The Archive of my Fandom Fuckery

This whole week, Sam has lived moment to moment, not allowing himself to think about how scary it all is, as he worked towards getting Jamie more help than Sam alone could provide. It has just been him against Jamie’s mental health. And while a lot of it was just hanging out, the moments where it wasn’t, were always high stakes and terrifying.

Even the smaller moments, like finding Jamie writing his suicide letters or his casual dismissal of Sam’s worry, were undercut with this dread. This knowledge that is was him alone and if he fucked it up, Jamie could manipulate the situation in his favor and shut Sam out. He had that power.

Right now, Jamie still holds a lot of sway in the locker room – shown by everyone standing up for him this match when he got benched – but he can’t undo this anymore. He’s let everyone in and they will never believe him if he tries to convince them Sam is lying or blowing it out of proportion. Not to mention that the only reason he even let everyone in, is because he cared too about Sam’s well being to continue on like this, cared too much about how Sam was destroying himself to keep Jamie safe.

To have that dread be gone, is a relief Sam doesn’t know how to cope with beyond crying. He hasn’t even let himself think about how scary it was before, probably due to knowing this is how he would react. A reaction he couldn’t afford while still solely responsible for Jamie. He doesn’t regret it, he wants to do the right thing, but holy shit it was a lot.

Hence the crying.

“I’m sorry,” he warbles between the tears, trying to explain: “Just the- and then the- You know, with the- the every- everything.”

“It’s alright, lad, I get it,” Jamie awkwardly comforts him, more pats on his back. “You’re good. Jus’ have a cry, yeah?”

“Don’t- Don’t think I can stop,” Sam laugh-cries, a fresh round of tears sliding down he face that he wipes against Jamie’s sweaty kit.

“Yeah, it’s like that sometimes,” Jamie laughs too, an edge of relief when Sam isn’t breaking down entirely anymore.

“Uh-huh,” Sam agrees nonsensically, taking a few deep breaths, before finally managing to take a step back. His hands are still loosely wrapped around Jamie’s kit, but he’s not longer burying his face into Jamie’s neck and instead looking him in the face.

Jamie looks cautiously hopeful and concerned, tentatively asking: “You alright now? Feel better?”

“Yeah, I’m okay now,” Sam replies, wiping his eyes. Crying has helped a lot and he can let the relief carry him now, instead of letting it drag him down.

“Tha’s good,” Jamie nods, then nods a bit more, biting his lip. He drops his own hands to play with the hem of his shirt, then looks at the floor, before looking at the ceiling. Sam watches him hype himself up for… something with a furrowed brow, wondering what is coming now. He’s not prepared for Jamie swallowing and locking eyes, as he says: “I’m sorreh, Sam.”

“What?”

“I’m sorreh,” Jamie repeats, flush on his cheeks but eyes determined. “I know I already said, but I treated you like shit, Sam, even if you were only ever nice to me. And it were dead fucking rude. You’ve done so much for meh and you didn’t deserve the shit I put you through. So, fucking… sorreh and shit.”

It’s not the first time Jamie has apologized for how he has treated Sam, however, it is the first time he did so without being in severe psychological distress. Sam has wanted this apology for a long time, but he shelved ever getting it until they were way further in getting Jamie on his feet. Yet here he is. He might still clearly be uncomfortable saying it, but he did say it.

Sometimes, Sam can’t help but shake the thought in the back of his head that Jamie doesn’t actually like him and is only nice to him because Sam is helping. Then Jamie does stuff like this, where he apologizes even though he hates it, in front of everyone too, just because Sam cried. It’s sweet.

A bright smile breaks out on his face and he sincerely says: “Thank you, Jamie. That means a lot. Apology accepted.”

“It- It is?” Jamie asks, almost surprised that forgiveness can be easy.

“Yes,” Sam tells him brightly, pulling him into another hug. This one less desperate, but equally as tight, squeezing until he feels Jamie do that relaxing thing he does, before letting go and clapping him on the back.

“You’re still a fucking weirdo, mate,” Jamie grins, shaking his head and goodnaturedly jostling Sam with the hand he has on Sam’s arm.

“I will take it as a badge of pride,” Sam informs him.

The door to the locker rooms open and Keeley walks in, she looks a little bit stressed and doesn’t even do her usual coy ‘are you all decent’ bit that she loves so much. “Are you alright, Jamie?”

“Aces, babe, don’t worry about it,” Jamie assures her, before smirking cockily: “Why? Were ya worried ‘bout me?”

Keeley rolls her eyes fondly, but doesn’t respond, instead asking: “You good to do a hallway interview about the match? We want you and Sam out there, comment on it all, before we put Ted in front of the media.”

“Yeah, sure,” Jamie agrees, easily. “You down, Sam?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Sam says straightening up. He’s never done one of these before.

Nervously, he follows after Keeley and Jamie as she explains: “We’re focusing on you guys’s team work and the team building, yeah? They’re gonna tear Ted to shreds about the benching, so don’t fuel those flames, can you do that?” She looks at Jamie for a moment, then more urgently repeats: “Can you do that, Jamie?”

“Ugh, fine. But I still think he’s a fucking wanker,” Jamie scowls.

Sam feels bad for Keeley, so he quickly promises: “I will keep him in check.”

“Thank you, Sam, you’re an angel,” Keeley smiles, ignoring the muttered: “Kiss arse,” from Jamie, before ushering the two of them into the hallway.

Next to him, Jamie immediately plasters on a charming smile, while Sam blinks a few times like a deer in headlights before also smiling, probably a bit more grimacing, before he gets it under control. Not that it is an easy task in the face of flashing lights, cameras being shoved in their faces and overlapping voices asking questions.

He is grateful for Jamie there, who leans on his shoulder and calls out: “Easy, easy, can barely hear meself think, wanna ‘ear it when you tell me how well I played.”

The playfully arrogant comment gets everyone laughing and quiets them down. Jamie is a lot of things, but media trained is definitely one of them. It shows that he came up in a big club like Man City, unlike the rest of them down here.

“That’s better,” Jamie nods, his weight on Sam’s shoulder grounding him.

“It is very nice to meet you all,” Sam says, earnestly. And he truly is. This is a big part of being a footballer and he will never stop being thrilled that he gets to live this, experience this. He is forever grateful.

“We saw a lot of emotion out there on the pitch today,” a reporter starts, shoving his microphone in their faces. “What was the atmosphere in the locker room like during half time?”

“I ain’t gonna lie to you, mate, shit got tense. I mean, emotions always run high durin’ a match and I were pissed,” Jamie says, which is not at all in line with what Keeley instructed him to do. He gives Jamie a wide eyed look and elbows him, Jamie shoots him an annoyed look back, the adds: “But tha’s jus’ football, y’know? Nowt personal. We talked it out, ‘cause we’re fucking adults and he put me back in. Not much else to say ‘bout it.”

“That is not the dynamic we’ve witnessed between you and coach Lasso this season. Is this a further symptom of his coaching style or is there an animosity in the team that is going unaddressed?” the reporter pushes.

Sam can feel Jamie tense, so he quickly picks it up: “Switching management in the middle of the season is not easy. These are all growing pains and we are finding our footing. You throw around this word animosity, but you cannot know that.”

“So there is no animosity?” the reports checks, slightly disbelievingly.

“No,” Sam says as firmly as he can.

The reporter turns back to Jamie and asks: “Would you agree with that sentiment after you’ve gone on the record to say that coach Lasso is a-” he checks his notes, then quotes: “-talentless wanker, who couldn’t find a good football strategy if it kicked him in the arse?”

Oh my god, of course Jamie said that, Sam thinks to himself exasperated. This feeling is not helped by Jamie shrugging: “I mean, he is. Or well, he were. But he actually knows what offside is now, so I think the lad can learn.” That last bit is said cheerily, which only serves to make it sound patronizing, but at least Jamie has stopped antagonizing Ted on the record, which is progress. “And as long as he keeps putting me back in so I can score, I suppose he ain’t so bad.” Then he turns to the other reporters and asks: “Now who wants to ask me about actual football instead of me coach?”

He fully ignores the first reporter and turns to another one, who eagerly asks: “We’ve seen your first assist of the season, how did it feel to give up the winning goal to Obisanya?” which Sam thinks is a rude question when he is right here.

“Mate, what the fuck are you on about, give up? We’re a team, ain’t we? Sam ‘ere had a better chance of scoring, so I passed, ain’t exactly rocket science,” Jamie says, like the reporter in question is stupid and this wasn’t out of character behavior for him.

The reporter stumbles for a moment, then says: “This is quite the change in tune.”

“Eh,” Jamie shrugs. “They all still need to catch up wi’ me, but they’re no so bad.” Then he leans forward, arm still on Sam’s shoulder and conspiratorially smirks: “I mean, did you see those Watford faces when Sam punted tha’ ball in? Fucking glorious, mate. Tell ‘em, Sam.”

He nudges Sam, who can’t help but make a small startled noise, before tucking away the flustered feeling to say: “It was amazing. I enjoyed getting to score very much.” Jamie lets out a delighted laugh at his answer and the reporter looks taken aback. It’s not until that happens that Sam realizes how that can come across as cocky and insulting, and he quickly backtracks: “Oh no, I don’t mean it like that! Watford played very well.”

“Nah, mate, own it. You beat their arses,” Jamie thrills excitedly. “We fucking crushed them. They didn’t even see that decoy play coming, the suckers.”

Another reporter chimes in: “We haven’t seen such plays all season. Was this something you were already working on under coach Catrick?”

“Like Catrick ever came up wi’ shit,” Jamie snorts, which is Sam’s cue to step back in.

“It is something we started working on under coach Lasso,” he tells the reporter. “He is trying to reform how we played and this is a part of it. As you can see, it worked out.”

“So this is a strategy that came from coach Lasso?”

“Does it look like it came from Lasso?” Jamie shoots back rhetorically, face screwed up in sort of disgusted expression. He cannot blame Jamie about being sour in regards to Ted after today and he can imagine even with media training it would be difficult to be nice about someone who pushed your mental health off of a cliff.

Unfortunately, since Sam promised Keeley he’d curb this exact thing, he once again jumps in: “Coach Lasso did not come up with this play, no. He is a great coach when it comes to building up the team-” which is why Sam has been so… weird about how Ted is handling the Jamie situation, however, he cannot focus on that right now, so he pushes it away “-and working with us as people. However, he does talk to others, who know more about football and coach Beard is reading many books on football. They are playing into their strengths and clearly, it is working. We won.”

They seem satisfied with that answer and instead ask: “Yes, the first victory for Richmond, since coming under coach Lasso’s leadership and the first victory this season that you have played a significant role in. How does that feel?”

“Uh, I- It- Good, I suppose,” Sam stutters, unsure what to do with that question. It feels… mean in a way he’s not used to, even if it technically isn’t.

Jamie tightens the grip on Sam’s shoulder and takes a breath. He sounds perfectly pleasant when he replies too: “You know, it’s really fucking interesting you say tha’, ‘cause if I remember right, Sam Obisanya currently has the most assists for Richmond and I don’t know if you know what an assist is, mate, but those are pretty fucking important.”

“Yes, of course,” the reporter agrees, not at all throw off by the underlying hostility. “It’s a different style of playing that lead to this victory. Are we going to see more Obisanya goals this season?”

“That is the plan,” Sam says, hearing how his voice sound squeaky and unsure and so young. Fuck.

“And are you okay with conceding more goals to Obisanya?” the reporter asks Jamie.

“I already said, passing ain’t conceding goals. It’s a fucking team sport, you dickhead,” Jamie scowls, annoyed again.

Okay, not engaging more with this reporter before Jamie starts getting mad. Media training will only get so far and he already nearly physically fought another player on the pitch for Sam’s honor, so let’s not tempt fate.

Sam looks at another reporter, who jumps on the eye contact to ask: “Is there any comment about the injuries you’re sporting, Tartt? No statement was released before the match.”

… That is not necessarily better and Sam can feel his gut clench at the reminder of how Jamie got those injuries. And his stomach twists more when Jamie laughs, before he answers: “Mate, don’t make me embarrass meself like this. I cut meself shaving and scraped me arm on the pitch. Not sure tha’ requires a presser.”

“And what about Roy Kent, who also has bandages on his arm? Did the rivalry between you two come to blows?” the reporter asks, looking for a cover up for something juicy.

“Dunno, the geezer probably slept on his arm. I mean, ‘ave you see that stubble? Looks proper fucking scratchy,” Jamie replies with a shrug, perfectly conveying his lie that he doesn’t have a clue and why should he? Before he suddenly grins: “Wait, I’m changing me answer, it were a mad fist bumping incident. Yeah, big man Roy Kent don’t know how to fist bump, too old to know, you get me? It got outta hand.”

He clearly thinks he’s hilarious and Sam hates how the reporters there all laugh, lapping it up like they believe him, because why wouldn’t they? Jamie is charming. He can make anyone believe anything.

After the laughter dies down, a reporter directs herself at Sam, asking: “This new style of play has you and Tartt working much closer together and we saw some great friendship out on the pitch today after Tartt got benched. Where is this sudden friendship coming from?”

Sam does really not feel like talking about that and his face feels wooden, but he manages to say: “Some things just need time to grow and the team building we’ve been doing has really started to impact the team.” Sorry Keeley, this is the best he can do.

At that answer, the reporter looks to Jamie, who just shrugs: “Yeah, what he said.”

“So the hand holding-” the reporter starts, but he never does get to finish his sentence. Keeley has been waiting to the side, observing and ready to step in, which she does now, loudly announcing: “Coach Lasso will be starting his press conference now, so if you’d all come into the press room,” which causes the reporter to get drowned out by everyone getting up to leave.

“Come on, I need a fucking shower,” Jamie says, dragging Sam away from all the reporters, before they can get their bearings and ask them more questions.

Once in the locker room, Sam heaves a big sigh and says: “That was so stressful. I do not know how you stayed so calm.”

“You jus’ gotta ‘ave no respect for ‘em,” Jamie replies casually.

“But that is so rude. They are also doing their jobs,” Sam frowns.

“And more power to them, but they’re also fucking wankers, who jus’ want a good sound bite to sell and don’t care,” Jamie says.

“G-d forbid, but Jamie’s fucking right. They’re fucking vultures, Sam. Don’t think about it too much,” Roy says, where he’s sitting on the bench. Most of the other players are gone now – his breakdown probably put a damper on any celebrating them might have otherwise done – but since Roy is on Jamie duty tonight, he’s still waiting for them.

“I do not know if I can,” Sam tells them honestly. He believes all humans deserve to be treated with respect, even if you don’t like them. You can have your boundaries, but you shouldn’t be disrespectful just because they are doing their job.

“That’s alright, lad, you’ll get there. Already did a great job when they asked you ‘bout your goal, tha’ were fucking golden,” Jamie grins.

Heat creeps up Sam’s face and he groans: “Don’t remind me of that, I am so embarrassed.”

“Come on, mate, don’t be such a downer. I mean, did you see their faces? That was proper brill,” Jamie says, looking chuffed as all hell.

“I am not dignifying this with a response,” Sam tells him, still mortified, before quickly turning to get ready for his shower so he can leave this conversation behind him.

Jamie does not much care for his dismissal, just following after him as he says: “See? Tha’ were already great. You can dismiss those journo’s out there in no time.”

“You are insufferable,” Sam informs him, stepping into the shower.

“Nah, you don’t think tha’,” Jamie replies with a shit eating grin, stepping under the shower next to Sam’s. “Didn’t you ‘ear? It were some great friendship out on the pitch today. They’re probably gonna put us in those great sportsmanship compilations on youtube.”

“And write fanfiction about us,” Sam adds, hating himself a little as he does. Why must he be Jamie’s friend and have the urge to go along with his shit? Life was so much easier before he did that.

Jamie cackles and snorts: “Oh my god, they totally will.” He turns to Sam and grins: “They should know how much more intimate we get than some hand holding,” which is true and proven by the fact they’re having this conversation under the shower, “I mean, there would be so many piss fics if they knew about how hung up you are ‘bout the communal pissing.”

“For the last time, you named it that,” Sam exclaims, wondering if he can be washed down the drain alongside the water, while desperately thinking about how he can get out of this conversation. “I half did not think you would know what fanfiction is.”

