Chapter Text
“Their hearts have not grown old; / Passion or conquest, wander where they will, / Attend upon them still. / But now they drift on the still water, / Mysterious, beautiful; / Among what rushes will they build, / By what lake’s edge or pool / Delight men’s eyes when I awake some day / To find they have flown away?”
[Excerpt from: The Wild Swans at Coole – William Butler Yeats]
His grandad used to say, lightning never strikes twice. He would give Roy a sly grin when he did, eyes twinkling and accent thick. Even then, Roy knew it held more meaning than the obvious. Iarlaith O’Cináed was a man of many colours. He was superstitious, yet held every confidence that fate would show Her hand; he was a dedicated farmer, and for most of his life had an ongoing spat with the neighbouring pheasants that ate his crops; he believed true love was once in a lifetime, like a bolt of lightning, and you’d be a fool if you didn’t know what had struck you.
Roy took those things to heart, as he did with most of the advice his grandad imparted to him. When Roy was a boy, he thought taking on those ideals made him noble; as a man, it just became common sense. Be loyal, be true, never run away from the things that matter. If something didn’t click immediately, it wasn’t for him.
Keeley and him clicked, the spark there from the beginning. Every glance back or brush of hands, before they even knew one another and just ran in the same circles—looks that said, I see you, you seem like fun—threaded with hints of mischief, and ego, and desire. And then she went and dated that prick, and Roy seriously questioned her poor taste.
“That guy’s a total knob,” Roy says, offhandedly. It’s imparted with the same assurance Roy says everything—like a star certain of its place in the universe.
Keeley hits him on the arm, playful but firm. “Shut up, I think he’s sweet. Like a puppy.”
“Desperate to please? Slobbering all over your fucking shoes?” That earns him a jab to the ribs.
“John’s alright. He and Rebecca may just be a poor match.”
“Yeah, because he’s a knob. Wouldn’t stop going on and on about whatever famous bloke he met, like any of us give a shit.”
The night air bites and clings as the two shuffle through the dark, the cold seeping in between the seams of their coats. Roy is nursing a mild headache—from the lights, from the conversation, from the nattering of two intelligent women who should see plainly that John is a fucking numpty—and there’s a buzz in his blood from the several whiskeys he managed to put away. Roy is a little unsteady on his feet and can feel a flush in his cheeks.
“He was probably just nervous and trying to fit in. Probably wanted to impress us.”
Roy gives Keeley a sideways glance. “Why are you defending him?”
She fiddles with the ring on her finger, a big gaudy thing Roy bought her for their six month anniversary. “I just think everyone deserves a chance.”
He scoffs.
“I’m serious, Roy.” Keeley tugs them to a halt, pulling her arm away from where they’re linked together.
They stare at one another, in the middle of a slick London street. The light from the street lamps reflect off the gold of Keeley’s jewellery, making her glow. She looks fucking stunning.
“Fine, you can go ahead and be some fucking bleeding heart or whatever. Be changing my nappies before long, see how much you enjoy taking pity on needy blokes then.”
The mood turns serious, the silence tense and awkward. They walk on, the Thames a murky creature sloshing about to their left, at a safe enough distance that the smell doesn’t reach them, barring a wayward breeze.
“You’re grumpy,” Keeley says. “Was it the food?”
“It’s a steakhouse.” Meat and alcohol, all a man needs, as his grandad would say. Minus the touch of a good woman, but don’t tell your mamó I said that.
Silence encroaches again.
“At least he has hobbies,” she says, finally. Which—that’s a low fucking blow.
“I have hobbies,” Roy grumbles.
“Watching the telly with a bunch of women in their sixties?”
He scowls. “We do yoga first. And besides, I read, I cook, I do things—things for you. Don’t hear you complaining then.”
“This isn’t about me. I want you to have more from life than just football.”
Thinking about football hurts, a hot pulsing throb in his heart, in his knee. It eats away at his flesh like rust against metal, incessant—who am I? Who am I? Who am I?
Subtle as a sledgehammer, Keeley adds, “But if you’re missing it, you could always do that pundit gig.”
Roy groans. “Would you fucking quit it? If I wanted to be some knob in a suit prattling on about nonsense, I would have become a fucking lawyer.” He wouldn’t have, he hated school. “Besides, it’s soulless.”
“What, no lightning?” The weird atmosphere that had encroached on their lovely evening dissolves, as Keeley snorts and covers a hand over her mouth.
Roy rolls his eyes. “Don’t make fun.”
“No, no. It’s sweet, I always forget you’re such a romantic.”
“M’not.”
“You’re right, you’re a dickhead.”
Roy grins, honest and true. In that moment, he’s filled with so much joy. “Good thing you’re into that.”
Keeley smiles. “Take me home and I’ll show you just how much.”
God, he loves this woman.
☆
Retirement isn’t as bad as Roy always feared.
When he was in his twenties, a cocky brat at the height of his prime, retirement was the grim reaper dogging every player's heels. It was murmured about in hushed tones as something to fear and resent and run from for as long as you were able. Retirement signalled the end, the chopping block that separated your life into before and after; Roy Kent and just some bloke with a bum knee.
In the final hours, when Roy warmed the bench for Richmond and his title of captain was ornamental at best, it was obvious he was just delaying the inevitable. With the weight of being put back on the shelf, it felt like a different kind of burden, one he wanted over as much as he dreaded its arrival.
But Roy has never liked endings.
He didn’t understand how others did it, how they just stopped. It felt wrong, unfinished, like setting down a part of yourself to leave out in the cold—completely alien when he’d kept himself warm with his fire since forever, a torch he didn’t know how to put down. Without football, it had the nasty habit of flaring at the worst moments, burning those around him. Better when it was a beacon of strength and triumph than a glowing coal begging to either be given breath or snuffed out.
Granted, when Roy was young and virile, carrying the touch of emotion in his chest like a weapon, he wasn’t even considering the end. He was blazing a trail no one could follow, the others soles too tender to bear the heat. There was no thought he might veer off course and crash into the next bright, young thing—that he would be left sprawling while the others raced on ahead.
When he was twenty, Roy wasn’t thinking of consequences. Of course, when he was that age, he also had a stomach of steel and could run forty laps after a night out with the team tossing back shots of whiskey.
The current Roy—laying on the sofa with a headache and dry mouth, his stomach rolling and an ice pack on his knee—envies that youth. Yesterday was yoga and the girls were in high spirits. Janice kept topping off his glass of rosé, even though he knew better with her heavy hand. Once upon a time, he might have appreciated it, now he would settle for the wedge of cake Lauren supplies him with twice a week.
Roy sits up and his temples give a dull throb. The now luke-warm ice pack slides to the floor as he groans and shuffles into the kitchen. He turns on the telly as he passes through, a cuppa and some inane, early morning talk show exactly what is best for these sorts of mornings. He sifts through the bags of coffee to find his tin of earl grey. While he waits for the kettle to boil, he reheats last night's dinner in the microwave and allows himself the ninety odd seconds it takes to wallow.
Chin tucked to chest, he closes his eyes and thinks about football. Coaching Phoebe and the other U9s has been alright. It’s similar to when he was captain, handing out instruction and advice with a tongue lashing for good measure. The girls seem to respond to it better than any of his teammates ever did, their round earnest faces beaming up at him, thinking he holds the secrets to the world. They’re a bunch of little idiots, but he admires their passion—tries to stoke the little flames inside each of them, in the hopes it will blaze even brighter than his did.
There is a flash of blue on screen and Roy tips his head up to catch a recycled clip from last night’s episode of Lust Conquers All. He snorts as they cut away to the hosts and the man of the hour, ugly hair and made-up face, with both arms spread across the back of the sofa. The sound is low enough that Roy can’t hear what they’re saying, doesn’t care really, until a banner appears at the bottom of the screen with the text, LCA Contestant Jamie Tartt is Dropped from City.
There is a shrill ringing in Roy’s ears as he reads those words over and over as they scroll past. It builds, punctuated by one final trill before he realises it’s the microwave announcing his meal is ready. He stands there like a moron, mouth open and hands fisted. That fucking prick. That smarmy shit, does he have any clue—
Roy is familiar with this particular brand of stupid, used to rage against it in the locker room every day and then on the pitch when the lad finally got booted back to his home team. Jamie is the type to push borders and test restraints, sometimes finding his way into trouble like getting himself dropped by Richmond or his face meeting the end of another’s fist. Roy has never doubted Jamie as a player—might need convincing that the prick's moral compass points anywhere other than his dick, or that he even knows how to tie his own laces, but out on the pitch? There has never been any doubt in Roy’s mind that whatever Jamie wanted he would get, much to his constant fucking irritation.
This, however—getting kicked off City because he wanted to go flaunt about in a private villa for the summer, wasting his seat on first team and the years ahead of him on a reality television show? The rage inside Roy surges and chars his insides; he feels like if he opens his mouth, smoke will come out.
He is startled from his thoughts by a hesitant knock at the door. Roy doesn’t give much thought to who it could be, which is his mistake. He’s become soft in his retirement, surrounded by comforts all day long. Constant vigilance, as Phoebe would remind him, is important when facing the unexpected—such as Tartt himself, haunting Roy’s doorstep.
It’s as though he were summoned from the recesses of Roy’s mind, the curse of the boy, something that used to happen all too often at Richmond; one thought of Tartt, and round the next corner there he would be. At least in this moment, he looks just as shocked to see Roy.
Neither one of them says anything for a moment. Jamie is still wearing that dark suit from his interview, eyes hidden behind tacky shades and hair hanging limp like he’d been running his hands through it. Roy starts to perk up a bit, bearing witness to this fall from grace. The giddiness douses the burning core of him, tended to for the moment.
“The fuck you want?” Roy finally says.
Jamie sniffs and peers inside, wearing a bored expression. “Keeley home? Or do I have to leave a message with the benchwarmer—sorry, bed warmer?” He grins, showing all his teeth. Jamie got his teeth fixed after his first paycheck with City, only knows this because the lad bragged so much about it. Roy had to wear braces in year nine and still had all his real teeth, apart from one back molar he lost during a pub crawl and a brawl with the bouncer.
