you’re surprised someone would lay their hands on me.”
“I wouldn’t have hurt you,” Roy said, his voice quiet and hurt, unlike Jamie had ever heard it.
The look on Roy’s face almost broke him, and that pain was worse than his fractured hand. Jamie had finally fucked it fully; he broke Roy Kent. He stood quickly, knocking the ice pack to the floor.
“I’m tired. Is it alright if I go to bed?”
“Yeah, fuck, of course, but Jamie–”
“Night, Roy. Thanks–thanks for everything.”
Jamie locked the guest room door that night and prayed he hadn’t fucked things with Roy worse than ever.
At four am, Jamie crept from the guest bedroom, pausing to ensure he didn’t hear Roy moving around upstairs. Once he was satisfied Roy wouldn’t appear as if summoned, he made his way to the front door, grateful his slides were still there.
Jamie spent the night tossing and turning, trying to expel his father from his mind, but he was like an immovable tumour. By morning, Jamie knew one thing to be true. James Tartt was an inevitable catastrophe, and Jamie knew in his heart that he would never survive the storm. Anything Roy could offer would only be a lifejacket while he bobbed around lost at sea, but it would simply delay the inevitable.
Roy couldn’t save him from his fate. And worse, Jamie might drown Roy with him.