“Mate, I am like super famous and one of me hobbies is googling meself, ‘course I know what fanfic is,” Jamie deadpans. “There are loads ‘bout me, because I’m sexy as fuck. There are also like a bunch dedicated to me and the old man hatefucking,” which is again more than Sam ever wanted to know.

“You read those?” he squeaks.

“Scrolled past,” Jamie shrugs, unfazed.

From the locker room, Roy’s voice suddenly comes: “Stop fucking talking ,you fucking dickheads. I can still fucking hear you over here.”

“Boring old cunt,” Jamie calls back, while Sam dies of embarrassment all over again.

Sam quickly goes through his shower routine, then has to wait around for what feels like an hour while Jamie carefully goes through his way too extensive hair and skin routine. It’s normal for Sam now, but it still feels excessive every time. However, he figures that Jamie caring about how his skin will grow old is a good thing and leaves it at that.

After they’ve showered and packed their things, Roy is there waiting, asking Sam: “You want to come too or are you sleeping at your own place tonight?”

The question makes Sam freeze in place as he thinks about it. He should probably go home, take that time for himself, but the thought of doing that scares him. He knows he’s not doing it alone, but he still worries about Jamie. Besides, it’s not as if Roy and Jamie have a great history. What if something goes wrong? He squeaks: “Uhm, come with?”

“Sam…” Roy starts, but Jamie cuts him off.

“Let the lad come, Roy. Look at ‘im, he’ll be nervous on his own,” Jamie says, then to Sam he sternly goes: “But you’re sleeping in a guest room, yeah, mate. No looking after me. The old fart is there to do that.”

“I will turn your balls into origami,” Roy growls.

Jamie is completely unbothered by the threat, though maybe that’s because he doesn’t get it, since he frowns: “What? I mean, I can get freaky, but I don’t think Sam wants to listen to you fuck me.”

“Origami, not orgasm, you prick,” Roy snarls.

“What the fuck’s organmi?” Jamie says, butchering the word.

“The little folding thing, where you get the cranes and shit,” Roy starts, before he realizes what he’s doing and he sighs: “Fucking- Nevermind. Come on, Sam. Apparently we’re both taking this dickhead home.”

“You know when you say you’re taking me home, you’re not really clearing up the whole orgasm thing,” Jamie says as he walks with Roy, while Sam decides that following a step behind them is more than fine for him. He does not want to get caught up in their… whatever this is.

At Jamie’s house, Jamie seems very serious about getting Sam to sleep in his own bed. It’s strangely touching how much Jamie is caring about the reasons for Sam’s breakdown, even if he doesn’t know how to say it in as many words.

Sam lets Jamie practically tuck him into bed with an amused expression, while Roy watches them both with confusion from the threshold. Once Jamie runs out of things to fuss about – because there is really no other way to describe what he is doing, even if Jamie would disagree with the term – Roy asks: “You fucking done?”

“What’s it to you? Past your bedtime?” Jamie shoots back.

“I don’t have a fucking bedtime, I’m staying up watching you,” Roy reminds him.

“Are you gonna give me murder eyes all night then?” Jamie asks, a curious and wary expression on his face. “Dunno if I can sleep with Mr. and Mr. Murder looking at meh.”

“Mr. and Mr. Murder?” Roy repeats, eyebrows furrowing.

“Yeah, mate,” Jamie says, putting fingers over his own eyebrows to indicate what he’s talking about. It only serves to make Roy frown more and Sam can’t help the giggle that escapes at the sight, though he quickly muffles it when Roy whips his head around towards him.

Roy looks at them both, before choosing his own dignity and simply saying: “Just to go fucking sleep, Tartt. Both of you.”

“Wish me luck,” Jamie chirps, but he’s still grinning so Sam figures he’s not too put off by Roy’s attitude. He probably takes some sort of joy in needling Roy and Sam will let him have it, since he is going to be over here and not there.

“Good luck,” he says, because he can also be annoying sometimes. “And goodnight.”

“Night,” Jamie says, then follows after Roy, turning of Sam’s lights as he goes.

Sam lies there for a long moment, running through the day. A part of him thinks he won’t be able to go to sleep, that the anxiety will keep him awake like it had last night and he’ll find himself in Jamie’s room soon enough.

However, the anxiety doesn’t come. He can vaguely make out Roy and Jamie bickering down the hall as Roy makes Jamie give him his phone, taking on the task of listening to Jamie’s dad. Jamie clearly hates it, but he must also be relieved, because he doesn’t put up much of a fight.

It’s nothing like the actual arguments they’ve had this season. It just makes the house sound lived in… lively. Both things that have been lacking. It’s comforting.

He’s asleep before he is even aware of it.

~~

A/N:

Sam’s heart sinks, because unless he wants to risk a huge fine and a red card, he cannot follow Jamie into that tunnel. He will, if he needs to, but he really doesn’t want to. Incensed, he tells Ted: “I cannot believe you did that. What are you thinking?” before ignoring him too and rushing after Jamie. “Jamie, wait up.”

“Leave me the fuck alone, Obisanya,” Jamie hisses and this is really feeling too close to those first few days for comfort.

“You know I will not,” Sam reminds him. “Just slow down.”

“No, I ain’t staying when I’m not fucking wanted. I’m not humiliating meself like tha’!” Jamie whirls around to face Sam, stopping in his tracks so he can scowl at Sam. Sam tries to take it as a win that he’s no longer moving towards the tunnel.

“Wait in the dug out until half time then, so that we can ask Keeley to come get you so you can leave with her,” he pleads.

“I’m not some toddler throwing a tantrum, needing parental fucking supervision,” Jamie seethes, missing Sam’s point.

“No, but you also cannot be left alone, you know this,” Sam says lowly covering his mouth so no one will take the match tapes and analyze what he’s saying. He watches the realization hit Jamie and have him bite his lip as he considers it. Sam seizes the moment, adding: “Look, if you need to get out, I’ll take the fine and the red card and walk out with you, but if you can just wait until half time then-”

He’s interrupted by Colin suddenly hanging off him saying: “This is all fucked, boyo. I don’t know what the gaffer’s thinking, taking you off the pitch like that.” He looks off to the side, then mirthfully adds: “But pretty sure Roy’s making it known. Not sure if Isaac is going to stop Roy or join in.”

The two of them look over too, to find Roy in Ted’s face, angrily shouting and pointing at him as he does. It’s nearly a fist fight. Isaac has his hand on Roy’s shoulder, preventing him from charging at Ted, but he’s frowning deeply too.

With the roar of the crowds, they hadn’t even noticed it and even now, they cannot make out the words, but going off how they’re gesturing towards them, it’s clearly about Jamie.

Sam looks back at Jamie to find him staring at the scene with wide, almost childlike eyes. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing is real. Awed, he asks: “Is- Is Roy defending meh? Against Lasso?”

“Yeah, mate, you deserve to be on here with us. He’s proper pissed,” Colin nods. “Pretty sure he’s refusing to play unless the gaffer does something. Whole team’s rioting.”

Indeed all over the field Richmond players are glaring at Ted, their arms crossed, the shouted ‘wanker’ echoing through the stadium providing a thematic back drop.

Jamie takes it all in for a moment, letting it sink in that all of them care about him. That Sam hadn’t been lying and he isn’t alone. Then says: “I’ll wait on the side. It’s almost half time. We’ll try and get me back on then. Not worth all of us getting carded over this shit. Roy’s lucky if he walks away with only a yellow if he keeps tha’ up.”

“You’re right,” Sam winces, watching how red Roy is in the face. His asshole must be very clenched. “We should tell them before that happens.”

He grabs Jamie’s hand to lead him back to the dug out, so they can get there before it gets out of hand. As he does, Jamie glances down at their joined hands, not letting go, but idly commenting: “Me dad is gonna fucking kill me for this soft shit.”

It should probably be more worrying that Jamie isn’t letting go despite that, but Sam is feeling fired up, so all he does is fiercely reply: “You’re never going to see that man again, so fuck him.”

Thankfully, Jamie just huffs out a laugh, squeezing Sam’s hand to comfort him.

“Jamie will wait here for half time,” Sam announces, interrupting yet another stream of colorful curses that is being met with placating excuses. His tone leaves no room for arguing or for listening to them explaining their side. “We’ll talk about it then,” he adds, giving Ted a look, which makes the man shrink in on himself. Good.

Ted shakes it off well, though, he has to give him that. He must have gotten good at it with the whole of England against him. “Yeah, let’s make it to half time and see from there.”

“We’re not fucking done yet,” Roy threatens, getting back out there for the literal last minute of this half.

Colin and Isaac clap Jamie on the back and Sam gives his hand a final squeeze, before also making his way back onto the pitch.

He imagines the commentary on this match is quite a shitshow, with him going down like that, Jamie picking a fight and getting carded, Jamie getting benched, Roy nearly fighting Ted, Sam and Jamie holding hands. He feels a little bad for Ms. Welton. It must be hard to have her club falling apart in the first year of owning it. Hopefully they can get Jamie back on the pitch and win this to make it up to her.

As expected, nothing happens in that last minute and Sam is running towards Jamie the second the whistle goes. He’s still standing there. Thank fuck. Sam had trusted everyone to keep Jamie there, but it is still a relief.

Jamie is off to the side, he looks unhappy and Sam isn’t sure if it’s because he’s benched or because of something else. Either way, he’s going to find out soon.

He catches Jamie with an arm thrown over his shoulder and leads him off the pitch before anyone else even gets close to the tunnels. He wants to know where Jamie is at first, so he pulls him into the boot room, now sans lock.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Jamie asks as he gets prodded into the space.

“I don’t know,” Sam says very honestly. “I just want to know if you’re okay without Ted hovering there with his mustache.”

“Hate his fucking mustache,” Jamie mutters, foul mood going strong.

“I know,” Sam says sympathetically. “Do you still want to leave?”

Jamie hesitates, gnawing on his lip and stretching out his kit, before he asks: “You think Lasso’ll put me back in?”

“He should have never taken you off,” Sam said. “We can make a good case for it.”

“But he might say no?”

“He might say no,” Sam says apologetically, because he can’t control Ted’s actions and even if putting Jamie back in would be the better move, there is no guarantee Ted will go for it. He’s been handling this whole thing rather poorly.

Jamie hesitates again. It’s obvious he would really like to go back out there and wants to try to get back on the pitch – back on his safe space, where he is happy – but he already feels exposed enough with everything that has happened yesterday. He might not want to put himself in a vulnerable position where he could be rejected.

Sam knows he’d rather have Jamie with him on the pitch, but he can’t force Jamie. However, he can add incentive. “If Ted does not let you back out, I’ll walk from this match.”

“What? No!” Jamie exclaims, rearing back. “We’re actually winning this one. We need all the fucking wins we can get. We’re already a striker down, they can’t do it without you, mate.”

He cannot deny he’s flattered by that, but he means it anyway. “I do not care. Then we lose,” he says with pain in his heart, because he is still a professional football player and he loves winning.

“Fuck tha’,” Jamie scowls. “You’re getting your arse back on that pitch. I’ll sit in the bloody dug out if it makes you stop this fucking bunny rabbit shit.”

“That would be appreciated,” Sam says brightly, glad Jamie is no longer wanting to get the fuck away and whatever else that would have entailed. “But let’s first try and get us both back onto the pitch.”

They actually shake on it, before going to the locker room, Sam hyping himself up to fight Ted. He will… but he doesn’t like it. He is not a confrontational person, however, befriending Jamie has become a crash course in confrontation and he must.

Or maybe not.

When they enter the locker room, it’s to Roy angrily saying: “I don’t give shit what you thought about his mental state, you obviously thought fucking wrong. So put the fucking prick back on the fucking pitch.”

He’s growling straight into Ted’s face, murder in his eyes. Behind him is the rest of the team all matching his anger, backing him up. Physically. Sam doesn’t have to argue with Ted about this, everyone else already is. They’re not in it alone anymore. Him and Jamie both watch the scene with wonder for a moment.

“Hey, now, I get we’re all fired up and wanting to win this, but there are more important things,” Ted defends himself, hands up placatingly. “I pulled Jamie ‘cause he reacted very strongly to Sam getting tackled. I’m just keeping eye on his mental state. It’s a lot of pressure out there.”

“Oh fuck off,” Jamie says loudly, getting the attention on the two of them in the entrance. “I jus’ wanted to check on Sam, ‘cause he got tackled by the foul tacker number 3 tha’ we saw in the tapes. Something you would ‘ave know, if you knew how to do your fucking job and watch tapes wi’ us. And me mental state is fucking fine.”

“Now, Jamie, while I’m mighty glad to hear that it ain’t anything bad, but I’m having a hard time trusting you on that topic, I hope you don’t mind,” Ted says, which Sam understands. He also has a hard time trusting Jamie about his mental state, however, this is football it’s different.

Indeed, Jamie responds: “I do mind. This is fucking football. When I play football, I’m good. I stay alive for football. Do you have any fucking clue how many times I sat there wi’ fucking pills or whatnot in me hands and I didn’t ‘cause there were a match? I’ll tell ya; it’s a lot.”

Not really the pep talk they might want to hear right now, but effective, Sam thinks with a small wince on Jamie’s behalf. His filter truly goes out the window once people know. But as far as getting Jamie back on the pitch, this might be what they need, so Sam offers: “He’s not lying. He only said something to me last week, because he wanted to make it to the match. He never would have told me otherwise.”

It’s quiet for a moment as the words sink in.

Sam is reminded that he’s had a whole week to process it all, while they’ve had a day. Not that Sam has gotten a lot of space to process, but he’s at least gotten to internalize the reality of the situation. How normal this is for Jamie. How in order to step into his world, you have to adopt some casualness about the topic, or it becomes unnavigable. He’s still appropriately horrified about Jamie’s suicide attempts, but you need to be able to talk about it without breaking down to get further. It’s not helpful to get so upset about it that Jamie feels guilty for sharing.

Ted is pale – he’s not alone in that, but it’s him, whose eyes Sam holds – and he swallows, before stuffing his hands in his pockets and clearing his throat. “I, uhm- Beard?”

“Got you,” Beard says, patting Ted on the back and replacing him as Ted beats a hasty retreat. He is more pale now and his breathing is slightly off. Sam worries about him, even if he is also angry. It’s confusing, so he tries to forget about it. There is Jamie and the match to focus on.

“Coach?” Jamie asks Beard, eyes wary. None of them know the other American very well, he’s always content to play second fiddle to Ted.

“You’re going back in,” Beard says decisively, seeming to take no issue in undermining Ted’s earlier call.

“I am?” Jamie is almost as surprised as everyone else is by that.

“Yes,” Beard replies. “We’re doing the decoy play. They’ll be expecting you to go for a hat trick, so we’ll play into that. Can your ego handle that, Jamie?”

“My ego’s jus’ fine, coach,” Jamie glares, but at least he’s not fighting Beard. At least he seems to understand that this is expected of him if he wants to go back out there.

“Good,” Beard nods, before turning to the rest of the room. “Anyone else have something to say?”

Everyone shares looks as a soft murmuring fills the locker room. After a moment of consulting, Isaac says: “Nah, bruv, if Jamie’s playing, we’re good.”

“Okay. Now, we’re tied and on the rise. Watford hasn’t scored in a while, keep up the energy and keep that defense tight,” Beard says, a short and concise pep talk.

Ted joins them again when they collect in the tunnel, looking worse for wear. Sam wants to ask, but he also doesn’t want to know. Fortunately, Beard puts a hand on Ted’s back comfortingly and says something to him in a quiet voice. Ted nods and smiles, which is an improvement.

The crowd goes wild when Jamie returns to play and Jamie listens to it with a broad grin on his face, soaking it all in. Sam gives him a light shoulder check when he actually spreads his hands to let it wash over him, ribbing: “You egomaniac.”

“You ain’t seen egomanjack yet, mate. Wait ‘till I score me hat trick,” Jamie grins wickedly, carefully not looking to where a Watford defender makes eye contact with another. Smart.

“The Great Jamie Tartt,” Sam jokes back, also carefully not looking to the defenders.

It takes a while, before they can get to it, since Watford is on a war path after their last minute catch up last half. However, the defense stays strong and soon Roy is passing the ball to Bumbercatch, who makes his way up the field to Sam and Jamie.