Anger and loathing rises in Roy like a wave, washing out any pity he might have garnered for Tartt. He feels like he should defend himself, standing there like a muppet in the doorway of Keeley’s posh house, lounging about in nothing but his shirt and pants when it’s well past noon. Had nothing on, did he? Full morning free just like yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Maybe Jamie’s here to start shit, to have a laugh and make himself feel better, to show Keeley the newer model and ask, remember what we had? Does it compare to that?
If this mouthy little prick thinks he can come here and judge him, when all this mess is Jamie’s fault in the first place—recklessly chasing glory, stolen not earned.
“Keeley’s out.” Roy tries to keep his face from doing anything obvious.
Jamie rocks back and forth on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. “Don’t mind waiting.”
At this, Roy can’t help but scowl and tighten his grip on the door. “I’m not inviting you in.”
There’s a scuffle, childish and petty, with Roy shouldering all his weight against the idiot, fighting the inevitable. It only takes a handful of moments before Jamie is shoving his way inside, knocking the door into Roy’s knee, a dirty trick.
Since he can’t help but run his mouth, Jamie starts up a snarky commentary as he wanders from room to room, towards the living space.
“I see Keeley hasn’t redecorated much since I were last round. Bloody ugly sofa that is, mate. Where’d you get it, from your nan? Oi, we picked out that painting together, you know? Wanted a poster of the two of us looking well fit, but Keeley said this one was better—more tasteful. Compromised we did, she got the painting and I got her mouth on my—”
Jamie draws up short, his incessant chatter silenced for the moment. He seems frozen, eyes stuck on the telly, where Soccer Saturday is still playing highlights of his interview from the morning show with Phil and Holly—Christ, since when did he know their fucking names? A clip of Jamie on the pool deck at the villa plays, that strong body stretched across a lounger in nothing but bright orange swim trunks. He looks ridiculous with eyes shaded and lips quirked, the boy pouts more than one of those prima donnas that grace the magazine covers. On screen, Jamie curls a bicep, his gaudy tattoos on full display and looking like something straight out of the nineties, when Lisa Frank was still in fashion—wings, skull, butterfly. The only thing missing is a peace sign or a dreamcatcher. Maybe even a tramp-stamp, Jamie seems the sort to go in for that kind of thing.
“You a fan?” Jamie tries for snide, but it’s half-hearted at best.
Roy crosses his arms and leans against the wall, lets the moment stretch out before saying, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Jamie bristles. “The fuck were you thinking, chasing me down the pitch?”
“That I wasn’t about to let a little prick like you get one over on me.”
“Failed though. Didn’t even win, didn’t even matter in the end.”
Things devolve quickly from there, the two crossing the distance and resorting to action when words lose their lustre. Neither one of them actually lands a blow. Jamie’s hands jab and prod, his pinkie ring grazing flesh; Roy’s mouth twists into a snarl, teeth snapping only air. One of them steps on Jamie’s sunglasses, knocked to the floor at some point, and they make an unpleasant crunch.
“What on earth are you boys doing?”
Roy and Jamie pause, blinking at Keeley standing in the doorway, pink fuzzy purse slung over her arm and her face baffled. They take two steps away from one another, sheepish and rumpled and indignant.
“He started it,” Jamie says.
Roy rolls his eyes and doesn’t even dignify that with a response. Instead, he goes over and kisses his lovely girlfriend on the mouth because he can. She belongs to Roy now and the prick should be reminded of it.
Keeley makes a sweet humming sound and pulls back to look at Roy before her eyes skitter over to Jamie, considering. “Coffee,” she says, with a nod. “This calls for coffee.”
“Tea,” the boys say at the same time. Roy scowls and Jamie narrows his eyes.
“Be a love and add lots of milk and sugar, please,” Jamie tacks on. “You know just how I like it.”
Roy sneers. “Ah, letting ourselves go now, are we?”
“You’d know all about that.”
“Boys.” Keeley’s tone is exasperated, and Roy knows from experience that he’s only a few missteps away from a lecture. He keeps quiet.
Keeley wanders into the kitchen and flicks the switch on the kettle. Roy and Jamie take seats across from one another at the dining table, trying to convey their dislike with only their eyes. There has always been something about Jamie that Roy couldn’t tolerate. When came to Richmond, Cartrick told him to bite his tongue and be a leader, not some big girl about it. But Roy couldn’t ignore it, his head was full of the idiot and that only made him more angry.
Footsteps come from Roy’s left and a kiss is pressed to his cheek. A new ice pack drops onto Roy’s bad knee, the pain having become an afterthought in his frustration. “Play nice,” Keeley murmurs.
Roy feels a sharp flash of embarrassment strike through him as he watches Jamie smirk. Here Roy is, a truly pathetic sight, being attended to and looking less like a god being doted on and more like a codger who needs the dribble wiped from his chin. It’s apparent Jamie is enjoying the display, in seeing Roy brought low; he’s gathering ammo, ready to mock and jeer.
“I heard about City.” Keeley’s voice cuts through the silence from the kitchen. “I’m so sorry, Jamie.”
Suddenly, Roy feels loads better.
“Actually,” Jamie says, clearing his throat and sitting up a bit straighter. “I came to talk to you about that.”
The kettle clicks off as the water rolls to a boil. Keeley appears surprised by Jamie’s admission, and Roy isn’t sure why. The lad has always been a needy bugger.
“Of course, babes, you know we’ll help you anyway we can.”
Roy raises a brow and mouths, we?
Jamie scrunches up his face, equally disgusted. “Does this prick really need to be here? Isn’t it his nap time already?”
Keeley comes in and sets three mugs on the table—coffee, tea, tea with frills. Her hand on Roy’s shoulder is the only thing that holds him back from lunging across the table at Jamie.
“Oi,” she says, eyeing them both. “I told you two to play nice.” She sits and puts a hand on Jamie’s wrist. “Are you alright? Getting kicked off City… Has your family been in touch?”
Jamie cuts a glance at Roy, before shifting his body more towards Keeley. “Yeah, they’ve… I was going to text you, but I deleted your number. I just wanted to talk to somebody, and when I think of talking…” He trails off.
Keeley is silent for a beat. “You deleted my number?”
“Not really relevant here,” Roy grunts.
“Do you think…” Jamie taps at the bottom of his mug. “Do you think Richmond would take me back?”
Roy lets out a bark of laughter. Keeley, bless her, actually considers it.
“I’m not sure,” she says. “I don’t think that’s a question either of us can answer for you.”
Jamie pouts and Roy keeps on laughing.
“There’s no way,” he says. “If either of you think Lasso will let this prick back on the team, you’re barmy. ” They both look at Roy, indignant, and he rolls his eyes. “You left a stain that can’t be washed out. You fucked with Sam, and Nate, and Colin—wouldn’t be surprised if the entire team hates your guts. Lasso might be a fucking moron when it comes to tactics but team building? He’s not going to ruin that shit for anything, not even a used-to-be ace like you.”
“Fuck you, old man.”
“Look,” Keeley interjects. “We won’t know for sure until you ask Ted yourself.”
Jamie nods. “Got to see if the punch will land in order to learn,” he says nonsensically.
“Doesn’t matter,” Roy dismisses. “If you’re just going to fuck about and treat football like some kind of fucking joke.”
“Like you can talk, day-drinking and lines of coke off models' tits back in the day, at least I’m actually sober when I play. Can rely on natural talent—”
“That ‘nature talent’ why City’s been so eager to get rid of your arse? Twice.”
“Shut up!” Keeley shouts over them. “Listen to you two, arguing like a couple of old maids.”
“He started it!” Jamie says, and Roy is going to throttle him.
Keeley gets this look on her face, the one that spells trouble for Roy, with a gleam in her eye and guilt round the corners of her mouth. Like when she got gum stuck in his hair and suggested peanut butter to get it out. Smelled like a fucking Reese’s cup for a week.
“Maybe Roy could help you.”
The boys break their necks to look at Keeley. “What?”
“Yeah,” she says, excited now. “Roy’s been teaching the U9s girls team. He’s a really good coach, could probably help train you to be even better.”
Jamie wrinkles his nose. Roy isn’t sure which part of that statement the lad finds more offensive—the comparison of U9s to a prem team, the idea that Roy is a good coach, or the implication that Jamie’s footie needs any improvement.
Training Jamie would be a nightmare, like sisyphus and his damn rock, the lad waiting at the top of the mountain to punt it down like a ball and laugh in Roy’s face. Roy grinds his teeth together. He remembers Jamie at Richmond, flouncing about, no work ethic and all about the flash. Except… sometimes Roy would be in the car park, ready to leave for the day, and spot Jamie alone on the pitch practising drills; sometimes he’d forget his book in the weight room and catch Jamie doing extra sets, sweat soaking his kit and a serious expression on his face.
Roy can already see Jamie opening his dumb mouth to say something biting about Roy’s age or lifestyle or failure. He heads it off by saying, “Alright. I’ll help.”
Keeley looks proper proud, while Jamie looks like he’s being sent off to the gallows.
“You’ve got to be fucking joking.”
“See?” Roy gestures. “Not serious about football.”
Jamie jumps up and slaps his hands against the table, like the child that he is. “I am!”
“Then fucking act like it. If you really fucking mean it, then fucking work for it.”
He scowls, but sits back down. “You promise this will get me back on the team?”
“Fuck no. But—” He holds up a hand before Jamie can baulk. “It’s a start. Besides, you need to stay in shape if you intend to resign somewhere.” Roy snickers. “Maybe Arsenal will take you.”
Jamie looks ready to lunge across the table for round three.
“Might want to give that attitude a look over, too.”
“Roy.” Keeley seems to be warring between fondness and exasperation. “Why don’t you get started on that pasta you were gonna make tonight.”
His brows go up and his mouth opens to make another smart comment, but Keeley gives him a look that quells the impulse. Roy grumbles his way to standing and heads into the kitchen.
The telly is still on, running more news about football and ads about hemorrhoid cream. Keeley and Jamie talk in low voices behind him, as Roy pops open the microwave to retrieve his forgotten meal. He scrapes the leftovers into the bin, dumps the dish into the sink, and pulls open the refrigerator door to stare inside. His eyes are unseeing as he enjoys the cool air on his face.
