Chapter Text
Jamie was doing lunges on the football pitch, the weather was something special today, clear blue skies and just enough warmth to leave his puffer jacket at home. He felt like he had the right amount of colour for the day: his printed hoodie, flowery, comfy and warm; shorts hugging his thighs and letting in just enough breeze to cool him down there just right. He felt like he could take on a lion.
Going from lunges to a full-on touch-your-toes stretch, Jamie pulled on his hamstrings, doing a couple of bounces to try and reach the grass. He was just starting to get a little floaty — limber, loose, and pleasantly buzzed — when a low voice appeared behind him, attached to a grizzly, bearded man. Jamie shrieked — loudly — and it was a miracle he didn’t pull something, the way he shot upright and spun on his feet. Forget taking on a lion, a bear had snuck up on him!
Roy-fucking-Kent. Again.
“What’d you do that for, you grumpy, old git?!” Jamie exclaimed, his hand to his chest trying to calm his racing heart.
Roy looked… hmm, Jamie could never say this man, this beast of a footballer, could be anything short of fucking fit, but Roy was looking a little unruly. Longer than usual hair curling around his ears, a beard that needed a trim, eyes dark and steady as they stared Jamie down. The slight wrinkles around his eyes and mouth showing the amusement at Jamie’s expense… Yeah, okay, no, definitely still fucking fit. It was working for Jamie. Like a silent mountain man ready to kidnap him and squirrel him away in a cabin.
Roy snorted, “Language, Mr. Tartt, what would the children think?”
Jamie scowled, “Well, I don’t see anyone around here apart from you and you don’t have a leg to stand on, Mr. Kent.”
Roy’s eyebrows did a very complicated jig (and Jamie was really going to have to start writing these down), before settling into an angry v in the middle of his forehead.
“Was that a dig about my career?” Roy growled, voice low and thunderous.
Jamie’s mouth dropped open in horror. “No! If I was insulting you, you’d know it—why would, how could—” His ramble cut off. Roy gave him that slow, sweeping look, starting from his long sport socks to his free-flowing shorts showing off his thighs, then stopping at his chest. Jamie had to admit, he’d worked very hard on his chest. 2020 and 2021 Chest of the Year, actually. Self-voted, one entry.
“What are you wearing?” Roy asked, unimpressed. Judgy. Roy-fucking-Kent judging him, the man who owned black in a hundred different shades.
Jamie’s eyebrows shot up. “Uh, excuse me, grandad? Don’t come talking at me about fashion when your whole outfit’s fifty shades of coal. Don’t you know you shouldn’t mix blacks like that?”
“That’s offensive,” Roy muttered. “I woke up really early and I can’t see so well at night anymore.”
“You’re still trapped in a century where people get dressed by candlelight and you’re judging me?” Jamie scoffed. “Yeah, okay.”
He hadn’t even caught his breath before the man growled —actually growled—“What are you doing here?”
Jamie blinked. “Uh, excuse me? If anyone’s got a right to be here, it’s me, yeah? I work here. I’ve got, like, explicit permission. Got my name on the rota and everything. What are you doing here, huh?”
Roy’s eyebrow did a complicated little mambo — up, down, twist, furrow. Jamie was going to need a field guide to all the Roy Kent eyebrow dialects soon.
“I’m here,” Roy said finally, “to coach the under-nines.”
Jamie stared at him like he’d just declared he was about to perform open-heart surgery on the grass. “You’re—what? No, that can’t be right. I would’ve heard about that, yeah? There’s no opening, and also, are you absolutely mental? You’re Roy-fucking-Kent, what do you mean you’re here to coach the under-nines?”
Roy tilted his head, smug little glint in his eye. “So you do know who I am.”
Jamie spluttered. “Mate, I’ve got a signed poster of you hanging up in my spare bedroom. Main bedroom seemed a bit weird, didn’t it? Anyway, that’s not the point!” He gestured wildly. “Course I know who you are! And you can’t do that, ‘cause that job’s already taken!”
“Actually,” came a small, prim voice from somewhere behind him, which was alarming, because Jamie was pretty damn sure no one had been there a second ago, “I did try to tell you, Uncle Roy. Mr. Tartt already agreed to coach.”
Jamie spun around. Phoebe stood there like she’d been summoned from the ether, football under her arm, and a whole gaggle of eight-year-olds trailing behind her like she’d personally led them out of Narnia.
Roy blinked at the sudden children appearing behind her, processing each detail before registering his niece’s words. Roy turned, slow as thunderclouds forming. “You what?”
Jamie grinned, tugging at the bottom his hoodie excitedly, hands nervous. “Move over, grandad.” He shook out his hands from the material, bouncing on his feet, bright as a daffodil in spring. “Right, team! Let’s start with a lap around the pitch, yeah?”
Roy just stood there, holding the football. It was as if it might explain what the hell was happening. Jamie jogged over, all sunny grin and bare, golden thighs, and plucked it neatly out of his hands.
“I’ll take that.”
Roy’s eyes narrowed. “Should you really be insulting me like that?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jamie said, hand to his chest in mock sincerity. “Are you not a grandfather? I could’ve sworn—”
Roy scowled. “The girls deserve to be coached properly.”
Jamie froze, head tilting. “Okay, first off, don’t call them girls.”
“They are girls.”
“Yeah, but that’s not all they are,” Jamie said, voice firm now, teacher-mode sliding into place. “Here, they’re my players. My team. It’s 2021, mate. No one should be reduced to their gender.” He paused, smirked. “And second, are you saying I’m the best? ‘Cause it sounded like that.”
Roy gave him a look. “I’m saying I’m probably better.”
Jamie stopped bouncing. “What did you just say to me?”
Roy folded his arms, unbothered. “That I’m probably better. Statistically speaking, I played professional football longer than you’ve been alive—”
“I don’t know how old you think I—”
“Statistically speaking,” Roy said again, louder, talking over him now, “there’s a very high chance I’m just better.”
Jamie’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. He stepped in close — not quite chest-to-chest, but close enough that Roy’s beard looked like it might be plotting a hostile takeover of his personal space.
“Well,” Jamie said finally, eyes gleaming, “guess we’ll just have to see about that, won’t we?”