Sam barely thinks, running into action. Mid-field is an easy place to lose the ball, so Bumbercatch will be dodging, which means Sam has to be in the perfect spot to receive and instantly score. From the corner of his eye, he also sees Jamie make his run into the box. He swerves a little to make sure Watford won’t be on time to catch him.

Bumbercatch moves to pass to Jamie, who is swimming in defenders, while waving his arms around and yelling: “Here! Pass me the ball! I ‘ave an opening! Pass it, Bumber! Pass!”

Last minute, Bumbercatch passes to Sam instead. Sam receives the ball, already too far away from any defenders for them to stop him. It’s just him and the goalie. Just him and the net. His foot and the ball.

It sails through the air beautifully.

Sam hold his breath.

The whole arena holds it’s breath.

Then it hits the back of the net and noise explodes all around him.

He barely even gets a moment to register that he scored – he scored – before Jamie is jumping on his back in celebration, nearly tackling him. Jamie must have started sprinting towards him the moment his toes lost contact with the ball, blind faith in that it would go in.

Soon more players are there, all piling on top of him, screaming and yelling and shaking him from side to side in the excitement. It’s an exhilarating feeling. Sam feels on top of the world.

This is what it is all about. This is what being alive means.

In this moment on the pitch, with the entire team celebrating with him, Sam feels the most relaxed he has all week.

The match isn’t over yet, but Sam gets buoyed by the energy throughout the rest of the match. He’s more focused than he’s ever been, playing in sync with Jamie in a way that most coaches can only dream off. It is like magic.

Jamie’s hat trick goal gets stopped, but Sam manages to get in another goal at the end of the match – surprisingly enough off an assist from Jamie – pulling them ahead in a way that is irreversible for Watford. By the time the whistle goes, they have done it. They have won their first match under Ted. They have won, period.

All of them are screaming like mad men, jostling together as they make their way back to the locker room, high on the feeling of victory.

Sam and Jamie are right in the middle of it, hailed as heroes of the match. The two of them have broad matching grins on their faces, sweat drenching their clothes and giddy like no other. It feels like boyhood, like summer nights where you were young enough to feel invincible.

Since coming here, Sam has felt like he hasn’t been doing enough, like he’s coming short of what everyone thought of him and squandering his potential, wasting the opportunity he’s been given. Now, though, that worry is gone. He played amazingly and is making so many people proud. Not just in football, but in general too.

His eye lock onto Jamie for a moment again. He’s nodding excitedly at something Bumbercatch is saying, jostling the Swiss man as he does. Last week, he wouldn’t have bothered with Bumbercatch and Bumbercatch would have steered clear of him. Now, though, they both look genuinely happy to be talking together. To be here in this moment.

Isaac comes up too, grinning widely as well. Through the yelling he can vaguely make out: “You okay, bruv?”

“Never better, mate,” Jamie grins back.

Roy also comes up to them and Jamie preens when Roy gives him a long look, then nods: “Good work out there.” Then Roy also asks: “You feeling fucked?”

Jamie rolls his eyes at the concern, but his answer is real. “Mate, I scored two incredibly sexy goals and got an aces assist for Sammy-boy there. I’m fucking mint as fuck right now.”

“Fucking prick,” Roy shakes his head, but his tone is fond.

It suddenly hits Sam that he hasn’t been worried about Jamie once since coming off the pitch. For the past week now, he’s done nothing but worry about him and his well being, eyes always searching for him, scared to lose him from his sight. Scared of what would happen if he let Jamie slip away.

However, this time he hasn’t been worried about it. Jamie is surrounded by people who are all keeping an eye on him, checking in with him. It’s no longer on Sam’s shoulders alone to watch him. Sam is no longer alone in knowing how dangerous it is to let Jamie leave your line of sight. He can bask in the celebration without the background anxiety.

Now that he’s aware of it, it’s almost strange to not have that constant nervousness buzzing in the back of his head. He should be worried, he should be nervous. Jamie is still a risk and Sam is responsible for him now. Jamie is his friend. His friend who wants to die. Who can go from a high to a low so quickly. Who nearly killed himself in front of Sam. Multiple times. Yesterday, even.

His breathing picks up a bit as he thinks himself into a spiral and he startles when Roy is suddenly in front of him, hand on his shoulder.

“Whoa, are you okay?” Roy asks, frowning when Sam jumps and gives him a wide eyed look, instead of returning the excitement that is being felt all around the locker room.

Sam doesn’t even know why or what is truly happening in the moment, all he knows is that one moment he’s looking at Roy and the next he’s suddenly bursts into tears. Genuine tears. The kind that make your eyes itch and your throat tighten as you gasp through the sobs the best you can.

Instantly the atmosphere in the locker room shifts as the celebrations quiet down and everyone turns to look at him instead. It only serves to make Sam feel more awful, because they should be celebrating this, not watching as Sam suddenly breaks down for no reason.

However, he cannot get the crying to stop, in fact, trying to stop only makes it worse. He’s not even sad really, just incredible overwhelmed. Breath hitching on another sob, he says: “I- I- I’m sor- I’m sorry.”

“Holy shit, Sam, are you okay?” Jamie asks, leaving his spot on top of the little bench podium they have in the middle of the locker room, hands awkwardly hovering over Sam as if he’s not sure touch is welcome.

Sam just grabs him and pulls him into a hug, letting his tears soak into Jamie’s kit, not even minding the stench of sweat that is invading his nostrils. He tries to explain himself, but he barely knows, so he just blubbers something.

Thankfully, Jamie just holds him tightly for a moment, not expecting him to do more than that. Roy is there too, awkwardly patting him on the back. It’s really nice and Sam cries more.

“Is it your ankle? Did it hurt more than you thought? Should we ‘ave a sit or summat? Do you think you can’t play?” Jamie asks worriedly when Sam continues on crying.

A lance of annoyance goes through Sam at Jamie making everything about football and it’s enough to stop the sobbing to blurt out: “It’s not always about football, you dickhead. I was fucking worried about you, because you could have died at any point this week and no one except for me knew and it was so stressful and worrying and it sucked and I- I-” he breaks down crying again, clutching Jamie close, before he admits: “I was so scared.”

He hadn’t realized he was going to say that, until he has, but now that the words are out, he realizes how true they are. He has been scared. Very scared.

Sam wanted to be there for Jamie and he is glad he was and that he made the choices he did. However, he can’t deny that it was scary and awful too. That now that he no longer has to keep it together, because he’s no longer the only person Jamie has, it hits him just how much some of that had sucked. How terrifying it had been to wrestle those pills from Jamie, to talk to him through that door and hope he wouldn’t do anything before Sam could get through to him. To watch him drive away from the Dogtrack knowing yet unable to say a thing.

All of it, he would do again. In a heartbeat. Of course he would. But holy shit that was so stressful and he is only now fully letting it hit him. And it’s hitting him hard.

Under his hold, Jamie stiffens and Sam can feel him starting to let go. At that, Sam lets out a pathetic sound and clutches Jamie tighter. “Don’t-” he chokes.

“I never asked you to,” Jamie forces out, hurt and anger under-lacing his words.

Slightly angry, Sam loosens his hold so he can look Jamie in the eye, then he snaps: “I know you didn’t fucking ask me to. I wanted to. I wanted to do it, but it also wasn’t always fun, Jamie. It’s not about you- about that. You don’t- No one here would have believed me, you could have turned them all against me in a moment and I would have to live with the fact that you were unsafe. That I did that. That I could have killed you at any point. I know you don’t care about your life, but I do. And it’s so very scary to care about you. To do it alone.”

“Fuck,” Jamie swears, face a complicated mess. Sam doesn’t know if it’s good or bad and his fingers curl around Jamie’s kit tightly, just in case. He can’t take it if this is where he loses Jamie, if this is where he slips through his fingers.

After a moment suspended in time, Jamie pulls him back in, hugging Sam tightly. Again, he swears: “Fuck!” and Sam just cries again.

~~

A/N:

We all knew that Sam break down was coming, the poor lad. He deserves to have a bit of a cry after everything he’s been through < / 3

Keeley stands there dumbfounded for a moment, still having to get used to Jamie being so casual about it all. Sam can relate. It’s strange how closely Jamie plays it to the vest and how open he can be once someone knows. But he knows it’s a false openness.

Despite it all, Sam still doesn’t know what his dad did that made him want to kill himself and it took a lot for Jamie to finally tell them what happened with his mom. Not to mention that Jamie kept the reality of his depression when it came to the state of his house a lot more private than he did the more shocking symptoms. He wants to startle you away and not show you what he thinks are failures. He wants you to not take it seriously, to leave him alone.

Unfortunately, they will not and Keeley will soon see right through him as well. But for the time being, Sam gives her an encouraging smile and sympathetic eyes.

Keeley gives Jamie the brand and name of the product, shaking her head. “Will you two be okay, Sam?” she asks and when Sam nods, she tells Jamie she’s going to freshen up and take a quick nap in one of his guest rooms, but that she’ll be there for the match.

“Okay, babe, you still know where to find everything, yeah?” Jamie asks, getting a nod in reply. “Good, see ya after the match then. We’re gonna murder these fuckers.”

“I’ll be cheering you on,” Keeley promises with a smile.

Roy makes them all breakfast and it’s a little nice to not have to do it. Sam would have had to, even without Jamie, since he lives alone, so it’s a double treat. Roy makes very delicious eggs.

At the Dogtrack, Roy makes right on his threat to drag Jamie to medical if Jamie doesn’t go on his own and Jamie sulks the whole way there. Sam waits a bit further down the hall. The glass must be cleaned up by now and they’re probably using the other non-haunted treatment room, but he’d still prefer not to go. He’s glad he’s not in this alone anymore, that Roy can do it, so he doesn’t have to.

When they return, Jamie is skipping ahead smugly, informing Sam of the verdict before he even has to say a thing. Sam is already grinning back. The new habit of leaning on Sam returns as Jamie slings his arm around his shoulders and says: “We’re gonna murk these Watford fuckers, mate. I’m telling ya.”

“I look forward to it,” Sam smiles, because it’s easy to be up when Jamie is, his mood can be infectious, and he truly does look forward to playing some good football and forgetting everything outside the pitch for a moment.

They first need to brave the locker room, however, which falls silent once they enter. Sam can’t tell if Jamie doesn’t notice or is purposefully ignoring it as he goes: “Don’t you worry, lads, you won’t get your arses kicked. I’m playing.”

Everyone just stands there awkwardly for a few seconds, before Colin finally says: “Medics cleared you then? That’s good, boyo.”

“Yeah, they did,” Jamie grins. There are still matching bandages on his and Roy’s hands and the wound on Jamie’s neck has been carefully taped off, but Roy had been there and he definitely would have said something if Jamie was lying.

“Good to hear, bruv,” Isaac nods.

The tension doesn’t fully dissipate, but it’s somewhat broken and they all try to get into their pre-match mindsets. As much of a big thing this is, they all have a job to do and with Richmond lagging this far behind, it’s important that they do it well.

It’s almost a normal day, Sam thinks, as he changes into his kit and does up the laces of his boots, mentally running through all the plays they trained and the weaknesses they discovered in Watford’s starting line up. Though, it is different too, because once his laces are done up, he’s pulled out of his thoughts when Jamie calls out: “Oi, Obisanya.”

“Hm?” Sam returns, looking over at Jamie.

He’s surrounded by other players, who all kind of hover worriedly, though Jamie seems at ease and perfectly fine. There are none of the tells he has when he’s covering up something – well, nothing more than his baseline at least – and he is just scrolling through his phone. “What were that signal you noticed of the Watford coach? I can’t find it anymore.”

Sam comes over and feels strangely important when everyone shuffles out of the way to make place for him right next to Jamie. He leans over Jamie’s shoulder and says: “You need to go the second half, before that penalty. Player 3. Their coach told him to tackle that other player, try and get him out. Or something went really wrong in their play.”

“Nah, definitely a planned foul, the bastards,” Jamie mutters, moving the progression bar further into the video, rolling his eyes when he gets an ad. Once he finally skips, he finds the moment and triumphantly goes: “Ah, here, look!” showing everyone as all the players around them lean in. “This was it, right, Sam?”

“Yeah, that right there,” Sam agrees, pointing it out on the screen.

The coach indeed does a hand signal, but none of the playing changes, instead a player from the opposite team is tackled soon after and they get a penalty. The Watford player that tackled him looks properly pissed after he gets back up and signals he’s good to play.

“That is definitely planned,” Dixon comments.

“Totally,” Jeff agrees.

“Fuck that bloke,” Isaac adds.

“Oi,” Roy shouts. “No fucking saying shit, no fucking starting shit. Keep a fucking eye out, but don’t pick the fight for them. We don’t need you all getting fucking carded for being fucking stupid.”

“Yes, skipper,” they all say, still appropriately scared of Roy.

After Roy has turned his back again, they all lean back over to Jamie’s phone screen with Isaac asking: “You seen anything else, bruv?”

“Well, Sam saw tha’ one, but look at this,” Jamie says, not even stumbling as he gives Sam credit, just navigating to a different bit of the match. It leaves Sam feeling strangely warm as he sinks into it. No matter what happens now, Sam has found his way in and it is going to get better. He’s part of the team and maybe having hope that this season will end in their favor isn’t too far fetched.

They continue to discuss the upcoming match, kind of making up for the lack of pre-match strategy talk that got canceled yesterday. It’s interrupted by a shadow falling over them and when they look up, they find Ted standing there.

It’s truly impressive how quickly a group of men can disappear from all around you, but they all manage very fast, so only Sam and Jamie are left looking up at him. Jamie’s face shutters for a moment, before his usual cocky looks comes on and he greets: “Coach.”

“Hi, Jamie,” Ted replies, looking more uncomfortable than Sam has ever seen him. It leaves him feeling on guard. He knows Ted has his reasons for not handling this well, but he has therefore not been handling this well and Sam will remain cautious for now. “Sam.”

“Coach,” Sam returns the nod.

Ted turns to Jamie and rocks on his heels for a moment, hands in his pockets. “I hear the medics cleared you to play?”

“Jup, all good, coach,” Jamie says, clearly waiting to see where this is going.

“I looked over those nifty rule books they got here,” Ted says. “Mighty handy, like the little manuals they give you when you buy an appliance. You can find all sorts of features in there, like my coffee maker? It has this milk foaming feature. I never knew that.”

“Sure,” Jamie nods along, looking for all the world very confused. Sam has kind of an idea where this is going, but Jamie is very lost. There will always be a translation error between them, he thinks.

“Anyway,” Ted smiles tightly, “offside is when – let me make sure I get it right – is when a player who was on the opponents’ half of the field and closer to the opponents’ goal line than both the ball and the second-last opponent. And then the referee gets to decide whether that was an offense, if the player wasn’t a part of the attack. Have I got that right? Beard also said a buncha stuff about mustard and ketchup, but I’m afraid that ain’t making sense to either of us.”

“Well…” Jamie starts, “it’s pitch, not field, and there’s nuance, like, but it’s close, I guess.”

“So you’ll play the decoy play?” Ted asks.

“If it’s called or would actually work, sure,” Jamie shrugs.

“Hey, I’m gonna embrace that as progress right there,” Ted says optimistically, the whole thing still feeling a little flat, but Ted is trying at least. Then, he pokes through the mood he created by double checking: “And you’re sure you feel up to playing?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jamie demands, nonchalant facade being replaced by a scowl.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything. I mean, hell, if you’re feeling like peas in gravy, then by all means go out there. I just wanted you to know that if you get mushy, there’s no shame in admitting that,” Ted placates. Jamie is not feeling placated, he’s feeling offended. Sam can feel his muscles tense next to him, begging Ted with his eyes to stop, but Ted doesn’t. “Say the word and we’ll make it work.”

“The fuck are you on about, you wanker?” Jamie demands, getting up so he can get in Ted’s face. “You trying to say something, huh?”

“If there ain’t a thing to be said, I’m not saying anything,” Ted says, holding up his hands, not making more sense to Jamie, who already has a hard time following him. “But the floor if yours if you need to.”

“Is he saying he don’t think I can play?” Jamie asks Sam turning to him.

Sam is still sitting on the bench, hating to be caught in this. It always makes him feel so awkward when he is in between two people fighting. “He only wants to check if you’re up to play,” he says, hoping it comes across neutrally, while still being on Jamie’s side. “I don’t think he meant it badly.”