When Roy moved to Richmond, he gained a new talent and since his retirement, cooking only took on new life. He enjoys the quiet of it, the order that comes from creation and consumption. It’s enjoyable, making something that makes others happy. Also, he never realised how dull British cooking is before, or how many fucking spices there are in the world. When he has Phoebe over, he takes care to pack her lunch. Last week he tried making a swan out of apple slices, and it ended up looking more like a sad and browning pinecone. Whatever, Roy never claimed to be some great artist. Usually, he’ll just ply Phoebe with nutritious snacks and a motivational note, one that she can’t read and usually costs him a pound or two—“You say you can’t read it, but you know there are bad words. How’s that fair?”
Keeley sometimes talks about enrolling in culinary school, “Life doesn’t have to stop with football. Maybe this can be your new thing!” She doesn’t understand; there’s nothing that could ever fill the hole football left behind. No hobby, no job, no person. Roy has been on the path to be the greatest football has ever seen since he was old enough to tie-up his own boot. And now, he’s limping along off-trail, waiting for some predator to come and put him out of his fucking misery.
Roy shakes his head and pulls out ingredients from the fridge. As he sets things down on the counter, he glances over his shoulder. Keeley has her laptop out now, readers perched on the end of her nose, while Jamie scrolls on his phone. He’s taken off his shoes at some point and propped his feet up on Roy’s empty chair. Roy lets the fridge door slam closed.
He gets started on the chopping—mushrooms, onion, garlic. Roy might dismiss the idea of life as a chef, but he doesn’t hate the feel of a knife in his hand.
“Oi,” Roy says. Keeley doesn’t look up from her work, but Jamie startles. “Quit being a nuisance and get the lady something to drink.”
Jamie scowls, but actually gets up as he slides his phone into his pocket. He comes into the kitchen and Roy directs him to the wine cooler with a gesture of his knife.
“Careful where you point that thing, mate,” Jamie says, looking alarmed. Roy grins and goes back to chopping.
Pasta is an easy dish, basically just some boiling and sauteing. While Roy is cooking broccoli and spinach in one pan and searing chicken breast in another, Jamie slides him a beer across the counter. Roy flicks his eyes up to get a look at Jamie’s face. He seems pensive as he picks at the label of his own beer, which is novel considering there’s nothing but hair gel between those ears.
“Helped yourself, I see.”
Jamie makes a face. “Only thing you have. Really are an old man.”
“No WKD Blue, however will you manage.” Roy gets a flash of memories—the night of the auction, the two of them saddled up against the bar and trading stories; the night of the bonfire, when the promise of camaraderie had seemed almost too good to be true, and it was. Seems alcohol is the only time the dolt can be honest.
“Don’t just stand about. Give me a hand, would you?” Roy points to one of the cabinets. “Grab us some plates.”
“I’m the guest.” Jamie complains, but he still retrieves the nice ceramic plates from the top shelf. “Should be waiting on me, not ordering me about.”
Roy dishes up for the three of them, giving Keeley a little extra chicken, to keep her energy up. “Just making sure you can follow instructions. If I’m going to train you…”
“Would you quit it with that?” Roy looks up at Jamie whose expression is pinched. For the first time all afternoon, he seems genuinely bothered. “It’s not fucking funny, this is my career we’re talking about. I know it doesn’t matter to you. Just fuck off.”
Roy doesn’t know what to say to that. Jamie is right of course, Roy doesn’t care what happens to the prick’s career, it could crash and burn and Roy wouldn’t so much as blink. It is crashing and burning this very moment, and all Roy can think about is what he’d be able to do with all the time Jamie has left. Just one more practice, one more game, one more victory. He watches Jamie take the plates to the table, gait even and sure, left foot steady and right foot kissed by God. If Roy can’t play, the next best thing he can do is win.
He joins Keeley and Jamie at the table, bringing with him the opened bottle of rosé and the spare.
The alcohol eventually loosens everyone up. Raised shoulders slump and pinched expressions smooth, the evening painted with a rosy hue. Keeley is bubbly and flirty, having moved from her own chair to Roy’s, hanging all over him and talking too loud into his ear. Jamie has ditched his suit jacket and unbutton most of the front of his dress shirt. His hair is untidy and shirtsleeves folded messy above his elbows.
Roy switches from beer to wine at some point in the evening, draining his glasses and then finishing off Keeley’s for good measure. He’s flushed and bubbly—or maybe it’s just all the carbonation. That’s a fun word, carbonation.
“I’m telling you, you’ve got this,” Keeley is saying, stuck in a loop as hype-woman. “Ted has to take you back, he’d be an idiot if he didn’t.”
“Dunno,” Jamie says, index finger poking at the bottom of his nicked drink. He’s only on his second beer. “Suppose we’ll see.”
“And if it really goes poorly,” Roy says, adjusting Keeley so the bone of her hip isn’t digging into his thigh. “I’ll talk to him.”
“You will?” they both say.
He will? Roy looks at his wine glass. He forgot Keeley’s got quite a heavy pour as well. Might need to stop hanging around women with bad intentions.
“He might be the gaffer, but he knows fuck all about football.”
Jamie holds out his beer. “Cheers.”
Keeley heads upstairs shortly after that, probably to unwind with a shower and her extensive skincare routine. He and Jamie stand in the living room, staring at the telly.
“You’d think they’d stop making episodes of this.” Jamie gestures to the screen where a Dalek is spinning and malfunctioning. Roy is pretty sure it’s a rerun, he remembers Phoebe making moon eyes over the ginger one with the funny nose. He’s enjoying watching Jamie try and puzzle out whether or not the Daleks are supposed to be threatening. The Dalek on screen wheels into a wall and one of its round bobbles pop off.
“Nerds love it,” Roy says.
Jamie squints at him. “Thought you said your niece liked this show.”
Roy grunts. “Exactly. Now, put on Match of the Day.”
“There’s a show worth keeping on air.” Jamie grabs the remote.
He seems subdued, confidence shot. Nobody would be able to tell, unless they’d spent hours around the prick and his melodramatic mood swings. Maybe he’s shaken from being turned down, the dust settling as the thought finally penetrates that thick skull. Roy snorts at the notion—when has a lack of another’s interest ever stopped Jamie?
More disconcerting than the lad's lack of pep, is the thought that has been clinging to Roy all evening, unwilling to be banished—that trading barbs with Jamie has been some of the best fun he’s had in months.
“Four am,” Roy says, randomly.
“What?”
“That’s when we’re training.”
Jamie huffs. “You still on about that?”
“Dunno, thought you wanted your life back—no matter how pathetic it was to begin with.”
The look Jamie levels him with is ice cold. “I’m not the one pining for my old life.” He stomps over to the dining table and fishes his dress shoes out from underneath. “I’m out.”
Roy teeters on his feet. “In the state you're in?”
“Only had a couple beers. Got an Uber here anyway, didn’t I?” Jamie finishes tying his laces—well, look at that, he does know how—and shoots Roy one last glower. “Tell Keeley I left.”
“Tell her yourself,” Roy calls after him and the front door slams.
With Jamie finally out of their hair, Roy goes to find Keeley. One less guest meant more cake for the two of them. He stops by the kitchen for dessert, forks, and a can of squirty cream for good measure. The night ends as it should—whipped sugar in his hair, a dab on Keeley’s nose, and a little play-fighting that becomes naughty quickly. Not a thought of Tartt for the rest of the evening.
☆
Roy is wrangling nine year olds with juice boxes when his phone rings.
Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t answer a call with that ringtone on pain of death. At the moment, he isn’t thinking of much beyond getting the little sprogs their daily dose of added sugar.
“What?”
“My, my, what a warm greeting. Is this how they do things in England now, or am I just special? Wait, don’t tell me, I’m already getting the warm and fuzzies in anticipation.”
The sigh Roy lets out is long-suffering. “Lasso.”
“The one and only—aside from Mama Lasso across the pond and a few other distant relatives scattered across the states. Unless there’s some clone of myself wandering around, in which case, point him my way. There’s no party like a me party!”
This is either a really horrible coincidence and the universe is having a laugh, or the prick actually managed to pluck up the courage and meet with the gaffer and his insufferable moustache.
“Lasso,” Roy says again, trying to get his bearings.
“Oh no, is there an echo in here?”
“Fucking hell, would you just—hang on a second—Oi!” Roy glares at the U9s girls giggling and pushing at one another. “I expect better work out there next time. Yuna, you’re dragging behind, need to learn to be more aggressive. And Kokouda, if you’re going to charge ahead, you need to stop fucking about and knock it into the box.” Roy nods, satisfied. “You’re all dismissed.”
“Yes, coach!” a chorus of tiny voices call back. Roy gives Phoebe a pat on the head and tells her to wait for him over by the snack table.
“Oh, boy. Is the great Roy Kent coaching now? Welcome to the club buddy, happy to have you.”
“The fuck do you want?”
“I wanted to run something by you.”
Roy nods and then realises Ted can’t see him. He grunts.
“Jamie came to see me yesterday, asked me if I would be willing to let him rejoin Richmond.”
“And?”
“I wanted to hear your thoughts on the matter.”
He thought Richmond’s defence was shit, that they were in desperate need of talent and of what little they did have was being squandered by poor leadership. They had a player begging to be signed with a history of winning in his favour and, despite all Roy’s personal opinions about the prick, they’d be fucking moronic not to take him back.
“I don’t have an opinion.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Besides, with Tartt’s attitude I’m not surprised City dropped him.”
“What happened to Jamie, it’s… that’s a tough break.” It felt like one of those times someone was saying one thing, but meant another.
“Not the first time the lad’s been let go, though.” Roy doesn’t mean anything by it; it’s just a fact.
“That was different.”
“Tartt is a prick but… it helped to have that kind of starpower,” Roy says, noncommittal. “Helps direct some of the ire of the opposing team away from the other players. Plus, he scores the points. It always boosted the mood when the lads had something to brag about. Your lot seems to be lacking in that area—didn’t Dani kill the mascot?”
“I thought you of all people wouldn’t approve of Jamie rejoining Richmond.”
“Never said he should rejoin,” Roy says. “Why, you thinking of signing him back? Want me to talk you out of it?”
Ted says nothing.
Roy sighs. “The prick loves a bit of flash and he’s a total headcase when he’s left on his own too long. It’s not like the last few months speak to his dedication.” Abandoning a top rate team to go muck about on an island to shoot a crass television show? Not on. “But you know him.”
