Chapter Text
They came second. Fucking hell. Roy could barely believe it. He puttered around the house, idly tidying up. Keeley and Jamie were due back from Brazil today. Sky Sports blathered on in the background. Cartrick doing another tell-all interview about his dust up with Mannion, blathering on about how Mannion had asked him to take Jamie out and he had refused, had taken a stand, for the good of the sport. Cartrick was trying to make himself the hero of the hour. Prick. As if any West Ham player worth their salt would have actually done it. Why was this still news, honestly. They probably just needed something to fill airtime during the off season. Roy had never liked Mannion. But he thought his old boss at least loved the game. Better to not win at all than to win like that. Roy should probably send Catrick a thank-you gift. On second thoughts, fuck that. He did not deserve brownie points for having a sense of basic fucking human decency and sportsmanship. Roy had shaken the man’s hand after the game. That was fucking good enough. But fucking hell, his boy was a trouble magnet.
Jamie had pushed Roy to accept Rebecca’s offer. He could not believe he was going to be a manager. A manager of a Champions League team at that. Fucking hell. At least he had Beard. And knew what the offside rule was. And most of the lads were staying on, so Roy wasn’t exactly working from scratch.
Pre-season training would start soon. Jamie would need to make up his mind. Roy fiddled with the massive stack of offers Jamie had received. Jamie would need to make a decision soon. Roy had separated out all the London clubs, placing the offer from Chelsea at the very bottom of the stack. Jamie in his colours. Jamie at Stamford Bridge. Jamie under the Roy Kent banner. Jamie’s team photo on the wall next to Roy’s decorating the corridors of Roy’s old club. Roy wanted. And Roy’s place was already so close to Chelsea, Jamie could just move in… But the decision was Jamie’s. As long as it wasn’t Fulham. Or Newcastle. Roy would fucking take Arsenal or Spurs. If he had to. Though Jamie probably made a lifelong enemy of Barnett with that nutmeg so Spurs was probably a horrible idea as long as Barnett was captain.
He grinned as he found the offer from United and put it aside. Someone clearly thought Jamie left City because he hated the team. Well, they thought wrong. Honestly, it wasn’t like Jamie celebrated that solo goal in the match against City. Surely that was a sign? Though perhaps that could be interpreted as just good manners, not celebrating a goal against his boyhood club. As if Jamie had ever had good manners. Someone’s fuck up was about to be Roy’s entertainment for the whole Manchester trip. He was bringing that envelope along. Just so he could record Georgie’s and Paddy’s reaction for posterity. Should probably get Paddy to gather all the City lads Jamie actually liked. Would Pep let Roy record him burning the bloody thing? He would probably have been up for it back in the day when they were both still players, but they were both managers now and had to be more responsible. PR bullshit. Middle age was fucking boring. Roy cackled to himself at the thought of future chaos to come.
Roy opened his wardrobe, wincing as his eyes were assaulted by a riot of colour. When did Jamie start taking up half his closet? And all of his bathroom counters? Who needed a fifteen-step skin care routine? And why did Roy know all the steps off by heart? Though, he remembered the feeling of his boy boneless in his arms after a scene. He would do anything for his boy then. Include help him through a fifteen-step skin care routine. The things you do for fucking love.
As Roy put the good sheets on the bed, he could not help but think of the collar hidden in his sock drawer. The black leather collar he had had specially made when, after five thousand reassurances that they would stop anytime Jamie wanted them to stop, that Jamie could try something then decide that he hated it, that no, Roy would not be disappointed, that even if Roy was disappointed, it did not mean he would force Jaime to do anything or go find someone else who would do it with, that no, if Jamie did not want to wear it in public he did not have to… his boy had haltingly admitted that was something he would … maybe… want to try. Roy looked forward to working through his boy’s list of maybes.
But Roy suddenly knew, as if he could see the future, that, one day, there would be a cuff on Roy’s wrist, made of the same black leather as the collar.
Roy could see, with perfect fucking clarity, the future, rolling out in front of his eyes, the way the fields used to roll by on the train journey to and from Sunderland. The rolling green hills of England. Some other call up for Jamie, when he would be enough of an attacking midfielder, enough of a playmaker and frankly a big enough fucking deal, to be able to insist on a number 6 on his back. Jamie, across his knees, squirming as he sobbed and begged. Roy breaking Tartt Senior’s nose at an ill-fated Christmas dinner after he got out of rehab, because Jamie was trying out Lasso’s forgiveness bullshit. Fat lot of good that did. Jamie, Captain for fucking England. Photos of Jamie in his England kit with the captain’s band, next to Roy’s in their trophy room at home. Keeley and Will, dragging Jamie off for his bachelor party, promising that they would deliver their boy back to Roy the next morning in one piece. Jamie, on his knees, at Roy’s feet as he reviewed match tapes. Isaac and Colin and Sam and Dani and the rest of the lads all hollering in their driveway, ribbing Jamie playfully after Richmond tied Chelsea, and Jamie yelling back and flipping them off from the window, grinning. Roy’s hand on the back of Jamie’s neck, comforting and grounding. Paddy in a tux as Jamie’s best man. Grandfather’s watch on Jamie’s wrist instead of the traditional collar. Little Seamus during the ceremony, kicking his little pillow down the aisle as if he was kicking a penalty, as both Jamie and Paddy beamed on with pride at their little footballer in the making and Roy thanked God that he had had the foresight to let Phoebe hold the cuff and Grandfather’s watch and let Seamus hold only the pillow. Simon, delivering the toast at their wedding, because Georgie was crying too hard, with a champagne flute held high. “Roy Kent always remains.” Jamie, in his lap, hands tied behind his back. Sitting next to Jamie at his coming out presser, holding hands. Getting drunk on champagne and vanilla vodka at the after-party Collin threw, giggling with Jamie at the sight of Trent fucking Crimm on the dance floor. Shaking the hands of the Chelsea groundsmen and security guards who slapped Jamie on the back with pride before the first match after coming out; old friends who all promised Roy they would keep an extra careful watch over their boy. Kissing Jamie on the pitch after he scored a hattrick during the Champions League final, not caring as the flashes from the cameras blinded them. Jamie helping Phoebe with her graduation get up, pinning the hood to her robes and adjusting how it sloped across her shoulders. Jamie, back in sky blue, calling Paddy skipper for real again. Jamie winning the treble. Holding Jamie at Georgie’s funeral, as they both sobbed. Waking up to Jamie in their bed, sunlight in his hair, every morning. Jamie, laughingly spinning Ruth around the dance floor at Phoebe’s wedding, as Ruth sobbed happy tears into his shoulder, ruining Jamie’s suit. Sitting next to Jamie during his retirement presser. Watching Jamie coach the junior team at Richmond, shaking his head affectionately as Jamie knelt to tie some kid’s boots, little prick should really watch his bad ankle, before turning his attention back to which of the lads showed promise, which ones were potential future members of the Richmond first team. Cheering in the VIP box, sandwiched between Jamie and Paddy as Jamie sobbed with pride at his godson starting for England. A mark forming in Jamie’s wrist from Grandfather’s watch as the surrounding skin tanned and aged. A life well lived.
But for now, Roy had a few hours left before he had to pick up Jamie and Keeley from the airport. Then they would spend the next few days with Phoebe and Ruth. Then Jamie had insisted that he host FIFA night for the lads who were back in town. Roy was not fucking looking forward to clean up. Then, they would drive up to Manchester to spend the remainder of the off season with Georgie and Simon. Paddy would pop by, with Seamus and …
But there was no rush. They had forever to figure it out, to get it right. Together.