“He is. You are,” Jamie exclaims, before getting into Ted’s face even more. “Well, listen ‘ere, you useless fucking twat, ‘cause I’m only gonna say it once. Those people out there, yeah? They’re coming to see me. And without me, you can’t do this shit, you get me? So I’m gonna be ‘ere, making sure your shit team don’t get relegated, ‘cause I can play no matter what. You don’t get to talk to me like I’m some little bitch boy over one small freak out. I’ve only got a coupla cuts, nowt to get dramatic about, I’ve gotten a lot closer to meetin’ Jesus before tha’ and I still played better than most of the lads ‘ere. So fucking watch it.”

Jamie Fucking Tartt is back in full force as he has been for most of the season, dented pride turning into angry cutting words as he tries to defend his spot on the team. Sam has sympathy for where this comes from, but it’s not okay. He can be angry and upset – Sam is also upset for him – but he doesn’t have to lash out at everyone here.

Before even Roy can say step in, Sam is already on his feet, putting a hand on Jamie’s shoulder as he sternly says: “Jamie, stop it. Coach is not going to pull you out,” that part is aimed pointedly at Ted, because after yesterday, Ted should have known to back down, “and you do not have to throw all of us under the bus when we have a match to play. It is a team sport.”

Everyone is still shocked whenever Sam stands up for himself, but they recover faster now, which is a silver lining. Isaac even backs him up: “Yeah, bruv, not cool,” as others nod.

Sam waits until Jamie has looked around, before catching his eye again, holding contact until he sees he’s apologetic. Then he says: “And don’t undersell w-” he takes a breath, “-what happened yesterday. It was really scary for all of us.” Despite his best effort, his voice wavers for a moment and he has to swallow to get it under control.

“Fuck, shit, I’m sorreh, Sam,” Jamie winces, deflating as the anger at Ted and the situation as a whole leaves him. “Tha’ were uncalled for and I truly am sorry, swear down,” he says, before turning to Ted and hissing: “Don’t you fucking dare think I can’t fucking play.” Then back to Sam in a normal voice: “Come on, I need to take a piss and you’re into that, like a freak.”

It’s a whiplash, but Sam is used to Jamie wanting move on from people sincerely caring about him as fast as he can. So he barely blinks as he follows after Jamie, complaining: “I’m not into it, stop saying that. You named it communal pissing and tried to make me think it was a thing, not the other way around.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” Jamie waves him away, teasing grin on his face. “Pretty sure you suggested watching me piss first.”

“Not because I’m into it!” Sam attempts to defend himself, knowing Jamie is probably never going to let this go and everyone behind them is judging him.

Since shame is as good as dead for both of them, Sam speaks again when they are at adjacent urinals, asking: “Are you feeling better now?”

“Are you?” Jamie shoots back, shoulders defensive.

Sam thinks about it for a moment, because he does expect it from Jamie and he doesn’t want him to feel like they’re not on equal footing as he had before. Jamie’s comment about having been a lot closer to meeting Jesus still sits weirdly in his stomach. He should be used to it by now, but he doesn’t think he will ever get used to any of it.

He also thinks he should be more upset about what Jamie said about all their playing, but he isn’t. It sucks to hear and he doesn’t like that Jamie’s fall back when cornered, is insulting those around him, but the words sting less now that the locker room as a whole doesn’t put up with it anymore. And now that he knows that Jamie doesn’t mean it, it’s easier to ignore. Because Jamie thinks he’s a good player. In the moments where he is happy and excited, he compliments Sam. He much prefers judging someone’s character when they are content, rather than when they’re at their worst.

“I am,” he says after taking stock. “You?” he asks again, because he’s not letting Jamie get away with deflecting.

“Lasso’s a fucking wanker,” Jamie grouches, putting his dick away and turning on the tab.

“He shouldn’t have pushed, but he cares, he just doesn’t know how. We’re all trying to figure it out,” Sam argues, not because he wants to particularly defend Ted, but because it’s important for Jamie to see that, joining him at the sinks.

“I know that, don’t I? This is why I didn’t want anyone knowing, everyone always gets so fucking weird ‘bout it,” Jamie sulks. “And I know why, I ain’t stupid, but it’s just dead uncomfortable. So what if I wanna die, nowt to do with how I’m gonna crush these blokes on the pitch, y’know?”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Well, it should.”

“Agree to disagree then.”

“I fucking guess,” Jamie sighs. “You think if we hide out long enough, we can skip the gaffer’s pep talk and jus’ join the lads in the tunnel?”

Sam thinks that more interactions with Ted won’t help and honestly, he is not thrilled to hear what talk he will give either, so he easily says: “Yeah, sure, why not.”

“For real?” Jamie asks, suddenly excited. “Goodie-two-shoes Sam is gonna skive off?”

“Shut up,” Sam laughs, giving Jamie a light shove.

They end up fucking around in the hallways, before slipping in with the rest of the team at the last second. They get a glare from Roy and a concerned look from Ted, but otherwise no one says anything. Sam thinks it probably has something to do with Jamie excitedly bouncing around on his toes and the Watford players also gathered there, but doesn’t ask. Don’t look a gifted horse in the mouth.

Stepping foot onto the pitch allows Sam to leave the whole week behind him. It feels almost impossible that just last match, he’d only just found out about Jamie’s suicide attempts the night before. It feels like a lifetime ago. But so much has changed and Sam feels confident when he makes his way to his starting position, Jamie by his side.

The match… starts abysmal. Within six minutes they are down 2-nil and Sam can see a frustrated scowl on Jamie’s face, matching how he feels.

When Jamie gets the ball, Sam runs into position, but he already knows Jamie won’t pass. He is in the striker spot, because it is a glory spot and Jamie has never shared it easily. Knowing that Sam and Roy will have to go through the messages Jamie will get from his dad afterwards, doesn’t really leave him too bitter about not getting the pass.

Still, he runs into position just in case. If their decoy run will succeed, they have to keep it normal that Sam is also storming the goal. Besides, if Jamie is to pass to anyone, it will be Sam. An odd sort of pride forms in his chest at that.

As they make their run, he sees Jamie’s eyes flick over to him, before he re-focuses on the goal and shoots it in himself.

Sam runs over to Jamie, the two of them celebrating the goal, the others joining in. Jamie lets them all pile on him, laughing as they do. It’s different from his old celebration, which included pointing at his own name and yelling ‘me’. Sam likes this much better.

They return to play and Sam gets the ball instead, tearing down the pitch. He gets past the worst of the defense, all of them shocked by Sam’s new confidence. He’s not looking out for players to pass to, but has his eyes on the goal. Watford is flocking to Jamie, used to Sam passing to him. Sam isn’t going to pass. It will be better to score himself. He has a better chance.

Vaguely he hears Jamie scream his name, Jamie’s voice is closer to worried instead of calling for attention, but Sam can’t afford to lose focus when he’s about to shoot.

His feet are out from under him a split second later, body harshly landing on the ground with a thud.

Fuck.

Winded, Sam stays down to catch his breath, hearing the whistle to signal that he at least has gotten a penalty for them with that. Then more noise filters in and he hears Jamie scream his name, voice truly worried, like badly.

It makes him freeze, taking stock of his body as to not jostle anything that shouldn’t be jostled, even if he feels nothing more than a mild ache.

He hasn’t even come to the conclusion that he is actually perfectly fine by the time Jamie slides onto his knees next to him, checking Sam over himself as he anxiously goes: “Are you okay, lad? Is your ankle alright? Did that fucker get ya? Do we need a medic?”

It’s a lot of questions and Sam blinks overwhelmed for a moment. This does nothing to help the situation, because Jamie now grimaces: “Fuck, did ya hit your head? How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four,” Sam says, batting Jamie’s hand away and slowly sitting up. “I’m fine, Jamie. I’m okay. Think I caught myself on autopilot.”

“You better be,” Jamie says, turning around to glare at number 3, the same Watford player Sam had identified as a purposeful foul tackler on the tapes. Jamie leaves Sam behind to get in the guys face.“You fucking arsehole, you did that on purpose!”

“I was trying to get the ball, it’s the fucking game, Tartt,” the player shoots back.

“Shut up, you know it weren’t, you piece of shit,” Jamie seethes, giving the player a hard shove and getting one back immediately.

The referee is right there the moment it happens, pushing a yellow card in both their faces. Jamie whirls around to him, beginning an argument about why the referee is wrong and a wanker. If he keeps it up, that yellow card is going to turn into a red one real fast.

“Jamie,” Sam calls out again, instantly having Jamie’s attention as he returns to check on him

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine, help me up,” Sam says, hoping that if he’s up, Jamie will stop this – albeit very touching – defensive display of worry for him. And to keep Jamie from fighting that guy again, or the referee.

“Wait,” Roy is also there, gruffly interrupting Jamie as he is about to give Sam a hand. “When you get up, you’re gonna pretend to limp very badly, and then you’re gonna gesture that you can bravely go on.”

“Oh yeah, they love tha’ shit,” Jamie agrees.

“Uh, okay?” Sam says, going along with it, though he is unsure. He becomes more sure when the crowds cheer at his performance in support of his sportsmanship.

Jamie stays ready to catch him for two seconds, before he believes that Sam can stay up on his own, then he says: “Right. Now I’m gonna tell that arsehole to fucking watch himself next half if he’s knows what’s fucking good for ‘im. I don’t think it stuck just then.”

“That is not necessary,” Sam says, not wanting Jamie to get carded again. “I’m fine. It could have been an accident.”

“Fuck that,” Jamie says, already walking towards him.

Roy grabs him by the back of the neck, sharing Sam’s sentiment as he goes: “Fuck no.”

“Lemme go!” Jamie demands, trying to push Roy and fight him instead, which is a bit difficult with the grip Roy has him in.

“No,” Roy states, turning Jamie around so he can get up real close in his face as he says: “You’re going to leave him the fuck alone, before you get a fucking red card and instead you’re going to put a ball in that net and even out the fucking score, so we can rub that in his fucking face. Do you fucking hear me?”

Jamie puffs up all angry and for a moment, Sam truly thinks Jamie is not going to listen. Then Jamie spits: “Fuck you,” before scooping up the ball. He still glares at the player that tackled Sam, telling him: “I’m fucking watching you.”

Thankfully, number 3 is smart enough not to do anything more to invoke Jamie’s wrath and gets into position so that Jamie can take the penalty. It’s a beautiful ball in and they are level with half time on the horizon. The match is still salvageable.

After another celebration, they get back to playing, returning to the groove of it all. Sam has never felt as alive on the pitch since he came to England than he does now. They’re going to win this. They might not get relegated at all if they keep this up.

So he’s blind sided with the others when there is the signal for a substitution.

At first he thinks Watford it substituting someone, but when he looks over, it’s coming from their side. He wonders if Ted thinks he hurt himself more than he did and wants to play it safe, or if this is something they were planning but he missed due to skipping the pre-match talk.

Then his eyes see the board and his blood goes cold. In bright red and numbers, it says: ‘9, 16’; Ted is taking Jamie off. He’s benching him.

~~

A/N:

I am going to be real with you all, I looked at the offside rule, tried to understand it for three minutes, gave up and copy pasted Wikipedia and Ted-ified it as much as I could. Don’t come for me if it is wrong, because I tried

The dinner Roy has set out for them once they get out is really nice and neither of them can hide their surprise, nor can Keeley. At their faces, Roy glares: “Fucking say something,” – a favorite phrase – so they all shut up about it and eat their food.

During dinner, they all act like it’s not completely wild that the four of them are sharing a home cooked meal in Jamie’s house. That they are a normal group of people, who would conceivably be doing this without Jamie’s mental health hanging over the evening, connecting them all.

However, once food is done and the dishes have gone into the dishwasher, Keeley pulls out her notebook again. Sam kicks Jamie under the table at the face he makes. He knows Jamie doesn’t like it, but he cannot change it and while Sam is used to Jamie’s more spitting and screaming approach to being helped, he knows that Jamie would feel bad if he did it to Keeley. And she doesn’t deserve it… Neither did Sam, but they can’t change that either.

Thankfully, Jamie keeps his mouth shut and Keeley remains oblivious. “So, I called with the team and Beard, since he seemed like a better option.”

“I don’t want Beard in me house,” Jamie pipes up immediately.

“Figured that much, babe,” Keeley assures him. “Just trying to keep him in the loop, since we do want to keep it off record, but as above board as possible. I also talked to Rebecca, she seemed proper spooked, so I assured her you’re alright and we’re handling it, I hope that’s okay.”

Jamie winces, guilt and embarrassment returning. “Yeah, no, course. Were probably not great for ‘er, I get tha’. Tell her sorreh?”

“I will,” Keeley says gently. “Anyway, she is definitely monitoring it all and we don’t have to worry about it. She said the club will help with resources if we need it.”

That wipes the guilt off Jamie’s face to make place for annoyance as he huffs: “I don’t need fucking resources.”

“Oi,” Roy growls, pointing at Jamie as he does, “I don’t care that you don’t give a shit about yourself and are all sorts of fucking weird about getting help, because we care, so you’re getting help whether you like it or not. And you do need it, you dipshit. So you’re going to fucking zip it and let us help, you fucking hear me?”

“’m not weird ‘bout getting help,” Jamie sulks.

“You are a little,” Sam offers apologetically, soothing the sting with: “Which is understandable, given the sort of help you’ve had, but we aren’t trying to ruin football for you or lock you up. We just want you to be safe.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jamie mutters, but he doesn’t deny it or argue more, so all of them let it go.

Getting them back on track, Keeley says: “She also mentioned wanting to bring in a therapist for the club, help everyone process.”

“What? I’m not going to a fucking therapist,” Jamie exclaims, betrayal coating his voice.

“And you don’t have to,” Keeley quickly says. “You don’t have to. I know you might not want to and that’s okay, but maybe other people would want to. And they should have the option, yeah?”

“It’s a stupid fucking option,” Jamie replies petulantly, crossing his arms.

Keeley shoots him a look that is filled with annoyance at his stubbornness and Sam can’t blame her, he feels much the same. He understands how psychology has been ruined for Jamie, but he would actually love to talk with someone about everything without being scared that he says something wrong and it’ll come back to the wrong person. Just to vent and talk it through. However, neither of them say that to Jamie’s face.

Instead of responding to that, Keeley just continues on: “I already offered to take tonight’s shift and Roy said he’ll take tomorrow’s, so we got that settled. I talked to Colin and Isaac, who both agreed to take a watch together, if you’re comfortable with it?”

“I still think it’s unnecessary,” Jamie says weakly, then sees her look and amends: “But I guess it’s alright, yeah. They’re cool. If they wanna be fucking creeps and watch me sleep, I guess they’re fucking welcome to.”

“Thank you,” Keeley smiles, pretending that Jamie was completely sincere. “I’ll text them that we’re confirming that then. We’re settling in with just us four to start, but I thought it would be good to have two people in the future, so they can each take half a night and we don’t have to pull all nighters.”

“You don’t have to do this at all,” Jamie tries again. “I get it, I’ll wake you, swear down. This is all really unnecessary.”

“Jamie,” Sam says in a warning tone, letting Jamie know he will lay out Jamie’s plan to kill himself with Sam right there in the hotel room no matter how much he doesn’t want to do that, just because Jamie can trust himself as much as they can trust him, which is to say: not at all.

“Fine, okay, yeah, watch me,” Jamie sighs, backing down at the reminder. As much as he hates this, he does know that it comes from a place of concern for him. And he also truly doesn’t want to kill himself with them there. No, he’d rather wait until he’s alone, which means he cannot be.

“I got a list from everyone else when they’re available, so you can have a look and see who you want in your space and I’ll set up a schedule,” Keeley says.

“Cheers,” Jamie replies with a shrewd smile.

Keeley glances at him, conflict on her face, before she decides not to say anything. Instead, she looks back to the list and says: “Roy installed the locks on some of your cabinets, but we haven’t gone through the house yet. Who do you want to do that and who do you want to stay with you while we do?”

“Do we have to?” Jamie asks, his voice suddenly small. Sam hates it. Hates that they have to push into his space, that Keeley is right. That Sam never did because he doesn’t want to trample over Jamie’s life more than others already have, but it is the better option, because they don’t want him institutionalized. But it’s still violating and they all know it.