“I do.”
“And you know you’d be a fucking idiot to turn down this opportunity considering the state of the team.”
There’s a longer pause. “I think we got a good thing going here.”
“But not great.” Roy lets that sit out there for a second. “Great is what wins you a promotion.”
Ted doesn’t say anything and Roy hangs up.
As he drops Phoebe off at her mom’s and heads back to Keeley’s place, Roy feels something stirring in his gut. He doesn’t care one way or another what will become of Jamie Tartt; if anything, Tartt had it coming when he takes football about as seriously as Roy takes Trent Crimm’s opinion of his playing style. Ted can do what he likes with all of it—Richmond’s seat at the table, the state of Jamie’s career, the goddamn state of football itself. It makes little difference to Roy now.
He slides the gear shift into park too hard and it makes a grinding sound in protest.
Keeley isn’t downstairs when he comes in. He grabs a beer from the fridge and wanders up to their bedroom, finds her in there hunched over with her phone in hand.
“You jerking it to my retirement presser again?” Roy says, only a little bitter. That was a big moment and not particularly sexy.
Keeley starts a little. “No,” she says. “Just my… just my mum.”
Ah. Roy sets his beer on the vanity. She’s always so cagey about her mum, doesn’t like talking about her—doesn’t like it when Roy pries, hates it that he doesn’t.
“Everything alright?” Roy asks.
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“Good.”
Roy rocks back on his heels and Keeley fiddles with her phone.
“You give any more thought to the pundit gig?”
“Fucking hell.” Roy tips his head back. “This again?”
“If you would just give it a try, I know—”
“Oh, you know, do you?” Roy’s nostrils flare. “I told you, it’s pathetic and fucking beneath me.”
“You don’t know that, you haven’t even given it a chance.”
“I don’t need to,” Roy snarls. “You don’t get it. Football—”
“Yes, football is all that you are, all that you’ll ever be.” Keeley crawls across the bed and kneels in front of him. “I’m trying to show you that you can be more.”
His anger is always too close to the surface these days, with nowhere to channel it. He tries to let it sink beneath the earth, into the soil and away, but his hands are clenched into fist. “I don’t want more. I like what I have now.”
“You don’t know that. You won’t know that until you see what’s out there. Besides, what have you got on here that’s so important?”
Roy feels the blow go through him without really feeling it. Keeley’s face crumples as soon as the words are out of her mouth.
“Fuck. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Roy. You’re not—it’s—I’m just—”
Roy holds up a hand, throat working. “Back later,” is all he’s capable of grinding out as he turns away from Keeley’s protests and stomps down back stairs. He storms out of the house and climbs into the driverseat, slamming the door behind himself. His grip on the steering wheel makes the leather creak as he gnashes his teeth together.
Where the fuck does she get off?
A traitorous voice that sounds suspiciously like a certain striker says, would have been better if it were the retirement presser she was getting off on, eh mate? Roy starts the car and hits one of the bins as he pulls out of the drive.
Keeley is a fighter—it’s one of the things he admires about her—but Roy hates going away mad. It reminds him of childhood, his parents and their raised voices trapped behind doors, the tense silence in the mornings after where no one breathed a word. His grandad used to talk to Roy about the value of silence, how sometimes it could be good, like when you were hunting and waiting for a peasant to fly overhead. Sometimes it could be bad, like when words got stuck and the absence became the answer instead. The older boys at the academy would clap Roy on the back and tell him to speak up. They would say to give a shout if you had a problem and if that didn’t work to use fists.
In the end, Roy never learned how to fill a silence. Instead of shrinking it down, Roy learned how to sharpen his silence into something deadly, how to cut with only a glare and say entire strings of insults with just the muscles of his face.
At a red light, Roy pulls out his phone and opens a thread of messages he’s put off responding to. He feels a bit guilty using a friend eager for face time as a distraction, but types out, I’ll be at the usual place if you want a chat, anyway.
It’s only a few minutes later when Aldous responds, Same old Kent. See you in 20. It lifts his spirits and Roy takes his foot of the gas a little.
The usual place is a pie and mash shop in Southwark, on the other side of the river. It’s a standout in the dodgy neighbourhood with its precious cornflower blue signboards and tidy brick facade. Aldous and him both love a bit of rough, a place where they might get mugged or their car nicked. The place was chosen originally as a compromise, halfway between the two of them—plus, they really do make a cracking pie and mash.
Roy gets there early and orders for both of them. It’s quiet inside, mostly empty as he finds seats by the front window. It’s only ten minutes before Aldous comes through the door with his bad hair and wide grin.
“Roy, you dickhead.” Aldous pulls him in for a hug and claps him on the back. “It’s been months.”
“Been busy haven’t I?” Roy says it like he’s put out, but he’s grinning too.
“Fuck off. Forgot I was talking to the ‘Chelsea legend.’ What, you got dozens of lavish trips lined-up to the Amalfi Coast, or some posh little island with half-naked women and party favours?”
“Hardly,” Roy says, rolling his eyes as a server brings their food and they take their seats. “Got myself a bird at home.”
“Ah, that’s right. And how is our lovely Miss Jones?”
“Currently? Pissing me off.”
Aldous smiles. “Like that’s ever hard to do.”
Roy barks a laugh and almost spews mash everywhere.
“Seriously, man. How are you holding up?”
From anyone else, the question would be insufferable and laden with pity. Aldous retired before Roy, back in 2017 when he tore his ACL in a game against West Ham. Roy was already at Richmond by that point, but it still felt like a bad omen. After Aldous' surgery, Roy visited him in the hospital several times. He would always bring a deck of cards to pass the time and a bottle of liquor, which was promptly confiscated upon entry. Roy remembers watching Aldous lay down a straight flush (the fucking cheater) with his leg supported in a sling and having a moment of clarity—that it would be him in the bed one day. There was no way he’d give up football any other way.
“I never thought I’d miss running all those laps,” Roy says.
Aldous laughs. “Yeah, the first two months after my injury I could barely keep still. It felt unnatural, all the sitting around and free time. Caught myself in a Tesco Extras hugging the sports aisle, just to get a whiff of home.”
“Different for you, though,” Roy says. Aldous managed to get back into the game, recovered and regained his spot to lead the Blues to place third in the league. He’s not stuck in a house that isn’t his own, watering plants in his girlfriend’s pink fuzzy robe; he didn’t have to say goodbye to football, permanently.
They both go quiet, the tines of their forks screeching across their plates as the two push their food around.
“I saw that match,” Aldous says. “And the presser you did for your retirement.”
“Seems everyone and their bloody mother did.”
Aldous puts a hand on Roy’s arm, pausing his food cyclone. “Want me to kill that brat for you?”
Roy laughs at the unexpected offer and Aldous smiles. “Nah, little prick’s not worth throwing away your career over.”
“Hm, anything you do want then?” Aldous stares at him, gaze steady and patience infinite. It’s one of the reasons Roy liked him. That, and his mean streak that can always be called upon for a good prank.
Roy considers his question. “I… Keeley wants me to take this pundit gig.”
“But?”
“Aside from the obvious?”
Aldous considers him. “You know, being a footballer isn’t the only way to stay in the game.”
“Easy for you to say.”
They lapse back into silence. Aldous drums his fingers on the table and twists in his seat.
“After the surgery, I considered becoming a PT.”
Roy raises his brows. That’s news to him.
“The prognosis wasn’t good, I don’t have to tell you that. ’Course, I never gave up—pushed myself to the limits for a chance back on the pitch—but Sarah enrolled me in some classes. Ended up getting my undergrad and registering with HCPC, everything.” Aldous stacks their now empty plates, forks layered one on top of the other. “I’m not saying you should take this job, but maybe ask yourself what’s keeping you from going back.” He turns to look at Roy. “Especially when you love it so much.”
Roy stares at the forks. From a certain angle, it almost looks like they’re one in the same.
Aldous pushes back his chair and stands, clapping Roy on the shoulder. “Always good to see you, Kent. You should go home, kiss that bird of yours and make up. Anyone willing to put up with your black moods should be commended.” He laughs and Roy smiles.
After Aldous leaves, Roy heads home. He makes good on his word—better actually, as he and Keeley shag six ways to Sunday the moment he returns. They lay on her silken sheets, panting and sated, while Roy tries to muster up two simple words.
“I know,” Keeley says, patting his chest. Her eyes are closed. “I know.”
Roy plants a kiss on her thigh. “I know you’re just trying to help. I don’t mean to… make it all harder.”
Keeley frowns, but says nothing. Up close, Roy can see the patchiness of her makeup revealing the dark circles underneath her eyes. For once, he’s grateful that a kip after sex is more Keeley’s style.
A ping sounds from the side table near Roy. He reaches for his phone and finds one new notification from “Prick with the Hair.” It only says, he called.
“That’s me done then,” Roy mumbles. He sets his phone down and crawls back into bed. Keeley sighs and shifts closer. This is the part Roy enjoys most; at some point in the night, Keeley will drift away towards the edge to stick her leg out, leaving the middle cool and empty. Roy kisses the top of her head and breathes her in, savouring this moment of contentment—they’re so few these days.
☆
Roy isn’t sure at first what woke him. He stirs, reluctant to move or leave the lovely warmth of Keeley’s bed, but he’s forgotten the water he usually keeps on the bedside.
He gets up and heads downstairs, determined to make his trip quick. There is something about sleep-warm bare feet on the cool tile floor that makes one hurry. When Roy returns, his phone buzzes. He checks it, noting two new messages—probably what woke him up. They’re both from Jamie, timestamped about twenty minutes apart: said i wouldn’t be a good fit, the first message reads followed by, not even an i told u so. harsh man.
Roy is surprised by the shock that goes through him. He had been crass and sceptical all through dinner, telling Jamie it wasn’t possible. Perhaps he’d grown too used to Jamie always getting his way, become too used to Lasso’s affable nature and the effect he had to make the impossible seem possible.
“What is it?” Keeley murmurs, half-asleep. She rolls over and squints at Roy standing near the doorway, letting the light in from the hall.
“Ted said no.”
“What?” She sits up quickly and rubs at her eyes, sleep forgotten. “That’s—” She shakes her head. “You should go over there.”
“What, so I can rub it in his smug little shit face?” Roy thinks about it for a moment. “Hang on, you might be onto something.”
“Roy, I’m serious.”
He lets out a sigh, puts his hands on his hips and tips his chin to his chest. Roy remembers that next day, after Richomnd’s spectacular failure against Man City, when the doctors told him football was done. There’s nothing we can do. We can give you something for the pain, and surgery isn’t out of the question, but it’s unlikely you’ll ever be able to take to the pitch again. He remembers the disappointment hitting him like an anvil, a shock when he thought he’d already accepted it, laying on the muddy pitch. He’d felt cheated, and knew he would give up almost anything for a glimmer of a chance.
“The garden needs watering,” Roy says finally. He wanders over to the closet and starts fumbling his way into workout gear.
Keeley doesn’t comment on the fact that it’s four in the morning or that the plants can most certainly wait. “Wake me if I’m not already up when you get back,” she says, and lies back down.
Roy nods, distracted. He stumbles at the bottom of the stairs, opening another text thread and typing out a message as he locks up the house behind him.
You’re an idiot, he says, getting a response as he’s pulling onto the main road.
I appreciate the honesty, you’re always a straight shooter. Anything in particular that prompted this cutting observation?
He leaves Ted on read.
The drive over to Jamie’s place isn’t particularly memorable, Roy’s mind is elsewhere as he cruises through the empty London streets. When he arrives at Jamie’s posh little house, Roy has a moment where he wonders if he’s even home or if he’s holed up and licking his wounds back in Manchester.
Roy knocks on the door and no one answers. It takes several angry jabs at the doorbell before Jamie finally opens up, looking pathetic with eyes red, in nothing but a grey top and smelling sharply of spirits.
“Been on a bender have we?” Roy looks him up and down. He’s a fucking mess. “There’ll be none of this shit if I'm training you.”
Jamie puts a hand to his temple. “Shhh. Mate. The fucking martians can hear you. What are you doing here?”
“It’s four am,” Roy says, tapping his watch.
Jamie scrunches his eyes closed and presses his forehead to the door jam. “Didn’t you get my texts? Richmond don’t want me.”
Roy scoffs. “Richmond isn’t the only team in the league.” He watches as Jamie sways on his feet. “Christ. Clean yourself up and get your kit on, for fucksake.”
Jamie doesn’t move for a second, before he turns and wanders back inside. Roy gets a prime view of his pasty arse, to his displeasure. He’s already seen more than enough of that prick’s body between the changing room and the damn telly.
“Looks like you missed a spot when self-tanning,” Roy calls after him. Jamie flips him off without turning round.
Twenty minutes later, they’re in Richmond Park, Roy sitting on a bench and Jamie doing mountain-climbers at his feet. He looks pale and is sweating like a pig. Roy takes a certain sadistic pleasure in seeing the prick suffer and thinks, maybe this whole coaching thing isn’t so bad.
Jamie groans miserably and Roy puts him through another set, almost beaming when the lad has to stop to puke his guts out.
“Why’d you wait?”
Jamie spits out bile into the grass. “Dunno what you’re talking about.”
“Lasso called me,” Roy says, and Jamie jerks his head up to look at him. “What, he turns you down and you spend the whole day getting pissed? You smell like a pub, look like the backend of a bus.”
“And somehow I still look better than you,” Jamie bites out through gritted teeth. “You said it would work. You said it would work and it didn’t.”
“Never promised anything,” Roy says, automatically and shrugs at Jamie’s scowl. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”
“It’s football!”
Roy shakes his head. “Can’t believe you threw it all away.”
“Fuck off, grandad. You don’t know shit!”
“I know you tanked your footie career on a whim,” Roy says, leaning forward. “I know you showed up here cocky and self-assured, and now you’re paying for it.”
Jamie stews, angry, but says nothing. Roy sits back.
“You don’t know how good you have it, damn lucky bastard.”
Jamie lets out a strangled laugh as he wobbles to his feet. “Yeah, that’s me. Lucky.”
“Don’t just hang about—jumping jacks, now.” Roy watches as Jamie attempts the exercise on shaky legs. “What’d Lasso say to you?”
“Nothing much,” Jamie says, in between puffs of breath. “Said that there weren’t a place for me there. That it’d ‘disrupt the dynamic’ or some shit.”
“Told you.”
Jamie stops, arms coming down to slap against his sides. “Oh yes, yes.” He scrubs a hand through his hair, voice shrill and verging on hysterical. “The great Roy Kent, everyone! You’re bloody insufferable, you know that? Act like you know everything when you dunno shit. What exactly are you coaching me on? Football? I'm better at football than you ever were. Relationships? I could have any bird I choose. And what do you have? One good knee and the other foot stuck in the grave. It’s fucking disgraceful.” He sneers. “You’re just a pitiful old man with nothing to show for it.”
Roy is on his feet. “You watch your step, son.” Anger creeps up the back of his throat. “I know you’re used to burning bridges, but I’m your only fucking hope. There is no else, no one willing to take you on.”
“I never asked for your help.” They’re nose to nose. “Dried up old shit. I can do this my-fucking-self. Go find someone else who’ll listen to your drivel, or better still—fade into obscurity for all I care. Not like the name Roy Kent means much anymore.” Jamie shoulders past Roy and walks off. “Football won’t miss you and neither will I.”
Rage thrums through Roy, hot and bright. He wants to tackle the prick, deck him and knock those perfect teeth out of his moronic head—pop those venires off to see the ugly truth of things underneath. Fuck him and fuck football, and fuck anyone else who wants to weigh in on the matter. He’s not forgotten, Roy can do anything he damn well pleases. He could do the stupid fucking pundit gig, rub it in Jamie’s smug face and hang the rest. And if somehow the prick does make it back on a team, Roy will dog him relentlessly—call out every mistake, every bad pass, every little slip.
Jamie can muddle through and find his own way back to glory and Roy will do what he always has—use his rage to scorch the earth and carve out his own path.
☆
Roy finds out live on air.
One moment, he and the hosts of Soccer Saturday are discussing Townsend’s indecisiveness and how it lost Crystal Palace the game against Chelsea last weekend—with Roy feeling smug and self-assured at having already ascertained Townsend’s lack of leadership. The next, Roy is staring at Tartt’s face on the monitors and hearing Jeff say, “Looks as though Lust Conquers All reject, Jamie Tartt, has returned to the Dogtrack today. How’s that for a comeback, Chris?”
“He’s certainly in for a few surprises, I heard he didn’t leave Richmond on the best of terms. Surprised they’re taking him back, if I’m honest.”
Roy stands up so fast his chair tips backwards with a clatter. He ignores the cameras and the exclamations of the crew, pulls out his phone and texts Keeley, Did you know about this?
She replies instantly: Jamie told me the other day, thought you might be mad.
Mad is an understatement—wrathful might be more appropriate. The mic-pack suffers that wrath as Roy yanks it off himself, and Jeff tells everyone to take five.
He’s still fuming hours later when he’s out with Phoebe and they run into Rebecca and her goddaughter, Nora.
They’re in Twickenham getting Phoebe a new American Girl doll that his sister is sure to hate. Roy calls it retail therapy, even though Keeley has informed him that’s not how that expression works—he certainly feels a bit better after that purchase.
Roy hasn’t seen Rebecca since their double date. He tries to keep his interactions at Nelson Road to a minimum—dropping Keeley off at work, feinting like he’ll run Derek over on the odd days where the man totes his mower across the car park. Roy doesn’t drop in or say “hello” to the staff or roam the halls of his old club. He remembers when he stopped playing for Chelsea, before moving to Richmond, when revisiting familiar favourites felt like a ghost visiting old haunts. In just six months, Roy had become a faded memory in the same city he was still a legend.
“Ah, finally decided to dress up, did we?” Rebecca says. “Wear something other than trackies?”
“Keeley needs to stop gossiping.”
“Please, we have much more important things to talk about than your appalling sense of fashion. Your lack of manners, for instance.”
They smile at one another. “Coffee?” Roy suggests.
“That would be lovely.”
The four of them drift down Church Street, the girls wandering up ahead, talking and pointing at all the shops along the way. Phoebe asks if The Eel Pie Pub actually serves eel pie and Roy tells her that their electric eel one is his favourite.
“It’s got more tang.”
Phoebe giggles and turns back to Nora.
When they come across a cafe on the corner, both girls are delighted by the shop's window display of blood and gore, admiring the effort and discussing how they made the blood look so real.
“This one, is it?” Roy pushes at Phoebe’s back, urging her forward. “I’m sure one of the under-trained teenagers at the counter can tell you where they bought all this shit.”
Phoebe’s eyes light up and she hurries inside.
While they’re ordering at the counter, Rebecca says, “You know, I was surprised when Keeley told me you were coaching a U9s girls team, but you’re actually really quite good with children.”
Roy grunts. “Been at it a long time, haven’t I? Should’ve seen me when Phoebe was a newborn. She was just a wrinkly red raisin then, was worried I was gonna hold her wrong and fucking crush her or something.”
“Uncle Roy? Can I get a cake pop?”
Roy glares at Phoebe. “Fuck, no. Three quid? Are they fucking mental? Just get a real slice of cake, none of that cutesy Instagram shit.”
“You’re right,” she nods. “Thank you for helping me avoid the pitfalls of our capitalist society.”
“Right on,” Nora says. She holds up her hand for a high-five and Roy stares at it before tapping his fist against her palm, begrudgingly.
Rebecca looks at him, brows raised.
“Her mum has been reading her bits of Capital in the Twenty-First Century,” he explains.
“Ah. The perfect bedtime story, I’m sure.”
They find seats at the bar in front of the big window, the perfect vantage point for the girls to admire all the gory decorations. Roy sets down their drinks and pulls out Rebecca’s chair. She rolls her eyes at him, but still sits.
“You get along well with children,” Rebecca says, picking up their earlier thread of conversation. “And yet you still had such struggles with Jamie.” The segway isn’t the least bit subtle.
“These two behave. That prick…”
“Perhaps he’s used to a firmer hand than most.”
Roy scoffs and shakes his head. “Yeah, right. The kid’s been doted on his whole life, make no mistake.”
“Sometimes appearances can be deceiving,” Rebecca says, with a half-smile. “Take me for example: a powerful and wealthy woman who has all anyone could ask for and yet somehow, she cannot help but end up alone.”