Jamie surprises Sam by glancing over to him, naked fear and trepidation in his eyes. Keeley was his person for most his time here and Roy has been someone he looked up to most his life, but despite all that, in this part of his life, Sam has been the one that was there. And now that they’re about to get even more into his life, it is Sam he looks to.

Fuck, Jamie has truly become a friend, hasn’t he? Someone important to him. Yeah, what connected them at first is all this, but it connects more people now and Sam is still important. Jamie is his friend, not just keeping Sam around because Sam is forcing him to and hen has no other options, but because he wants Sam here. It’s not going to be like it was before. Something has fundamentally shifted.

It makes Sam a bit emotional all of a sudden, how close he got to losing a friend today. How he’d already known it could happen, but it had never been so visceral before. He could have lost Jamie today. He could have lost the first actual friend he made on the team and maybe no one would have believed how deeply he’d grieve Jamie.

Before he chokes on it, he grips Jamie’s hand, reminding himself that Jamie is fine, before forcing a reassuring smile on his face.

Jamie returns his grip full force, before he lets go, self consciously looking over to Roy and Keeley. He sniffs, looks anywhere in the room but them, then says: “I don’t want this old fart poking through me stuff, the nosy bastard.”

Roy rolls his eyes and growls, but doesn’t comment further. He might have rough edges and be sensitive to Jamie’s specific brand of button pushing, but it seems like he can sense when it’s not about him, but Jamie’s own discomfort with the situation.

With Jamie’s decision, Sam and Keeley set out to find everything that could potentially be dangerous and gather it together.

It’s almost worse than it had been when Sam did this in the hotel room. Back then it was half assed and through exhaustion, an incomplete gathering fueled by the need to do something. Now, he’s fully awake and not alone. The lights in the house are on, illuminating their grim task.

From the table, Jamie watches with hollow eyes as they gather cleaning supplies, electrical appliances, ropes, medicine, knives, razors, and more.

Sam tries to imagine how he feels. Tries to figure out how close this must be to the times he has been taken to psych wards, where they strip you of everything that makes you you, before leaving you there. Wonders if they’re dredging shit up, or if he’s just tired again. Wonders if he’ll speak after this is done, or just go to bed.

Keeley tackles the guest rooms, while Sam goes through Jamie’s room. They don’t really discuss it, but agree anyway. Keeley might have been Jamie’s ex, but it’s Sam who knows him more intimately, who has been invited in… for as much as that is possible with Jamie.

As he digs through all the drawers to make sure that there is nothing hidden, he comes across the drawer Jamie had locked the suicide letters in on that night Sam found him writing them. He hadn’t seen more than a flash then, just enough to know that it’s filled with letters, but now, he has to actually look.

There are a lot of letters.

They are all neatly organized in stacks, folded up into a neat square with a name written on the front. The pile of letters with ‘mummy’ emblazoned on them is thick. There must be over fifty of them. Fifty letters Jamie wrote to update his last words just in case. All neatly there to be read by her if Jamie ever manages to succeed in killing himself. He hasn’t spoken to her since he was nineteen, but he never stopped writing her. Never stopped thinking about how she would want to hear from him, how she wants him to be okay, so he should appear on television to show her he is, but have words for her ready in case he’s not. Sam is almost tempted to read them, to see what words of comfort Jamie has for her, if he apologizes or if he just tells her it’s okay, that it’s better this way.

He doesn’t, in the end. Those are not for him to see and it is not why he is riffling through Jamie’s stuff. It is already a violation, it doesn’t need to be more of one. This is for Jamie’s well being, not to satisfy Sam’s need to know.

Alongside the letters for his mom, there are also a couple for his dad, though these are much more infrequent. A few are addressed to someone named Simon and then some to Keeley too. Sam freezes when he finds the one with his own name on it.

Logically, he knows there is one. Jamie himself told Sam that he was writing him one. And Sam had meant it when he said he didn’t want it. That he never wants it. That Jamie should live and tell him himself, not leave words for Sam for after he died. However, the letter remains.

Jamie saved it regardless of what Sam told him, because he wants Sam to know that he’s grateful for Sam being nice to him, because he still doesn’t believe that these won’t be necessary.. and after today, Sam also isn’t sure. If they fuck this up, Sam will get to read this, maybe even more of them.

He’s tempted to destroy it, to rip it up so that Sam will never have to live with the possibility of this becoming a reality, but it is a possible reality. As scary and fucked up as it is to think about, Sam could do all this and one moment he could still be too late. He almost was today.

He almost was today.

It hits him all over again just how close he got and he has to take a gasping breath, squeezing his eyes shut to prevent himself from sobbing again, though a few stray tears still leak out. In his mind, he sees Jamie standing in that treatment room, bright red dripping slowly.

Sam thought he’d shaken the image, but it comes back to him without his permission, cropping up like a horrifying, persistent pop up.

Nothing ended up happening, Sam talked Jamie down. Yeah, it was terrifying and Sam has never felt anything like it before, but Jamie listened. Sam was successful. He’s downstairs right now with Roy watching him because they got help. Sam and Keeley are making the house more safe, others have agreed to help watch Jamie. It ended up working out. He shouldn’t dwell on it, but move forward.

With a few deep breaths, Sam doesn’t manage to forget, but he does get himself under control and manages to focus back on the drawer before him. It’s just paper – gruesome paper with contents to haunt Sam, but paper nonetheless – so nothing Jamie can hurt himself with. He slams the drawer closed and moves on to the en suite where Roy has already locked most of the medicine in the cabinet.

He works quickly and efficiently, not allowing himself to linger on what he is doing, because then he’ll have to stop and he can’t stop. Not right now.

Once he’s done, he leaves the room to go help Keeley, who is already meeting him in the hallway. Her eyes are red rimmed and Sam guesses she used the time alone to cry. Maybe he should have done the same, but he’s not ready for it. It feels like he’s barely hanging on, even though things are looking up, and if he starts crying, he might not be able to stop himself. He has shed his tears when he held Jamie, that will have to be enough.

With the last of the stuff gathered up, they put it in the final cabinets that now have locks. Jamie regards some of the stuff with a look that tells Sam he wants to ask ‘really?’ but the solemn atmosphere that hangs around him and Keeley must stop him, because he doesn’t say anything until Keeley has turned the last of the little keys. “Can’t I jus’ open them again?”

“I mean, I guess so, but I’ll be hanging onto these, so unless you want to fight me for ‘em? No,” Keeley answers.

Jamie thinks about it for a moment, before Roy says: “You’re not winning that, mate. She’ll kick your arse.”

“Oi, she’ll kick yours too,” Jamie scowls.

Both of them could win from her, but neither of them could bring themselves to. Sam couldn’t to it either, so he’s not even mentioning it, just laughing quietly at Roy’s ‘that’s fair’-nod, the oppressive air from upstairs leaving with Jamie’s presence.

At this point, the evening is already well on its way and with the match tomorrow, it is more than reasonable to get ready for bed. The guest rooms still need to be made up, since the bedding has only been stripped and washed after Sam’s laundry mission, but Roy tells them he doesn’t mind. Well… Roy actually says he can make a fucking bed, but it comes down to the same thing.

As they bid Roy goodnight, Sam suddenly realizes that he is also not going to be watching Jamie tonight and that makes him anxious. It’s become so normal to follow Jamie to his bathroom and then crawl into bed together.

His toothbrush is still there, so he gets to brush his teeth side by side with Jamie, as well as do their communal piss. Boundaries between them have eroded a lot, so while Jamie is peeing, Sam comments: “I should probably also make up a bed, right?” partly hoping Jamie will stop him.

Jamie pauses for a moment, throwing a look over his shoulder to where his room is. “I dunno, probably. Don’t think it’ll be nice to tell Keeley to sit on the floor next to the bed or at the desk the whole night, innit?”

“Yeah…” Sam agrees faintly.

So, after he has finished up in the bathroom, he says his goodnights to Jamie and Keeley, lingering in the doorway for too long, before finally stepping away. It’s a strange walk over to a random guest room he only picked out, because it’s the one closest to Jamie’s room. He too still has to make the bed and he does it on autopilot, climbing under the covers in a fugue state.

Just like that afternoon, he just lies there, staring at the ceiling. He knows he can relax, that Jamie is safe and watched, but his brain isn’t fully there yet. It’s not real to his nervous system yet.

After a while of lying there, he texts his father. He has kept him updated on how today went, but hasn’t gone into too much detail. He doesn’t want to worry his father when he is so far away, he is already worried enough about letting Sam go so far from home. Still, the conversation they have over text, soothes him a bit and he makes another attempt at sleep.

It doesn’t work.

Sam tosses and turns, talking in circles as he reasons with himself about how Jamie is fine, then all the ways he could not be fine, before reminding himself that Jamie is fine. It’s frustrating as all hell. Sam can rest and he should. He needs it. They have a match tomorrow. Jamie is literally fine. He should sleep.

But he’s not going to and at some point, he’s going to have to accept it. When he does, he sits upright and takes a deep breath, asking himself if he wants to do this one last time, before getting out the bed.

He feels eight years old again, on his way to tell his father he had a nightmare, as he creeps through the hallway to Jamie’s room.

The door isn’t closed, but Sam still feels a little weird as he pushes it open silently. As he told himself many times, Jamie is completely unharmed, lying in his bed, while next to him Keeley scrolls through her phone, the screen illuminating her face.

When Sam opens the door, both of them look over. Feeling caught, Sam smiles awkwardly and apologetically. “Sorry, I just- Well, it’s kind of silly, but uhm, I- I came to check on you two.”

“Ahw, that’s dead sweet,” Keeley responds. “We’re all good. I found this thread about this conspiracy around this fashion show and I’m sucked in deep. Caught up in a right rabbit hole.”

“She keeps gasping,” Jamie complains, blinking tiredly.

“Oh, you love it,” Keeley rolls her eyes. “Besides, I know you can sleep through anything if you want, babe. You fell asleep while I was having a screaming match with my agent once.”

“Tha’s different and he was a fucking cunt. He deserved it,” Jamie says and Keeley gets a pleased grin on her face. Sam can suddenly see how their relationship worked.

“So you’re good?” Sam checks again.

“I’m fine, Mr. Grumpy here less so,” Keeley tells him brightly.

“Fuck off, I jus’ can’t sleep,” Jamie grouches, rolling over to get more comfortable.

“Me neither,” Sam admits. “Weird to sleep alone.”

Jamie sighs, looking at the ceiling for a moment, before lifting his head to look at Sam. He just stares for two seconds, before dropping his head back down and sighing deeply once more.

“You alright, babe?” Keeley asks, brow furrowing.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll smear paint on your Dior 2017 fall collection dress,” Jamie threatens, making her gasp.

“I love that dress.”

“I know.” Jamie keeps eye contact for a moment, before being satisfied with her silence. Sam just stands there confused, almost startling when Jamie looks back over to him. He jerks his head and says: “Alright then, fucking come on.”

It takes Sam a second before he realizes what Jamie is saying, then he smiles and hurries over to the bed, also cluing Keeley in. He grins: “I knew you cared.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jamie scowls, nudging Keeley to move over so Sam will fit behind Jamie.

“Ahw, this is so sweet,” Keeley comments when Sam climbs under the covers and pulls Jamie close to him.

Jamie glares at her and snippily says: “Yeah, real fucking sweet tha’ he didn’t fucking trust me not to leave the bed without his knowledge, ‘cause he thinks I’ll kill meself.”

At the words Keeley’s face falls, the reminder of why they’re all here settling over to them again. Jamie makes it easy to forget, but it’s still there and Jamie has no issue with reminding them if they make him feel ridiculed.

Sam pinches him anyway, because it’s not like either of them truly forgot, nor do they mean badly. Just because he understands, doesn’t mean Jamie gets a pass about being a dick about it. Jamie actually likes him now, he’s not going to turn on him anymore.

“Hey,” Jamie frowns, trying to wiggle out of Sam’s grip, but Sam holds him tightly. “How the fuck are you doing tha’, I bench more than you,” Jamie demands when he can’t get free.

“The power of not being a prick fuels me,” Sam deadpans.

“For fuck’s sake,” Jamie groans. “I’m sorreh, okay. She jus’ don’t ‘ave to comment on it, does she?”

“She is right here,” Keeley interjects. “And I can say whatever I want. You’re sweet,” she pets Jamie’s head like a dog. “There’s nothing bad about that, yeah?” Her voice gentles at that.

Sam has no clue what the history there is (and he gets the feeling he’s better off not knowing), but the words ease some of the tension from Jamie’s shoulders and he rolls his eyes goodnaturedly. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mutters, snuggling back into the pillows.

With everyone settled, Sam gets comfortable as well. Having Keeley physically in the room is different from his father on the screen, but it is much better than being alone in the guest bedroom. The image of Jamie earlier today still haunts him, but Jamie’s warmth against him does a lot to combat it. He’s out before he knows it.

~~

A/N:

Poor Sam, he is going through it and discovering denial… which is honestly less great than him discovering emotional manipulation, lying and standing up for himself < / 3

“We’re not talking about celebrities we like, but about celebrities we like-like, Keeley,” Claire says in that stupid condescending tone of hers. “As in celebrities we’d want to shag. God, you’re such a fucking child.”

“Yeah, and who even is Danica Patrick?” Lizzy adds with that same tone.

Keeley feels her face heat under their eyes and defensively says: “She’s the first woman to race the Toyota Atlantic Series since 1974 last year and she’s competing again this year. And I know what you were talking about, I’m not daft, you know. She is mad fit and Ryan Gosling and Billie Joe are both boring.”

She crosses her arms, daring them to say shit, because she isn’t a baby. She knows what sex is and she isn’t lagging behind. She’s actually already getting her period and her mum got her bras, so she’s actually further along than Claire, who doesn’t have anything yet and is just a judgmental bitch.

The expressions don’t clear up with her words, in fact, they just get worse. Disgusted, Claire says: “Are you serious? You wanna shag a girl?”

Beside her, Lizzy scoots away from her and Keeley can feel her stomach churn. It’s not as if she’s stupid and missed how everyone throws around the word gay. She knows it’s not good to do that, but she’d figured that were boys. Everyone knows girls are better. It has always been boys are rotten, made out of cotton, girls are handy, made out of candy. Where did that go?

“It wasn’t meant serious-like,” she mutters, trying to disappear and undo what she’d just said, because if there is one thing Keeley Jones is good at, it’s reading the room and the room just turned on her.

Lizzy looks between her and Claire uncomfortably, before whispering: “So you’re not some sort of lesbo, are you?”

“NO!” Keeley says quickly, even though she might be, because she is quickly realizing that is the correct answer. “I like boys!”

“Are you sure? You seemed real eager to tell us about that Diana Patrick girl… who drives cars? Which isn’t even a sport,” Claire replies sounding unconvinced and getting her name wrong.

Keeley stuffs down her defense of why drag racing is definitely a sport and her knowledge about cars and force when driving sports cars and the attention and muscles needed to race, because it’s not about that right now. “I like… David Beckham!” she quickly pulls out of her arse, even though she doesn’t follow football at all and just knows him from the mag covers. He’s an athlete at least and she does like the football shorts. It’ll have to do.

The two of them still look at her suspiciously and she knows she must be bright red, but she bravely tries to deflect with a giggle: “Geez, you should have seen your faces. Like are you children? You’re so squeamish. If I knew it’d freak you out that much, I wouldn’t have made the joke. Christ.”

Thankfully, it works on Claire, who is as stubborn as they come and hates that, which Keeley had been counting on. Mulishly, she says: “I’m not freaked out. You’re just a weirdo for thinking that was funny, you twat.”

Lizzy relaxes a little in her chair at Claire’s approval to move on and Keeley feels her own shoulders lose some of the tension as she sticks her tongue out at Claire, before hurrying the conversation along to safer water by asking if they finished the assignment for Maths next period.

She thinks she successfully navigated that, which is a relief. This kind of stress had been unfamiliar to her before that, but now that she has experienced it once, she’d like to never again.

However, the next day, that is proven incorrect. She goes over to their usual table where Lizzy and Claire already are and sits down with them. The moment she puts her tray down, though, Lizzy gets up and grimaces at her apologetically: “My mum says it’s best not to associate with you after your joke yesterday. It’s perverted and a bad influence. You really shouldn’t say those things.”

Keeley is too stunned to respond and just blinks, coming back into focus in time to shoot Claire a look that’s like ‘what the fuck was that?’ but when she does, Claire is already getting up too. Her heart shoots up in her throat and her voice is weird when she asks: “What are you doing?”

“You know Lizzy’s mum always picks me up too. And Lizzy tells her mum everything,” Claire says, not even sounding apologetic. “Besides, it was a dead weird joke.”

And with that, Keeley sits in the middle of the cafeteria with a pit in her stomach, rapidly trying to come up with a plan of attack, before the others notice what has just happened. That’d be social suicide, to sit in the middle of lunch alone, I mean. No, thanks.

She gets up and finds Joanna Wellington. The two of them made up after Keeley shat in her locker and got re-invited to the birthday party, but they haven’t sat in lunch together for a while. She pulls up all her confidence and strides over to where Joanna is sitting with Anna and Brit.

If there is one thing that can save you in any situation, it’s confidence, even if it’s fake. That’s what her mum always says anyway and she’d know, she works in sales.

Acting like this is nothing but normal, she puts down her tray and plops herself down next to them, ignoring the fact their conversation fall still and giving them an open expression and smile. “Hi!”

“What the fuck are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be sitting with Lizzy and Claire?” Joanna demands, which is probably fair. There’s a reason she’d been uninvited and it had to do with those two.

Keeley really doesn’t like throwing her friends under the bus, because she thinks her friends are awesome and she doesn’t like having to be mean. However, she knows she has to survive. Her mum taught her that much with dad being a cheating bastard. You can’t always let everyone walk all over you, or they’ll do so for the rest of your life.

“Lizzy and Claire are too prudish to take joke,” Keeley says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I only said I’d shag a girl over Ryan Gosling or Billie Joe is because who the fuck argues about wanting to shag either of them?” She pulls disgusted a face, grateful to the birthday party she’d been re-invited to that revealed that Joanna hates the Notebook and Brit thinks Green Day is stupid. “I actually like David Beckham, I just wanted to see their faces and they’re being all prissy about it.”

“Iew, really, they wanna shag Billie Joe?” Brit replies as expected, thank fuck, making her own disgusted face. “He is, like, so annoying.”

Anna is a gossip and loves chatting boys, so it doesn’t surprise Keeley when she leans in and with hushed excitement asks: “You like that fit footballer guy?”

In fact, Keeley had thrown her randomly chosen crush out there to further cement her story and distract from the ‘joke’ she’d made. She had considered not mentioning it, but then it might be awkward if Lizzy or Claire started rumors. Keeley knows how to shape a narrative. So, she grins at Anna and leans in closer, whispering: “I think those shorts are mad fit. They could be shorter, though,” which sends all of them in a tizzy, Keeley’s brief slip up completely covered and forgotten about.

After that experience, Keeley has learned her lesson. She is not to mention any of this to anyone. She tries to stop too, but girls are just hot and if it’s just her alone, then it can’t be that bad, can it? Besides, fantasizing about a model is way better than ending up fantasizing about a classmate. Plus, she likes fashion and these mags get a lot less uncomfortable questions from her mum. Jikes.

Still, she is a networker at heart. She likes chatting to people and getting to know them, likes entering a social group and becoming part of the center. Keeley likes attention. Positive attention, preferably. She is an attention magnet, always has been. She were a proper charming baby and never stopped.

To be that kind of way, you have to be conscious of your image, which she is. And she takes very good care in thinking about how she’s going to come across after that incident.

So, Keeley becomes a little boy crazy.

She has a thousand celebrity crushes that she always talks about, she whispers about the boys that are cute in their year and makes a name for herself as very flirty with any man that moves, even if it might not be the smartest move. It’s a whole brand. And not even an untrue one! Keeley loves boys… just as much as she loves girls, that’s all. Boys are just safer, so she throws herself into them, which doesn’t always end well.

“Oh my god, she’s such a slag,” she hears a girl say to her friend as she passes in the hallways. It’s not a new phenomenon and Keeley has learned to keep her head high. So what if she kissed three different boys at one party and flirts with all the boys. She’s fifteen and it’s nothing serious. People are so prudish.

But then she notices more and more people whisper as she passes, as well as them looking at their screens and then at her, before turning to their neighbor to talk. And Keeley is much, but she’s not stupid. She knows this is something bigger than before.

She moves more cautiously through the halls to her locker, trying to emulate someone who is not embarrassed by whatever everyone is whispering about, but also someone who isn’t trying to get attention for it. She tries to be dignified.

However, she’s very glad when she gets to her locker and Anna is there, holding up her small blackberry phone screen to show Keeley a topless picture of herself. “This is all over the school,” she says, not even greeting her.

Keeley is actually grateful for that, snatching the phone out of her hands and staring at the image as she attempts not to panic. She can’t believe everyone saw that. She can’t believe anyone has that. She can’t believe the person who spread that, did that.

Because she knows that image. Of course she does. It’s not the only topless picture she’s ever taken, but she knows exactly who this one went to. Mr. Daniels. Her English teacher.

When she said she flirts with all the boys, she means all the boys. Most of the teachers get uncomfortable, which is kind of funny and she wouldn’t want to come close to most of them anyway, but Mr. Daniels… Well, he’s a young teacher. And dead fit with brown curls and brown eyes. A bit nerdy, but Keeley hadn’t minded much. He’d been interested.

And Keeley liked that. Liked that he saw her and wanted her. Mum is always so busy with work and dad’s back in her good graces now, but he’s busy too and neither of them take her seriously and it sometimes feels like none of her friends truly see her. Mr. Daniels had seen her. He’d listened to her talk about fashion and told her she was good with words and could make a career out of it. He’d been so nice.

Nice enough that Keeley had taken to hanging around his classroom after school, then following him to the car park and finally following him home. It’d just been fun. He was smart and funny and Keeley liked him. Liked his attention.

A week ago she’d send him the picture she’s looking at now – an natural evolution of the flirtations that had underlined all their interactions – and this weekend she’d told him she wasn’t ready to sleep with him or anyone else for that matter. But that she really liked him and she would if she were.

Fuck.

Maybe she should have just done it. Fifteen is not too young to lose your virginity, right? And Mr. Daniels would be nice. But she hadn’t wanted to. She likes flirting and she’s been groped plenty, but not being a prude hadn’t made her ready. And right now she can’t help but wish she had a little less self respect, because this is bad.

“What are you going to do?” Anna asks, having been watching her face with big invested eyes – the gossip hungry hag – and having run out of patience with Keeley’s silence.

Internally, she runs through all the possibilities. She could go to the head of school, to the police even, but those ideas make her gut churn. Mr. Daniels had probably just been disappointed and men get urges sometimes. It’s what mum said about dad and what Keeley knows to be true from every show and movie she’s ever watched. She doesn’t want to get him in trouble over this.

She wants to go hunt down every copy of that picture and get them deleted. It feels violating to have everyone see her like that when it had only been meant for one person. However, she is self aware enough to know that it’ll make her look desperate and stupid, which is worse than being a slut. A slut can still be fun, a desperate stupid girl isn’t. They’re just drags and Keeley is not a drag.

So, she flips her hair over her shoulder and schools her face as she hands Anna her phone back, jutting her head up high. “I’m not gonna do anything with that picture. I look mad fit in it, don’t I? They should all be lucky they got to see my tits. At least I have them.”

Anna gawps at her for a moment then hurries after her, calling out: “Seriously?” because she loves stirring drama, she doesn’t care that Keeley’s tits are all over the school.

“Seriously,” Keeley calls back, making her ponytail swish as she walks, because at this point it’s important to embrace her narrative as too cool to be affected.

“You’re crazy,” Anna tells her. “I still have to go by my locker, but I’ll catch up.”

“Whatever,” Keeley replies. She would love to walk with Anna to her locker, because walking alone feels daunting, but it feels sad to ask, so she braves on.

When she gets to the classroom, she has to swallow and take a deep breath, before walking in. She pretends it doesn’t affect her when the murmuring falls quiet when she does. She merely keeps her chin up and makes her way to where they always sit as she ignores all the eyes that are burning in her back as she reminds herself to be grateful they have Mrs. Welling first period, who is ancient and hates everyone anyway, so she won’t know or say shit about it.

The minutes between her sitting down and Joanna, Brit and Anna coming in are the longest she’s ever experienced and her heart drops when they don’t make their way over to her like they always used to do. It feels like losing Lizzy and Claire all over again and her mind is spinning.

She doesn’t hear a singular thing Mrs. Welling says all class – which is a shame, because she’s failing Maths – and just sits there with a ringing in her ears.

All she can think is; I have to salvage this. I have to. I don’t have a back up. I can’t do this again.

Her moment of salvation comes in Mrs. Welling needing to grab some copies real quick, abandoning the class to their fate. Naturally, it explodes into noise the moment she disappears down the hall, startling Keeley out of her thoughts.

Chris – an annoying little prick in their year – turns around and calls out: “Oi, Jones, saw your tits. Are you gonna start flashing them at anyone who gives you a bit of attention now?” which causes everyone around him to snicker

Keeley feels her cheeks heat up, but pushes it down. She has to nail this first try. Delivery is key. This will make or break how this goes down. So, she puts on her most sympathetically condescending voice and goes: “Oh, that is so sad, you still think you’re gonna get close to anyone’s tits other than your mum’s and haven’t realized you got the face of someone who’s gonna die as a sad lonely old virgin, who has to jerk it to pics that weren’t even meant for you, because… let’s be honest. Who would?”

She brings this news to him with as much sincerity as she can, as if she’s truly so apologetic that she has to be the one to break it to him, because it was something they all knew and thought he did too. It is important she brings it like this. Like she is unaffected and he’s actually the pathetic person in this scenario. She can’t have anyone think otherwise.

For a moment, it’s silent.

It’s the most terrifying moment she’s felt to date.

Then Joe, one of Chris’s little lackeys, bursts out laughing as he wheezes: “Oh my god, you totally do, mate.”

It earns him a slap from Chris, but his whole face is red as he tells him to shut up. Something that goes unheeded as more people start to laugh at Chris. In one fell swoop, Keeley’s no longer the butt of the joke, Chris is.

Furthermore, he doesn’t get a chance to defend his honor more, since Mrs. Welling chooses that moment to return, meaning Keeley’s verbal victory is the one that remains hanging in the room. It feels good. Makes her feel a bit better about herself. She needs to hold on to this energy if she is going to make it through the day.

The smack down isn’t a perfect fix, Keeley knows that much, but it doesn’t feel as terrible anymore when Joanna, Brit and Anna wait for her to join them for next period. They don’t even make an excuse about not sitting with her, but Keeley doesn’t push. She’s just grateful they still accept her into their circle. That she hasn’t fucked it up again.

There are still whispers following after her, but Keeley tries to keep her head held high about it. She is unaffected, she is untouched. Maybe if she thinks it often enough, she’ll lose the sick feeling in her stomach and the clawing at her throat.

Fifth period is the most difficult. It’s English class. And Mr. Daniels is right there like there is nothing wrong, but there is. He barely even looks at her.

Keeley’s stomach churns more and a part of her wants to reach out to him and make it right. She never meant for any of this to happen and, stupidly, she still likes him. She wants to fix this. Wants to go back and undo the choices that lead her to this moment. Fuck, she should have just slept with him.

But she doesn’t. For one, Mr. Daniels isn’t even looking at her and for two, her mum’s voice echoes in her head: ‘You got to at least have him apologize to you, Keeley. It’s the only power us women have. He doesn’t have to mean it, but he should say it. I didn’t let your father back in without something from him, remember that, love.’

Her and mum have never been closer, really. They’re just too different, she supposes. She doesn’t know why, but the memory of mum telling her this comes back to her now. She just feels powerless in the face of Mr. Daniels. She just wants something, anything, she can cling to. And right now, this is it. If he apologizes, it’ll be okay, but she still has some self respect left.

Mr. Daniels never apologizes in the end and Keeley doesn’t tell a soul for a very long time. Instead they spend the rest of her time in school ignoring each other, the tension never fully fading.

Fortunately for Keeley, the scandal that started that tension, does. It’s not easy and she has to say more mean stuff than she ever wanted – “It’s not my fault you’re jealous ‘cause you have no tits, Becca, leave me the fuck alone” – but she manages. She just embraces it. It’s the only way through and it’s not as if it’s entirely new. She’s always been skimpy and now she knows it works in getting her attention, both positive and negative. At least four boys told her they’d fuck her after. She said no, but she still remembers the looks on their faces.

Still, school remains suffocating and she is eagerly looking for a way out. She does not want to go to uni and subject herself to more of this and instead sets her sight on becoming a model more seriously than ever before. A lot of girls do really well in the industry and topless models especially can earn very well. She’s already got experience!

Her friends are also getting more and more into the party scene, so she drags them from club to club to find the perfect place to meet the people she wants to meet. She disguises it in wanting to try new stuff and being adventurous (adventurous is fun in a girl, ambitious is not), but it is serious business to her, because she’s not going to be stuck here in this drab life with these drab people forever.

“Another party, Keeley?” her mum sighs, looking up from where she’s going through their bills. Dad’s sleeping on a friend’s couch again, so it’s a little tighter. Keeley isn’t worried though. This never lasts long. Dad will say sorry soon enough and he’ll come back, it’s how it works. He can’t help that he has those urges sometimes and they have to wait until he’s ready to say sorry and then it’s fine again.

“Yes, another party,” Keeley rolls her eyes as she puts in her earrings and checks her make up in the hallway mirror. Mum doesn’t get it. She has tried to explain that she isn’t just partying, but working on her future, but…

“This whole modeling dream of yours is getting out of hand,” mum says, pinning her with a look. “You don’t just become a model, Keeley. It’s not how it works. You need to find a real job.”

“Sure, like sales,” Keeley snarks, checking her purse if she has everything. She doesn’t want to have this fight again. She’s sick of it.

“Keeley Jones,” her mum starts in a warning tone, but Keeley is already out the door. Mum can remove the stick in her arse, honestly. Keeley will make it and then she’ll see.

The club she picked this time is a more upscale type. Drinks will probably be killer expensive, but if you know what you’re doing, you don’t have to pay for drinks anyway. Brit was apprehensive, but Keeley enticed her with the possibility of meeting a celebrity there, so they’re going.

All three of them are shivering slightly as they stand in line, but having a jacket on is much more of a hassle than it’s worth. At seventeen, they are technically too young to enter, but they’ve been doing this since they were sixteen. You get in if you’re pretty enough and Keeley Jones is always pretty enough.

And sure enough, they are waved through with no issue, allowing them to get lost in the throng of people inside.

They have a system where they stick together for the first part of the night, sussing out the vibe of the club, before they drift apart more. It’s just smart and never let it be said that they aren’t smart.

This particular club passes the check and soon enough Keeley has found herself separated from her friends. It often happens. She just gets lost in the crowd, she figures. They just don’t notice she was chatting with someone and is no longer with them. She’s always made it home okay. It’s fine.

Tonight, it’s doubly fine, because tonight, she meets May.

It happens in the bathroom – a magical place for any club – when Keeley needs to piss real bad and enters to find the most beautiful girl on the planet working on her eyes. Without thinking she goes: “Oh my fucking god, you’re fucking gorgeous, I think I’m gonna pass out.”

The girl looks up in amused surprise, the small delighted smile on her face only highlighting her beauty more as dark hair falls around her face in cascading waterfall.

“I’m so sorry, that just totally slipped out,” Keeley says quickly, because that fear of being thirteen washes over her again and she doesn’t want to be stuck sitting alone in the cafeteria again. There’s a lot you can get away with saying to girls in the bathroom – and Keeley is grateful for that – but she’s always afraid she’ll find the line again.

“Don’t be sorry, I love that. Thank you,” the girl says, standing up straight from where she’d been touching up her grungy eyeliner with a smile, confidence oozing off her.

“Oh, uhm, that’s good,” Keeley smiles back, able to feel that is somewhat grimace like, because she feels pinned under this girl’s eyes.

“I’m May,” the girl – May – says, holding out her hand for Keeley to shake. That is definitely new in her bathroom interactions, but Keeley would do anything to get to touch this girl, so she is definitely not complaining.

“Keeley, Keeley Jones,” she replies, shaking May’s hand firmly and with a smile that is more genuine and sparkling.