Roy watches Nora show Phoebe something on her phone, some kind of makeup tutorial. “Things didn’t work out with what-his-name, I take it.”
“You know his name. John is fine, we just didn’t work. There was no… lightning, as you put it.” She stares into her flat white. “I desperately wanted it to work. I’m not getting any younger.”
“Oh, piss off. You said it yourself: you’re rich, powerful, attractive—not your fault all the men in London are fucking twats.”
Her lips twitch. “Are you including yourself in that?”
“Nah,” Roy says, grinning. “I’m off the market.”
“How’s it going, by the way. Is domestic life suiting you?”
“Like you don’t already know.” Roy sips at his black coffee, bitter and unpleasant. “We’re…” He tries to think of a way to describe all that he and Keeley are.
As a child, his grandad used to tell him all kinds of fairy tales—about King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, the Ballad of Tam Lin, the Giants Causeway. Roy told them to Phoebe when she was old enough, but she preferred the other ones his grandad told him—tragedies like the Children of Lir or the Morrígan—to that of stories about true love and finding your fate. As an adult, Roy can see clearly the naive hopes he harbours. The world is hard and cruel, it forces one to carve out what they’re able for a life of love, and find solace in what little is joyful.
For Phoebe, for his sister, and now Keeley as well—Roy would gladly dig until his fingernails are caked in mud and nail beds bloody if it meant carving out enough for them to be comfortable.
“Keeley and I are doing good,” Roy says, clearing his throat.
“And you and Jamie? I hear you’ve been training him. That he rejoined Richmond in part due to your recommendation.”
Roy clenches his hands into fists and slowly releases them. “I’m used to seeing that muppet get everything he wants like it’s fucking nothing.”
“Perhaps because unlike you, he actually asks for the things he wants instead of blundering along in the dark, hoping someone else will turn on the light.”
“Oi,” Roy says, glaring while Rebecca sips her drink. “Thought this was about me helping you.”
“If I wanted help, I’d talk to Keeley.”
He snorts.
“I should say I’m very happy for you both. Any advice on being alone?”
Roy looks at his hands. Large, square, fingers thick and knuckles nobby—hands that know better how to hurt than to hold. “Best to get something to tend to. Maybe a plant or a hobby.”
“Not a pet?”
“At least if you kill a plant The Sun won’t run fucking articles about your lack of ‘maternal instinct.’” That startles a laugh from her as Roy looks at his watch. “We should be going, my appointment is in an hour.”
“Well, then I won’t keep you.”
They nod at one another and smile. It’s something else Roy admires about Rebecca, that she always remains perfectly composed.
“Come on, Phoebe.”
“Uncle Roy,” she says, waving goodbye to Nora and taking his hand. “You owe me eleven pounds.”
“Yeah, enjoy that do you? Bleeding me fucking dry.”
“Twelve!”
“I’ll add it to your college fund. Get your degree and help all the wild animals you want.”
Phoebe beams.
☆
It’s only a few days later when the doorbell goes off at four in the morning.
Keeley swats at him from her side of the bed and Roy gets up, groggy and annoyed. He pads down the stairs to the front door, cursing all the while. It almost feels like poetry when Roy finds Jamie on the other side of the door, dressed in workout gear and wearing a sheepish look.
They stare at each other, neither willing to speak first, until Jamie mumbles nonsensically, “Leg hair.”
Roy looks down at himself, dressed in pants and socks with balloon animals.
“Your hideous car better not be parked in my drive.”
Jamie’s face goes all sour. “It’s not your drive, is it? Besides, I—”
He stops short, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. Roy leans against the door jam and crosses his arms. Oh, this ought to be good.
“I joined Richmond.”
“I heard.”
There is more silence, more fiddling, while Roy glares hard enough to burn holes through the prick’s skull.
“So… we good?”
Roy takes a step back and slams the door shut in Jamie’s face.
Ten minutes later, he reemerges dressed and caffeinated. Jamie is sitting on the doorstep looking dejected and surly. His eyes flick upward when the door reopens and his expression goes from hopeful to irritated.
“Huh,” Roy says. “Thought you would have gone.”
“You’re a dickhead.” Jamie stands and pats off the dirt on his joggers. “Let’s go.”
“Wasn’t aware you were the coach.” Roy knocks his fist into Jamie’s chest as he passes, starting up a light jog. “C’mon.”
They make their way to Richmond Park, same as last time, the streets hollowed out with none of the rush and commotion of midday. The temperature is low this morning, their breaths materialising in front of them on each exhale.
Roy takes a seat on a bench and instructs Jamie through a routine of exercises. He should have brought a book.
While the lad is bent over, hands on his knees and panting, Roy asks him what he’s playing at.
“I’m not sorry,” Jamie gasps. “You’re a dick and you deserved it. But, I wasn’t in me right mind. Football gets me all—” He circles his hand in the air. “It’s what I was built for, I can’t do anything else.” He shakes his head. “Not sure how you manage, mate. Shit would make me barmy.”
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Roy says, sharply. “They signed you on, they can just as easily boot you off. Done it before…”
Jamie scowls. “Then I’ll just try harder, won’t accept defeat.”
“Whatever.”
“I’m serious. I’d live as a kit man if it meant I could stay on the team.”
“I can’t imagine you lowering yourself so. You’re too arrogant, always gave Nate such a hard time.”
“That were different.”
Roy watches him for a moment. “That's why you’re out here then, is it?”
“My spot on the team’s not guaranteed.” Jamie says it like it’s nothing—like Roy didn’t have nightmares about that very thing when he was at Chelsea and waiting for his number to be called up.
“You’re the best there is, even if you are a dried up old shit and stole my fucking girlfriend.” Jamie wipes sweat from his upper lip. “In order to be the best, gotta learn from the best. You get me?”
Roy sits back. “Do another set of burpees.”
On they go like that, Roy barking out orders and Jamie tiring himself out trying to keep up. He manages to only puke twice.
As they walk back to Keeley’s, instead of being elated that things have once again fallen to his favour, Jamie seems to sink into himself. His brows pinch together and his mouth becomes downturned.
Roy nudges him with his elbow. “Oi. Quit frowning like that. You got what you wanted, yeah? Not a good look when the new hire is looking ungrateful.”
Jamie’s expression doesn’t change. “What… what should I do when they send me away again?”
Roy almost trips. “Hang on, what happened to ‘never quit, never give up’?”
The lad shrugs. “Just want to know the plan, just in case.”
“We’ll find you a nice job as kit man.”
Jamie hits him.
“Ow! The fuck are you on about, ‘what’s the plan’? You just got there, focus on that.” Roy rubs at his arm. “Quit worrying so much. Or better still, don’t and just my luck, you’ll go grey before you’re thirty.”
“Man City sent me to Richmond, Richmond sent me back, City dropped me…”
“Yeah, because you were a wanker, not because you lacked any actual talent.” Roy shoves at Jamie’s head. “Don’t go fishing for compliments.”
Jamie scrunches up his nose. “You sure? It’s really that easy?”
“If you’re calling my training easy, I’m not working you hard enough.” Roy looks at him sideways. “Just don’t be a fucking dickhead, I reckon. Know that might be hard for you.”
“Twat,” Jamie says, and Roy wonders if they’re going to get into another tussle.
They walk on, the driveway to Keeley’s house now just a stone’s throw away. The sky is a white flare covered in a film of grey clouds, tingeing the world in blue. Jamie shuffles his feet.
“Why’d you quit Chelsea? Why join Richmond?”
“You’ve been holding on to that one a while.”
Jamie says nothing.
“You’ve got to be at Richmond in a few hours.” They stop in front of Jamie’s car, just as hideous and garish as Roy remembers. “Better head back and wash up.”
Jamie scowls, never one to be deterred, but Roy gets distracted by something inside Jamie’s car.
“The hell is that?” He points to the book laying on Jamie’s passenger seat, title just barely legible through the tinted windows. “‘The Great Gatsby’? What, you join a book club or something?”
Jamie shrugs. “Beard recommended it.”
Roy’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “And you what, just took him up on it?”
“I’m making an effort,” Jamie says, marked in a way that tells Roy the lad is parroting someone else’s advice.
“Is that right?” Roy tries to reconcile the image of Beard and Jamie chatting, having a rapport. They make for an odd pair. What on earth could they even have to talk about? “What, the two of you get together and talk about books? What’s next, knitting?”
The reaction is instantaneous. Gone is the glib and relaxed mood, replaced by genuine dislike. Jamie shoves Roy and he stumbles.
“Every time I think you get it—” Jamie turns away, pressing a fist into the bonnet of his car. “Whatever, man.”
Roy feels wrong footed, like he missed a step somewhere while he wasn’t looking. He watches Jamie fumble for his keys with hands that shake and feels a pang in his chest.
“Same time tomorrow?”
Jamie manages to get his door open but doesn’t get inside. He pauses, fingers tapping out a nervous rhythm. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah, alright.”
Roy steps back as Jamie starts his car and peels out of the drive. He leaves tire marks on the pavement and knocks into one of his bins, but Roy decides to call it fair.
☆
Roy is used to Dr Caldwell telling him things he doesn’t want to hear.
Take paracetamol if the pain becomes too much, cut back on alcohol consumption, go for daily walks. Only last time, the man recommended Roy try drinking smoothies, as if that didn’t just scream, I’m a massive dickhead.
This week, Dr Caldwell’s suggestion of therapy is met with a sneer.
“Sometimes, it can be good to talk things through with an impartial party. Gain a new perspective on life and yourself.”
“Get fucked.”
Dr Caldwell smiles and jots something down on his chart. “As you wish. I’ll see you in three weeks, Mr Kent.”
Roy can’t get out of there fast enough; he hates hospitals, doesn’t understand how his sister tolerates these kinds of places. He watches a young woman push around an old bloke in a wheelchair, the man’s hair white wisps that curl at the ends and cheeks a rosy hue that convey sickness rather than health. He shudders.
Hus has Roy’s usual when he wanders into the shop. They exchange barbs, Roy telling Hus to give him a free meal or take down his picture, Hus telling Roy exactly where he can stuff it. He tells Roy to bring his pretty lady around soon so he can get a look at what poor girl’s stuck with him. Roy tells him to piss off and tips fifty quid.