“Keeley Jones,” May repeats as if tasting the name, nodding her head to herself with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “It’s a good name. I like it. Sounds like someone who knows her business.”

The complement makes her perk up. She does know her business. She knows her business so much and she is so glad someone notices. Still, she’s desperate to play it cool, so she just cocks her hip and responds: “I do.”

That makes May’s smirk widen and Keeley feels her knees go a little weak, especially when May takes a step closer to her and quirks her brow as she asks: “Oh? So what business do you know? What does Keeley Jones want?”

She swallows. Hard. This feels dangerous in the most exciting way, but she cannot allow herself to lean into it. She’s too scared. So she squeaks: “I want to be a model.” The moment she says it, she blushes, hearing her mum’s voice calling her dream juvenile. “I know how that sounds, but I’m really good at it. I know fashion and all my angles. I just haven’t broken into the market yet.”

“Hey, don’t preemptively defend yourself. Have some confidence,” May interrupts. “You’re gonna be a model. You’re certainly pretty enough for it.”

“Oh, uhm, thank you,” Keeley blushes.

“Here, come sit with me and my friends, I’m sure they’d love to meet you. We’re in art school, I might be able to hook you up with your first gig,” May says, holding out a hand for Keeley to take so they won’t lose each other in the club.

May looks like she might be in art school. Her clothes are baggy and masculine in cut with some splatters on them, but Keeley can recognize them as designer. Definitely artsy, not really model-like, but Keeley doesn’t care. It might be really stupid to go with this girl, but they’re still in a public space and she’s always made it home. Besides, she really, really wants to get to know May better. The illicit feelings in her stomach almost make her feel like she can do anything. “Sure,” she smiles, taking May’s hand.

She quickly learns that May is friends with a lot of people and it’s a mixed group. Keeley mostly knows girls to hang out with girls and boys with boys. But that’s secondary shit, these are proper adults, the kind that are already in uni.

It’s a little overwhelming to meet everyone, but Keeley has always been good at faking nonchalance and the hand May keeps on the nape of her neck keeps her too preoccupied with nerves around that, to truly feel these. So introductions go smoothly and she spends most of the night observing how they interact with each other so she can slot herself into this social dynamic.

“So, Miss Model,” Adam starts, turning to her. He’s one of May’s friends, who is working on a photography project. “What’s your work? Do you have something to show? Like a portfolio.”

“Nothing professional,” Keeley begins to answer, before a squeeze from May reminds her to own it and be confident and she squares her shoulders and says: “But I’ve gotten a portfolio on my facebook. It’s dead good, actually.”

Adam raises his eyebrows at her response and May laughs, which makes Keeley’s heart flip. Then Adam grins and says: “Give me your username, I’ll check it out.”

“Course,” she says, like she is not very giddy internally as she gives her name to him so he can look her up when he’s at a computer.

“What’s your vibe in your art?” Melanie asks, leaning on Tyler’s shoulder, drink nearly sloshing as she falls over.

Keeley has never had anyone be interested in what she is trying to do with her modeling. Most find it dumb or dismiss it as ditsy, but it’s such a fascinating way to do art and convey who you are to the world around you. Keeley loves feminine clothes the most, loves dressing in a way that is almost over the top until it circles back into almost being an ideal. It’s fun. Like she’s dressing up as a fantasy of what being unattainability is.

However, she knows she’s always too much and she doesn’t want to come across as weird with these cooler older people, so she just says: “I portray the different angles of being a woman,” which she thinks sounds interesting.

“Got all the right angles then, huh,” Tyler leers slightly and Keeley can feel herself flush. “Ahw, are you getting shy now? Don’t tell me you’re a virgin.” He laughs, Melanie does too.

“I’m not a virgin,” Keeley spits, because she’s not. She lost it to Chris of all people, at a party last year somewhere. He might be a prick, but he always bends at some point. A part of her really likes that about him, even if nothing serious came from it.

“No need to be so defensive, I was just joking,” Tyler tells her with that same stupid grin on his face.

“Hey, knock it off, Ty,” May steps in for her. Then she turns to Keeley and says: “Don’t worry about him, he’s thick.”

“Fuck off,” Tyler pouts, but he does knock it off.

Adam says: “That sounds really interesting. My project is about the vulnerability of womanhood. I’m a sensitive guy, you know. I think women are really strong for going through this life and I really wanted to highlight it.”

“Wow, that sounds amazing,” Keeley breathes, because it does. She’s not used to guys who realize how scary it can be to be a woman and it’s amazing to see that more mature men can.

“If your stuff checks out, we might be able work on it together,” Adam says with a soft smile that has Keeley beaming back, before looking at May to see if she heard that too, to see what she thinks.

May gently jostles her by the back of her neck and smiles widely. “Told you,” she smirks, which has Keeley gush in her underwear. Confidence is so fucking sexy.

Keeley ends up staying all the way until the club closes at 5:00 AM, even though she usually tries to leave at 2:00 AM. She has definitely missed curfew and her friends are definitely long gone. She curses when she sees the time and mentally starts to calculate how much her mum’s gonna kill her if she has to take a cab all by herself without friends to split it with.

They’re already outside the club now, all shivering in the cold of the early morning air. One of the guys May had been with has disappeared, but Keeley is barely focused on that, too busy worrying about all the cabs that are leaving and whether to get in any of them.

“You okay, Keeley?” May asks.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I’m great,” Keeley smiles fakely, glancing around the street and giving May a tight smile. “Just need to get home.”

Instantly May is concerned: “You don’t have a ride?”

“Uh, no, kinda ditched my friends,” Keeley winces, because it’s better than admitting her friends left without her.

“Well, you can catch a ride with us no problem. Louis is our DD, he’s coming with the car now,” May offers, nodding to a beat up to a van that is coming puffing around the corner.

Keeley hesitates, because she knows that getting in a van with strangers is a bad idea, but at the same time… “Sure, yeah, that’d be real nice. Thank you.”

“Of course, no problem,” May smiles, before calling out: “We’re adding another stop! We gotta drop Keeley here off.”

No one even bats an eye at that and just accepts it as true. Keeley thinks it might be the alcohol in all their systems, but she’s not asking too many questions about this easy solution to her problem now that she’s decided to take it. These people have been nothing but nice to her. She feels like she can trust May at least. And Adam, probably.

There are way more people than seats, even in the van, so Keeley ends up on May’s lap. The girl winks at her when she assures a beet red Keeley: “Any girl that calls me gorgeous is welcome on my lap.”

Soon they’re rolling up in her street and everyone calls out jovial greetings as she climbs out of May’s lap and onto the street. She turns back to say bye, heart beating in her throat as her and May smile at each other. Then she blurts out: “Can I have your arm?”

“What?” May chuckles.

“Your arm,” Keeley repeats. “So I can write down my number. If you want.” She’s sweating bullets and already feeling that invisible line of what is acceptable creep up.

Before she can take it back and wave it away as no big deal, May’s smile returns and she holds out her arm. “Sure.”

“Cool,” Keeley lets out a relieved breath, quickly scribbling down her number before she can change her mind, then hurries to her door, waving at the van as it rolls down the street.

It’s so late by the time she gets inside that her mum has already given up her disappointed watch for her so she can sneak into her room without a lecture, feeling all giddy. It feels like she’s truly at a turning point right now. Soon she’ll leave school behind and maybe finally make it. She even gave May her number. She might not ever call, but doing it at all makes her feel invincible.

Mum’s still livid in the morning, but when isn’t she? Keeley doesn’t really enjoy the lecture through her pounding headache, but it’s not the first one and it won’t be the last. And mum never really goes through with her punishments, so consequences are void anyway. Just a lot of yelling.

And she definitely doesn’t give a shit when she gets a call from an unknown number. “Hey, Keeley, this is Adam. Hope you don’t mind May gave me your number.”

“Adam! Hi,” she quickly greets, probably more high pitched than she prefers. “No, I don’t mind. What’s up?”

“I checked out your facebook. Send a friend request, but that was like a minute ago, so you probably haven’t seen it yet,” Adam says. “It’s great stuff. I think you’re a perfect fit for what I’m trying to do with my project.”

“You do?” Keeley gasps, unable to help her excitement. This is it. This is genuinely it.

“Yeah,” Adam says, smile in his voice. “You have that perfect balance between youthful innocence and hard to get. It’s nice. I’m planning on shooting next week, are you available?”

Keeley technically has school, but it won’t be the first time she skipped class, so she says: “Of course, when and where do you want to meet?”

She ends up skipping school on a Wednesday to meet Adam at this studio he’s renting. Inside are sets of everyday places and a bunch of guys in plain clothes, as well as… “Adam! Hi.”

“Hey, Keeley,” Adam greets her as if they’ve been friends for years, wrapping her up in a big hug and letting his hand linger between her shoulder blade as he leads her along. “These are the other people who have been so kind to help me with my project, so you’re gonna be working with them. You already know Ty here and Louis. That’s Alex and Mark and over there’s Tommy.”

They wave at her and she waves back. She half expected there to be handshakes, but no one except Adam really acknowledges her after they’ve been pointed out.

The concept Adam has come up with are every day scenes, centering Keeley surrounded by the other ‘models’. They’re all dressed normally, except for her, who is in nothing but a set of lacy undergarments that Adam provided her with. To show how stripped down women are, he explains to her when she hesitates after being presented with her clothes for the shoot.

When he does, she instantly feels stupid for hesitating. He’s an artist with vision. He’s trying to convey something with his pieces. She shouldn’t question him and it’s not like she’s ever been a prude. Besides that, it’s not as if she isn’t aware that modeling will include showing off her body. It’s something she wants to do. She’s mad fit, the world is allowed to look.

So Keeley ends up doing her first ever gig at seventeen, dressed in nothing but lingerie as she tries to get used to the discomfort of someone directing her; physically sometimes. It’s how this industry works and she wants to make it. Sacrifices must be made. It’s better than disappearing into a dull shape of a woman like her mom has.

After the shoot, she comes out of the dressing room – which is a little too exposed to be called that – to find everyone except Adam gone.

“The lads went out to drink, but I figured I’d be a gentleman and wait,” Adam smiles at her when he sees her look around confused. “Want to see the raw photos? I still have to pick which ones to edit, but if you like some of them you can post them on your facebook after I turn in my project. For exposure.”

“I could? That’d be great!” Keeley exclaims, excited by the notion of getting to be involved in the creative process of her first ever gig, even if it is just as an observer.

“Of course,” Adam says with an amused huff. “This is a favor based industry, Keeley. You help me and I help you.”

That makes sense, Keeley thinks. It was a favor of her to help here and it’s a favor of him back to let her post the pictures on her facebook. To have properly quality work on there by an actual photographer instead of just her own stuff. To make her more legitimate.

However, her modeling is not the favor Adam had in mind when he said that. They look through the pictures together first, but then slowly he gets closer and closer until a hand lands on her thigh. She knows that move. She knows what he wants from her.

Keeley thinks Adam is plenty cute, but she doesn’t want to fuck him. Out of the friend group, he’s not the one she has eyes for… even if she will likely never tell May. But she also remembers the last time she didn’t sleep with someone when they wanted her to – she doesn’t fancy her nudes spread around again, even if all Adam has are lingerie pictures that are already going to be out there – and he has just done her a favor… and this is a favor based industry.

She sleeps with him.

It leaves her feeling a bit grimy, but Adam is a gentleman about it, she actually came. And it’s not the worst shag of her life. It’s… fine. Just fine. She mostly hopes he doesn’t think she means she’s interested when he drops her off back home, smiling at her to not be a stranger and that he’ll be in touch about posting.

If she’s honest, she doesn’t know if she made the right call, but it feels like she did when a day later May calls her for the first time since giving her her number. “Hey, Keeley, Adam said you were amazing on the shoot.” And Keeley almost feels like Adam wouldn’t have told her that if she hadn’t slept with him and that maybe May never would have called her at all if Adam hadn’t said she had done well.

“Yeah, it were amazing,” she says, because despite the few discomforts, she’d been on a high during the shooting part of it all. She truly loves this job. She wants this. She knows she does.

“Hey, I’m glad you think that,” May smiles over the phone, Keeley wills it. “We’re hitting the clubs again tonight and you should come. I’m bringing my camera rig, seeing if I can capture the club vibe. I had a vision after we met and I think I’m switching it up.”

“Yes, of course!” Keeley says a bit too quickly to be nonchalant and cool, but who gives a fuck. May is inviting her out. Her. Because she inspired a vision in May. For her project. Oh my god.

“Cool, we’ll come pick you up ‘round midnight,” May tells her, before hanging up.

Keeley has never gone out clubbing alone, but she doesn’t care. This is the moment where everything changes and she’s seizing it. It’s not like mum is going to check if her friends are going out too, or even care, beyond the usual exasperation that Keeley is throwing her life away, even though all she’s trying to do is live it.

She spends close to three hours pulling on outfit after outfit to try and find one that will wow May. It has to be perfect. The girl makes her nervous in the best way and she wants to impress her, wants her to like her. She already put her foot in her mouth once and she’s just grateful May thought it was flattering and charming. She can’t fuck up like that again.

May is just so… so open and flirty, almost. She’s not shy and Keeley loves it. Confidence is so sexy and she wishes she had that about complimenting other girls, that the fear of getting left to sit alone at the lunch table isn’t always hiding behind every corner.

Beyond that, she’s also really drawn to the masculine style May has. Keeley herself prefers the versatility and textures that women’s fashion allows her when it comes to dressing herself, but she can admit she’s always been drawn to masculinity when it comes to sexual or romantic partners. Rubbing one out to the models is fine, but Keeley comes the hardest when it’s the sports editions. She just likes muscles. Likes the idea of someone powerful under her. She can’t explain it, but it draws her in. May draws her in.

So the outfit has to be perfect. It is perfect. As perfect as she can get it with her wardrobe that is limited by pocket money. And it’s worth it when she gets picked up and she is so certain May gives her an appreciative one over.

Adam isn’t there – in editing hell according to May – and Keeley can’t help but be a little grateful for that. It’s not that she doesn’t like Adam, he’s nice. But it would be awkward and she doesn’t want him to think it will be a regular thing, so getting to hang out with just May and some of her other friends is far superior.

It’s plain fucking fun.

May has gathered a group of girls to hit the clubs with and is cheering them on as they all grind and dance on each other in the club, while she hovers around them with her camera. Alcohol is flowing freely and Keeley feels like she is high on life.

The club lights flash and their hair is wild, teeth sparkling as faces are being made to the camera. She isn’t even self conscious of the way she is grabbing Melanie’s waist, because Elise is grabbing hers and she’s gotten a big kiss on her cheek from Fiona when May put the camera in both their faces.

“Come here,” May yells over the music, grabbing Keeley’s hand and pulling her over to the bar and shoving a cocktail in her hand. “Eye fuck the camera as you drink,” she loudly says in her ear, body pressed close to Keeley’s. “Your eye make up fucking pops here.”

Keeley feels flushed, the warmth of May’s body still lingering on her skin. She hopes the darkness of the club hides some of it, as will her glass as she wraps her lips around the straw, trying not to think too much about who is looking through the camera as she gives it her best bedroom eyes.

“Perfect,” May squeals and Keeley can feel the compliment pulsate through her entire body.

All of them end on the curb outside of a kebab place with greasy food in their hands. The alcohol in their blood prevents them all from even feeling the cold – except for May, who stayed sober to shoot and is laughing at all their gusto as they eat.

“It’s like you’re all lionesses devouring your pray,” she laughs brightly, squatting in front of Keeley with her camera at the ready. “I think I’m gonna do a series of how someone devolves during a night out. You’re all smudged.”

“Ah, fuck,” Keeley curses, trying to balance her kebab in one hand so it doesn’t fall to the floor so she can wipe at her face with the other. Her lipstick must be a mess.

Before her hand can reach her face, however, it is stopped by May’s gentle grip. Keeley looks up at her with big questioning eyes, feeling her heart flutter at May’s lopsided grin. “Don’t,” May says. “You still look amazing. I love the contrast of the mess and your beauty.”

“Oh…” Keeley breathes, before swallowing thickly. Her stomach is tying itself up in all sorts of knots as she blushes: “So, I, uh- I should go back to eating?”

“Yeah,” May nods with an amused huff.