At the Dogtrack, Roy lingers in the car park. He sees a couple people coming and going, nameless faces going about their lives. He wonders if any of them remember his name, if it’s one they’ll pass down to their kids or if it’ll just fade into the dark of night. Roy grits his teeth and gets out of the car.
The halls smell the same as he remembers, musty carpet and—impossibly—lavender dryer sheets, with larger-than-life cut outs of the team’s players pasted onto the wall. Roy spots Liza being accosted by Laughing Liam at the front desk and their prattle trails off as they both stare at him. Roy bares his teeth and Laughing Liam says, “Good to see you, Roy!”
He doesn’t totally remember where Keeley said her office was. Roy could take out his phone and text her, but that would mean leaving a potential opening for sentimental fools eager to greet him. He grumbles and looks for some kind of map or sign board and instead spots his own face on the wall.
Roy stops short, staring at his larger-than-life cut out. He can’t believe they kept that up. The photo is old, with his beard trimmed and wrinkles fewer, dressed in the heather grey kit and posing it up like he’s something out of legend or an idol staring down to judge the mortal masses. Roy looks… he looks like a fucking knob.
He keeps walking and takes the next right he finds, up a few flights of stairs. Roy remembers Rebecca’s office being up here, it would make sense that she’d keep Keeley close to her.
As he reaches the top of the stairs, Roy hears a murmur of voices behind the door to his left. He reaches for the doorknob before drawing up short. It’s Jamie’s voice.
Against all better judgement, Roy takes a hand off the knob and tips his head towards the wood.
“He’s a massive prick. I mean, not bigger than the other guy, no one is… but yeah.”
“Hm. And how do you get on with your father?”
Roy jerks his head back. He doesn’t recognize the woman’s voice, but the other one, that’s definitely Jamie. He shouldn’t be listening to this. Roy leans his head back against the door.
“And rejoining Richmond, how are you adjusting?”
There’s a long pause, and Roy can imagine the prick fiddling—with his jewellery, an item from her desk, the hem of his shirt.
“They lads are a bunch of pricks too. Got it in their heads that they’re the best since I went away. But who was on a winning team in the end, yeah?”
Roy feels a muscle in his temple throb.
“Are you used to winning, Jamie?”
There is the sound of someone shifting in their seat. “Yeah, mummy always told me I were going to be a star.”
Roy rolls his eyes.
“And yet, you have suffered many losses, quite recently.” There is a beat of silence. “You were voted off of a show you made an effort to join, you were let go from a team you cherished, initially Coach Lasso was disinclined to—”
“I was there.”
There is more stony silence.
“You mentioned Roy Kent as a figure who has been of some help to you, as of late.”
Roy tenses at the mention of his own name.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You also mentioned him being—” There’s the sound of pages flipping. “—‘a self-righteous bastard in desperate need of a wax’.”
“Too right. That dickhead’s been on me since the moment we met.”
“It’s quite remarkable then, that you managed to find common ground.”
Jamie seems to pause here, before changing the subject entirely.
“Helped Will the other day.”
“The kit man?” When it seems Jamie won’t elaborate further, the woman prompts, “Tell me about that.”
He can’t see, but Roy knows Jamie must shrug. “Dunno what you want me to say. Just know what it’s like to come somewhere new, is all. To not get on with everyone, to feel… Kit man is bottom of the rung, sets an example to your team how you treat the ones below you.”
Roy jerks head away and takes several steps back, fists clenched so hard the handles of the takeaway bag crumple. That fucking hypocrite. He has half a mind to march in there and tell this woman what that lad is really about, spill his guts across the carpet in great sweeping slashes. Roy stumbles to the top of the staircase and makes his way down with loud, angry stomps.
He eventually finds Keeley’s office back on the main floor, towards the end of the complex near the boot room. She’s sitting at her desk, planner out in front of her and glasses perched on her nose, when Roy bursts in with a flurry. He drops the takeaway on her desk and presses a fist to his thigh. His whole body is vibrating.
“Aw, you brought me lunch?”
Roy tries to breathe through the feeling lodged in his chest. “Hus says you should dump me.”
“And miss out on his amazing plates? Never.”
He takes a deep breath and holds it before turning back around and letting it out.
“Heard Tartt’s helping kit men now.”
Keeley gets this look on her face; it’s the same one she gets when he asks about her mum, when Roy edges too close to a wound he never knew was there. “He’s different lately. Been making more of an effort.”
Roy rolls his eyes and leans against the wall. “He’s the same prick he’s always been. People don’t change, they just find new packages for the same old shit.”
Keeley unwraps her döner kebab and stares at it. “You know that’s not true. Everyone is capable of change.”
“Not in my experience.”
The lines around her mouth tighten. “I wish you wouldn’t say that stuff.”
“I’m not trying to upset you.” Roy frowns. “It’s just the truth.”
“To you maybe.”
Jamie wanders in then, shifting the strange tension in the room and Roy’s attention.
“God, it’s like you’re stalking me,” Roy says.
“Didn’t even know you were here, mate.”
“Oh, so there’s some other reason you’re visiting my girlfriend at lunch hour?”
“Boys…” Keeley sighs, picking at her food. She brought a salad from home, the container sitting at her elbow and barely half eaten, while the kebab remains untouched. It’ll probably get cold before she even has three bites.
“Oh, fuck me. Is that shawarma?” Jamie points at the other still-wrapped kebab and looks at Roy. “You gonna eat that?”
“It’s a döner, you twit. Oi!” Roy pushes off from the wall as Jamie reaches for his food.
“I’m starved.” Jamie tears out a large bite with his teeth and flops down into one of the pink arm chairs. Roy’s lip curls.
“How was talking to Dr Fieldstone?” Keeley asks.
“s'Alright. Kind of serious, but…” Jamie shrugs.
Roy snorts before he can help himself. “Can’t believe you’re seeing a shrink.”
“Can’t believe you’ve still got hair on your head at your big age, but here we are.”
“It’s pathetic.” Roy says it with more venom than he means to and Keeley looks up at him sharply.
Jamie, having devoured the döner, takes his last bite and gets to his feet. He crumples the wrapper and drops it on the desk, turning to face Roy. “What’s really pathetic is a man who can’t move on, grandad. Still stuck in the past while all the rest of us is planning our bright futures.”
Roy takes a step forward and when Jamie flinches, Roy rolls his eyes and laughs. “What, you think I’m going to take a swing? You’re barking.”
Jamie’s mouth is a firm line and his muscles don’t relax.
“I’ll see you at home, Keeley.” Roy doesn’t look at her when he says it, just sends one last sneer Jamie’s way before he turns and leaves.
Later that week, on air with Soccer Saturday, Roy and the other pundits witness Richmond take a stand against corruption—and there is Jamie, front and centre with black tape across his chest, being a team player.
After Richmond’s resounding loss against Coventry City, Jeff and Chris natter on about bravery and courage while George says that they should keep politics out of football.
“What are your thoughts, Roy?”
“The boys are standing united, that’s what matters, that’s what builds a good team.” He offers a crooked smile. “Plus, it’s nice to see that Tartt wants to be a team player. I guess people change when their contract is on the line—when they realise they’re expendable. It’s easy to forget you were dunking kit men’s heads in toilets for a laugh just last season. Sure as shit they didn’t forget. Training under Coach Shelley must be interesting. I can’t say I envy the prick.”
The rest of the program is spent walking back Roy’s brash comments, not dissimilar to every week. While Roy is walking through the hall, he flips through his texts. There’s one from Aldous, I see Roy Kunt is in fine form today; there’s another from Keeley far more cutting, You’re better than that, Roy, that he can’t even bring himself to feel guilty about; there’s a large block of text from Ted that he doesn’t even bother to read before he deletes it.
There is nothing from Jamie—and Roy doesn’t kid himself in thinking that Jamie hasn’t heard. Somehow, his silence is more damning. He hasn’t shown up for morning train once this week either, and definitely won’t after this. Roy grins since there’s no one around to see him revel, smug in his petty victory.
☆
Keeley and Roy have long since settled the debate over which holidays are better.
Roy is planted firmly in his support of Saint Patrick's Day, while Keeley maintains Halloween is the most fun. He knows where Phoebe stands, with her made-up holiday in honour of him. Lucky for everyone, they live in a constitutional monarchy, meaning what Roy says goes—and he’d never say no to his two favourite people.
They’re getting ready at Roy’s place, since they’ll be taking advantage of his posh neighbourhood which offers full size candy bars to trick-or-treaters—all the better to rot the teeth right out of your head. Keeley has picked out their costumes—Charlie’s Angels, with Roy posing as Charlie. Easy enough, considering he already owned the outfit.
“Is Phoebe still getting ready?” Roy asks as he comes downstairs, watching Keeley fiddle with the silver chain slung around her hips. She’s dressed in pink satin, long pants that make her legs look great and a deep-v neckline that draws the eye. Roy brushes her hands out of the way and fixes the clasp himself.
“Thanks. Yeah, said she had a few more touches for her outfit.”
“May the gods of All Hallows’ Eve have mercy for whatever she has in store for us.”
Keeley laughs and Roy relaxes. He didn’t realise he’d been tensing, bracing for something. It’s been a while since he’s seen her this happy. It’s nice.
The doorbell rings and Keeley says she’ll get it. It suits Roy just fine, he never liked children, Phoebe has always been the exception.
It isn’t until he hears adult voices coming nearer that he turns. Jamie Tartt is in his hallway, dressed like some tarted up bird out for a night on the town. He looks ridiculous, the sparkly and sheer halter-turtleneck cropped to show his stomach, and expensive slip-on leather loafers making them the same height. It should look silly, a man dressed in women’s clothing, and yet to Roy’s total dismay, Jamie pulls it off quite well.
“Who the fuck are you supposed to be?” Roy asks.
When Jamie catches sight of Roy, his smile drops and he stops in the doorway. Keeley squeezes her way around him, that look of worry Roy hates painted all over her face.
“I’m Alex fucking Munday,” Jamie says. “Who the fuck are you supposed to be?”
Roy doesn’t know who that is, but he’s certainly not going to ask. He looks at Keeley.
“He’s one of the angels, remember? I’m Natalie, Phoebe’s Dylan.” She holds out a hand to gesture at Jamie who winks.
“Right. Don’t remember the part where he was included in our evening.”
Keeley gives him a look like he’s stupid, which he does not appreciate. “We needed a third, so I invited him.”
“Why?” Roy asks. Then, “Wait, you gave him my address?” “Yeah, and I leaked it,” Jamie says. “Probably all over the internet by now, get ready for some weird packages, mate. You’ll never guess what some people order.”
Keeley crosses her arms. “Didn’t you once order a Roy Kent shirt, but couldn’t wear it out because ‘no self-respecting City boy would ever support Chelsea’?”
Roy’s eyebrows shoot up as Jamie flushes. “It were limited edition. And I was like twelve, weren’t I?”
“Ah, proper fan boy, were you?” Roy leers. “Gonna sneak upstairs and nick a pair of my pants?”
Jamie’s cheeks are blotchy. He looks unattractive and affected. While Roy enjoys his moment of triumph, his eyes catch on something gleaming and he notices Jamie is wearing diamond earrings.
“Uncle Roy!” Phoebe’s voice calls from the top of the stairs and they all turn to look at her, promptly losing the thread of their conversation.
Phoebe trots down dressed as something straight out of a gothic fairytale: she seems to have fashioned Roy’s dark bed sheets into some kind of dress, the corresponding pillowcases appear to be stuffed and are hanging down across her chest at the end of a rope slung behind her neck. Her hands are painted a fiery orange and black powder has been patted around her face to look like she’s taken a tumble down the chimney. In her right hand she carries a long stick and in the other, an ear of corn. She’s wearing a black wig and Roy has no idea where it came from.
“What on earth are you wearing?”
“Not sure if that should be coming from someone who put on their work clothes and called it a costume.”
“I’m dressed up,” Roy insists.
“Mate,” Jamie says, expression judgemental as he gestures to his suit—the very one Roy has worn to a number of pundit broadcasts. “You know that’s not what that means.”
“Phoebe,” Keeley says. “Did you not like the dress I gave you? I have more.”
“The dress was lovely, but I wanted to go as this instead.” Phoebe looks guilty for a moment. “If that’s alright.”
“Of course, darling!”
“What is ‘this’ exactly?” Jamie asks.
Phoebe perks up immediately. “It’s the Roggenmuhme! It means ‘rye aunt’, but she’s associated with crop fields generally—like corn!” She holds up her ear and waves it around. “She’s said to have fingers of fire and a cane that produces lightning and she roams around snatching children that get lost in the fields!”
Roy and Keeley exchange a look of disbelief and fondness, while Jamie says, “That’s fucking wicked!”
“Oi, language.” Roy nods at Phoebe. “You owe her a pound.”
Phoebe holds out a hand, innocent as anything. Jamie snorts and fishes out a coin from his pocket. “Surprised you’ve got any money left, mate.”
Roy rolls his eyes and flicks one of the pillowcases hanging from Phoebe’s shoulders. “The hell are these things?”
“My bosom full of tar,” Phoebe says, completely serious.
Keeley and Jamie try to hold in their laughter at Roy’s sides, while he gives Phoebe a nod of approval.
“Did you have creatures picked out for the rest of us?” Keeley asks. Bless her, Roy thinks and feels a pang of love rock through him. He knows how hard Keeley tries to appear effortlessly carefree, when reliability and planning are the pillars she builds her life around. Easier to be spontaneous when you have something to depend on.
“Well,” Phoebe says, suddenly shy. “I did think that Uncle Roy would make a good Glühschwanz. They’re a ghost dragon that brings witches food and drink in exchange for sweet milk! If you’re a good person, the Glühschwanz will shake coins from its glowing tail. It really cares about fairness, so if the farmers and workers are being mistreated, it will fly to the bad guys' houses and—fwum!—burn them all down!”
Jamie snorts with laughter and looks like an idiot. “God, that is spot on, holy shi—shite. Is ‘shite’ considered a swear?”
Roy gestures to Phoebe’s open palm and Jamie hands her another coin with a pout.
“He’s the one with the glowing money tail! What would Keeley be?”
“She’d be Perchta, the woman with the odd foot.”
“Your feet are a state, love.”
“They are not!”
“No, no,” Phoebe giggles. “She’s said to have one foot of a swan, which marks her as a higher being. Sometimes, she’ll appear as an old woman or a beautiful young maiden. If you eat on the night of her feast day, she’ll gut you and fill your stomach with straw.”
“Wicked,” says Keeley.
“Disturbing if you ask me,” says Jamie.
“Good thing no one asked you,” says Roy.
The two glare at each other, daring the other to break first.
“What would Jamie be?” Keeley asks.
“Yeah,” Jamie says, looking away with a smile. “What would I be?”
“Hm,” Phoebe says, thinking. “Oh, I know! You’d be a Bahkauv, a deformed calf with long fangs. They jump on the backs of young drunk men and force them to carry him until the men are too tired to fight back. Then, he attacks them and steals all the money from their pockets!”
“What the fuck do they need money for?” Roy asks, as Jamie jumps onto his back. Roy staggers as Jamie reaches a hand into his trouser pocket. “Get off!” Keeley and Phoebe are no help, laughing themselves silly.
“To the pub!” Jamie calls, with laughter in his voice. The rhinestones from his top dig into Roy’s shoulder through their shirts as the prick slides off and reveals a ten pound note in his hand.
“There,” Jamie says, as he hands it to Phoebe. “That should cover his share of swears for the next five minutes.” He smiles with all his perfect teeth.
“Alright, you three.” Keeley grabs her coat from the chair, pink fur with gems for buttons. “Time to see about those full size candy bars.”
They hit every house on Roy’s street and the next one over. It’s actually quite fun, with the three of them posing with their hands held like guns—despite Phoebe’s altered costume. Normally, he and Phoebe don’t do this sort of thing. Roy usually takes Phoebe on one of those Month of the Dead tours, and the two of them see all the graveyards and spooky houses London has to offer. They gorge themselves on tales of homicide and ghosts and disease. With a city known for characters such as Jack the Ripper, London has plenty on offer to scare even the most hardened. Phoebe adores every moment of it.
But her smile seems just as bright now, with Keeley and Jamie by her side as Roy pulls up the rear. When Jamie asks Phoebe if he can use one of her pillow case bosoms to collect his own candy at the next house, Roy cuffs him about the ear.
“Was only joking, man,” he says, rubbing the back of his head, but he’s laughing with his eyes crinkled.
After a few more houses, Phoebe starts to get tired. Her feet drag and her candy bag droops. Roy carries her home even though she’s probably too old and it definitely isn’t doing his knee any favours. Keeley carries the pillow case bosoms and Jamie carries the candy bag. Roy’s pretty sure he nicks a piece while Roy isn’t looking.
He leaves Phoebe with his neighbour, Margaery, the only other woman he respects after his sister, Keeley, and Princess fucking Diana. He bids Phoebe goodnight and tells Margaery to have his sister text him when she picks Phoebe up.
The door closes and Roy turns to see Jamie standing a little ways behind Keeley, rubbing the back of his neck. “Was thinking of heading to Colin’s, he’s having a party. Should be a laugh.”
A party at Colin’s sounds the opposite of fun, but Keeley shoots him a look, and Roy can never say no to his favourite person.
When they get to the party, it’s already well on its way to bursting. All the doors and windows are flung wide open, but no one seems to mind the chill with all the bodies pressed close. It has the feel of a tacky modern club, with neon lights and white leather furniture.
Keeley spots a couple familiar faces and splits away, while Roy and Jamie head further inside.
“Boyo!” Colin holds open an arm for a half hug which Jamie returns keenly. “You came, you really came.”
“Told you lot, wear the same kit now. Got to spend the off hours together, too.”
There is obviously some reference here Roy isn’t privy to and he thinks once again about how terrible an idea this is.
“Look who I brought.” Jamie pats Roy’s chest like he’s some kind of pet—best-in-show.
“Oh, dear god.” Colin looks a bit green around the edges. “You’re not here to headbutt me again, are you?”
“Not your captain any more.” Never really was, Roy thinks. Or just a lousy one, at best. “Keep your shirt on and show me the bar.”
Colin points toward the back and Jamie frowns. Roy ignores him and heads in the direction of drinks, footfalls heavy and mind sluggish. Back when he was a Chelsea player, parties lived in his blood and kept his heart alive. If that Roy could see him now, he’d think he was a fucking disgrace.
“Whiskey, neat. Two fingers.” The barkeep nods and Roy watches the crowd.
Only half are wearing costumes, something simple with a headband of ears or a clip-on tail. The others are showing off, wearing shirts with the collar dipped low or dresses pasted on, valuing sex appeal over theme accuracy. He spots Isaac foolishly challenging Jan Maas to a drinking contest, with Colin hovering on the sidelines already several cocktails deep. Richard is chatting up a pair of women while Zoureux sits off to his right, looking glum and envious.
He locates Keeley in the fray of bodies, mingling as she dances. Her hair is coming undone, strands curling due to the moisture and heat. She looks good out there, surrounded by friends and living for the moment. Roy stays on the edge of things, watching.
Jamie approaches the other end of the bar and Roy shifts his body. The lad looks older under the electric lighting, as it hollows his cheeks and enhances the dip in his brow. There’s something in the way Jamie is carrying himself, or how removed Roy feels from the life pressing in all around him, or perhaps it’s just the buzz in his blood from the alcohol and halloween sweets that makes him eager for a confrontation. He turns and wanders over as the bartender hands Jamie a beer.
“Thought I told you I wouldn’t train you if you didn’t take it fucking seriously?” It’s ridiculous: Jamie hasn’t been round in over two weeks. Training has effectively been cancelled, indefinitely.
Jamie doesn’t say anything, though. He just looks from Roy, to the drink in his hand, and back again. It makes a firm clack as Jamie sets it back down on the glass counter top.
“You’re real tough work, man. You know that?”
Roy grunts, finding himself both pleased and disappointed. He watches over Jamie’s shoulder as Keeley dances with some random girl out on the floor. The fog machine has been tempered by the breeze through the open windows, swirling about people’s feet, and strobe lights catch on Keeley’s blonde hair, making it shine with colour. She looks relaxed for the first time in ages, like she’s actually enjoying herself.
“I’m aware.”