Somewhat self consciously, Keeley does. May’s camera clicks a few more times before she starts calling out encouragements that make Keeley laugh and loosen up. “Destroy that kebab!” “You’re looking fucking fit.” “Give me a growl.” “Tear it! Tear it!”

The other girls are also laughing and cheering her on. Keeley feels seen for the first time. Accepted. For once she is at the center, instead of orbiting it.

She is absolutely wrecked in school the next morning. She’s lucky she had some make up wipes in her purse and that May just snort laughed and let her borrow some spare jeans she had in the back of her car, because they had to drop her off at school instead of home if she wanted to be on time.

“What happened to you?” Anna asks with reverent disgust and awe when Keeley slumps down over the lunch table.

“Went out,” Keeley groans, hiding away from the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Her low buzz has faded for a hang over that is killing her.

“On a school night,” Joanna exclaims. “Didn’t your mum kill you for that?”

“Maybe? Dunno,” Keeley shrugs. “Not like she knew or saw me this morning. Had to come to school straight from the club.”

There are some impressed noises around the table, before Brit asks: “Who did you even go out with? I don’t think anyone would say yes to that.”

“I befriended some people at the club last time, they invited me out with them,” Keeley explains, deciding not to remind them of the fact that she only even talked to them because they had all ditched her there. “Met May in the bathroom. They’re art students at Colchester Institute.”

“You befriended art students?” Joanna repeats disbelievingly.

Ugh, Keeley does not want to deal with this. “Nevermind,” she mutters. “It’s too bright here.”

“Whatever,” Brit snorts, having decided to not believe her alongside Joanna, but also having kindly decided to not push.

Keeley honestly doesn’t care. She’s already made peace with the fact that she’ll likely never see these girls again after they graduate. She loves her friends. I mean, they’ve been friends for years and Keeley knows she wouldn’t have made it through school without them. She’s grateful for them, but… they don’t have the drive to chase life like she has. They’re gonna go into boring careers and stay on the paths that have been laid out for them. Not her, though. She’s going to break out and she will grow apart from them in doing so. It’s just a few more months until they’re done here, she can drift apart from them sooner. She has better, cooler friends now that will help her climb the ladder she wants to climb.

She does try to graduate with semi-passing grades, because she is not doing all this again for another year, but she can admit it’s bare minimum. She’s out partying with May and her friends more often than not and is barely home as she moves to the end of her time being locked in school.

Partying with what are now also her friends is amazing. They’re all creative visionaries and Keeley feels more at home around them. By the time the semester ends, she lets Fiona take reference pictures of her for her final painting project, lets Louis use her as an extra in his video project and is the model for the clothes Mark made. Keeley Jones is becoming a name in certain circles.

Besides, helping the others out with their projects, she’s continuing to curate her facebook, mixing in party pictures with more tasteful ones of her that have been taken around town. She has a bunch of friends who are prone to bringing their cameras everywhere and have a great eye for angles, which she is fully using to her advantage to try and get bookings for actual modeling gigs.

Most of the time, she hangs out with May. She’d hoped that her crush of the other girl would fade into only feeling friendship for her with time, but it hasn’t. And May makes it difficult to let go with how often she touches Keeley and compliments her. It’s making Keeley think that maybe May likes her too.

However, Keeley can never bring herself to make a move, to do something other than lean in when May does and pull back when she does too. It’s too risky. Keeley’s whole life revolves around the friendships she made through May, the opportunities those friendships give her. She can’t risk saying too much and finding herself alone again.

Still, she does carry a torch of hope with her every time they hang around May’s dorm, like today. May is going through a bunch of magazines for a collage project and Keeley is just flipping through them unhelpfully while lounging on May’s bed.

“Ugh, my eyes are blurring,” May complains, leaning back again the bed as she stretches her arms above her shoulders, showing off her sports bra that are revealed by the big cut outs on the side of her shirt.

“Here,” Keeley says, holding out a water bottle out to her.

“Cheers, you’re an angel,” May smiles, taking the bottle to take a few big gulps. “Fuck, I’ll be happy when exams are done next week.”

“I can imagine, I’m mad glad exams are behind me,” Keeley sympathizes.

“Jealousss,” May says, slouching backwards. Then she perks up: “I’m going to a football match after my last exam. Do you like football?”

“I love football!” Keeley exclaims immediately, because she has only just graduated to hanging out with May outside of clubs or her working on stuff and this is her step further into May’s inner circle. “I mean, I love football players,” she quickly says, reinforcing the semi-lie she’s been upholding since she were thirteen.

Thankfully, May doesn’t notice her slip up of lying about liking something non-girly, which isn’t even true either! Keeley hates football. It’s boring. She much prefers watching drag races, but she does like athletes sexually and the lie is just ingrained at this point. But it doesn’t bother May, since she just smiles: “Me too!” which further cements Keeley’s commitment to the lie. “Wanna come?”

“Yeah! I’d love to!” Keeley says quickly, because there is truly nothing else she would rather do. It feels like she’s just been invited into something big.

On the day of the match, she has gone hard on finding the perfect outfit, nervously waiting to be picked up by May, who said she’d drive. Recently eighteen, Keeley could drive herself, but she doesn’t have a car yet and feels secretly thrilled at being wooed.

Besides, she’s also just glad to be out the house today. Mum caught dad cheating again, so they’re fighting once more, but it’s going to move into make up sex soon and Keeley would rather not be there for that again.

May pulls up, before either parent can talk to her, thank fuck, so Keeley hurries out the house. “Hey, Keeley,” May smiles when she throws open the door. “Good day?” she smirks at Keeley’s clearly frazzled state.

“Don’t even start,” Keeley groans. “Are we picking up anyone else?”

“Nah, thought it could just be us two,” May says with a kind smile that sends a bolt through Keeley immediately. Holy shit. It’s just them. This is so a date.

“Oh, yeah, no, of- of course!” she squeaks. “I, uh- That’s fun.” The smile she gives is totally awkward and not one of her good ones that she practiced over and over in the mirror, but May is looking at the road, so doesn’t see. Luckily.

The whole drive Keeley sits up straighter, fiddling with her everything as she tries to suppress the broadest smile. When they get there and May has found a parking spot, they get out and Keeley decides to be brave; she grabs May’s hand while sober for the first time.

She holds her breath waiting for the reaction, heart hammering in her throat as May looks down at their joined hands, then looks back at Keeley’s eyes, quirking a brow as she gives an amused smirk, before she wraps her hand around Keeley’s and tugs her closer. “Come on. Let’s not get lost in the crowds.”

They have amazing seats and Keeley feels very flattered that May made sure they got good seats for their date. That she made an effort to provide the best experience about something Keeley liked. It makes her feel special.

Keeley follows May’s lead and tries to not make it too obvious that it takes until the first goal is scored that she realizes they’re cheering for the yellow team, which Keeley will later learn is not the home team, but Arsenal. She had only vaguely heard about either team before.

If May notices, she thankfully doesn’t say and the two have actually quite the blast, despite Keeley not understanding much at all. Screaming at the referee is quite fun and she can’t deny she appreciates the eye candy of sweaty men in shorts. It’s hot. Not as hot as May, though, who is flushed with excitement and grabbing Keeley to shake her with enthusiasm every time their team scores.

By the time the match is over – with their team winning – Keeley feels alive like never before.

Everyone is screaming and cheering in their small section of the stadium and May pulls her into a jubilant hug, jumping up and down while they hold each other. “We won!” she screams, very unlike her usual nonchalant self. Keeley likes that May is letting her in on this side of herself.

“Come on,” May says, taking her hand and dragging her through the crowd of cheering people, nearly making her stumble with the action, but her hand also keeping Keeley upright.

“Where are we going?” Keeley laughs, clutching onto the hat she put on so she doesn’t lose it in the shuffle.

“It’s a surprise,” May calls back, throwing open a door that Keeley is pretty sure they’re not allowed to go through.

She lets herself get pulled through different hallways and doors, unsure where they’re going and certain she won’t find her way out alone, but too giddy to care. What does May have planned? Is this what grown up, actual dates are like, instead of milkshakes at the mall? Or is this what it’s like to date a girl?

Then, she gets pulled a final door and lets out a shocked: “Oh my god!” as she is suddenly confronted with the half naked – or fully naked – bodies of the yellow team they’d just been cheering on.

Promptly, May lets go of her hand while Keeley tries to cover her eyes, feeling horrible at the intrusion that must have happened due to May taking a wrong turn somewhere and trying to back out of there without using her eyes. However, then she hears May squeal – a noise that is very unlike her – “Babe!”

That instantly makes her peak from between her fingers. May doesn’t call anyone pet names. It’s just not something she does. And Keeley knows it’s not directed at her.

Keeley is just in time to see May toss her arms around one of the players – the one in defense that they cheered for even though Keeley didn’t think he’d been doing a lot – and pulls him in for a big, passionate kiss. A kiss that makes Keeley’s heart sink into her stomach.

Today hadn’t been a date at all.

Every little thing Keeley had used to tell herself that May liked her back and made a move, planned a day for her, asked her and her alone. It all crumbles and she feels so fucking stupid for ever thinking someone like May would want to date her. She feels disgusting for ever assuming. For grabbing May’s hand. For allowing herself to be close and clingy. This wasn’t a club where they were all drunk. She should have never done that.

She knows her face is contorting into something upset and she forcefully blinks the tears out of her eye the best she can and takes a shuddering breath, hiding behind her hands in faux-modesty until she’s gotten her face somewhat under control. She can never let May know she thought this was a date.

“Oh my god, Keeley, don’t be a prude. They’re all decent now,” May laughs, voice close to Keeley again as a hand pulls hers from her face.

“It’s just awkward,” Keeley replies, face red as she forces a giggle to try and play it as wide-eyed innocence instead of embarrassed heartbreak.

“Ahw, you’re cute,” May teases, something that before a minute ago, Keeley would have interpreted as a lot more genuine than it feels now. “Here, we’ll go into the hallway, save your virtue,” she grins, pulling Keeley out.

Once in the hall, Keeley can’t help herself. She says: “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

“Not many do,” May shrugs, like it’s casual information. Maybe for her, it is. “I don’t like advertising it, since he’s a big name and I’m trying to make it on my own. We met at the Arsenal charity gala. My dad owns a bunch of shares in the club and I go for him. Now I go for John.” She smiles a bit sappily at the end and Keeley burns with jealousy.

“Why don’t you tell people?” Keeley asks, needing to rub salt into the wound, needing to understand.

“You’ve met my friends, right?” May responds with a snort. “I mean, I like them, they’re fun, but they’re all… pretentious. In a different way my dad is. They don’t get it. You… You do. I mean, footballers and their shorts, right?” She bumps into Keeley’s shoulder playfully, like they’re sharing a joke

“I do. You’re definitely right about those shorts,” she jokes, trying to pretend that her heart isn’t twisting inside her chest as she carefully keeps her distance. In a way, it is the sisterhood Keeley has craved for a long time – though she never admitted it to herself – but it feels like hollow consolation now.

“See,” May grins, bright in that way Keeley loves and now just aches. “I told John about your love of football players, he said he’d introduce you to some of the lads.” She wiggles her eyebrows, looking at Keeley with so much excitement at getting to introduce her, having someone that gets it. Keeley loves being the person that gets May, even if it hurts. Her own lie about football players coming back to bite her all over again.

She plasters on a big smile, modulating her voice so that it sounds hopeful and excited at the prospect instead of her still trying to get over the rejection that had never really happened in the first place. “You would do that for me? You’re the best!”

“Of course,” May tells her. “We help each other out, right? Plus, it’ll be fun to slum it together every once in a while, be a WAG for the fun of it.”

“That sounds hilarious,” Keeley says, because she really can’t think of anything else to say.

“Come on, I’m sure they’re decent now,” May ribs her, leading her back to the locker room. “Let’s make some proper introductions.”

In that locker room, Keeley meets Kyle. Kyle is a mid-fielder and he’s… fine. He’s fine. He’s twenty-three and came up in the Arsenal academy. He’s famous with a bunch of money and likes having a pretty girl on his arm and nothing too serious. He doesn’t care that much that Keeley is nursing a bit of a broken heart as long as she dresses up nice when he needs a date and is in the bleachers looking sexy in a kit with his number on the back.

With the situation Keeley finds herself in, Kyle is more than enough for her.

Kyle is also the start of a pattern and a career. A week into dating him, she get accosted by a pap while shopping at Tesco, wanting to know who the girl it that stole Arsenal striker Kyle Hatch’s heart was, wanting to know the details of their relationship. Keeley’s a little overwhelmed, but manages to wink into the camera and blow a kiss as she says: “I don’t kiss and tell, I just kiss, blow if you’re good.” It’s her first viral moment.

The mystery of Keeley Jones gets people interested. She’s a blank slate with just a few low profile art projects and a carefully curated facebook to her name. There is no existing reputation to build on for their stories. This is the moment for her to make her brand.

She knows she’s been provocative in her posts and some of the projects. Some rags are already calling her a slag and a party girl and she has always known that’s what the others at school thought of her too. It is what she has made herself out to be from when she was fifteen years old. But she knows how to twist it just enough to become sexy and fun, instead of being damned for it.

Keeley Jones is the newest sensation on the scene and she makes every use of it that she can, before her minute of fame slips away and she’ll have to carry on with whatever she managed to built for herself right now. Her and Kyle both know this isn’t forever.

With her minute of fame she gets an ad campaign for some sports brand Kyle was already signed with, lifting along with his success. She also does some shoots for a couple of magazines, selling make up, clothes, vacations. Anything. She signs on with a modeling agency and becomes a pro in curating who she wants to be whenever she leaves the house, knowing there are going to be eyes watching her, and becomes the girl clubs want to see at their door. She never speaks to her high school friends again.

At the start, she keeps up contact with May’s friend group, but she can tell that most of them look down on her slightly for being a ‘sell out’ who is chasing fame. They don’t invite her for their projects again and Keeley gets what May meant when she said they’re pretentious about it. She gets why May is quiet about being a WAG after living as a WAG publicly. It’s a lot.

Her and May try to keep in contact even with this new whirlwind of a life and they manage to keep texting and they of course see each other at games and social functions around the club, but Keeley knows that it will be over when she breaks up with Kyle. She hates that. She really misses the friendship she used to have with May before all this. Still wants to be close to her, be noticed by her. Wants to be special in her eyes.

But she knows that May never saw her like that and that eats at her too. Not to mention that she feels a wave of humiliation crawl down her spine whenever she sees May and remembers that non-date. How close she got to ruining it all. How she still has to be careful.

She tries to focus on the positives of her new life. How much she loves it. She loves the bright lights at the parties, the dozens of people she surrounds herself with for the night just to forget about them again the next day, the expensive dresses Kyle gets her whenever she has to appear somewhere with him, the cheering crowds in the stands that wolf whistle when she gets up to the barrier to kiss him after a match, the fluff pieces about what brand perfume she uses. This is exactly what she wanted when daydreaming in Maths. Glamour.

She tries not to focus on how it’s lonely sometimes with people always around her but never close and how her and Kyle mostly fuck and don’t really talk, how she can never do anything without it being placed under a microscope. How some directors are creepy and how the entire world has seen her tits ten times over at this point. The hard parts are a part of it and she knew that going into this. She hadn’t been so stupid to think it would just be a glitzy highlight all of the time.

However, she hasn’t heard mum and dad argue in months and owns an actual designer dress. She never has to sit alone at a table unless she wants to and no one can tell her that she was delusional.

By age twenty-one, she is still living the party modeling life, being shirtless on billboards all around the country, though she is no longer dating Kyle.

She’s figured out a system wherein she dates each footballer long enough to not be seen as a dick-hopping slag, but not too long she becomes irrelevant. She’s famous for being almost famous and she knows it, which means she has to keep herself in the news cycle the best she can.

A break up is always a big story with people trying to figure out who wronged who and what the scandal is and dating someone new always means there are juicy secrets to their relationship to reveal. Keeley plays the press well and balances along the tightrope the best she can. Makes a name for herself as someone who dumps players as to not be seen as a sad girl, but a boss babe. Ensures she’s friendly enough with some of her better exes to keep herself from being branded as the perpetual crazy ex. Throws in a couple of one night stands to keep it interesting, keep them guessing. Keep them watching.

Furthermore, she has also learned the valuable lesson of not moving in with your boyfriend without having a solid back up option. Living out of hotels is pathetic and expensive in a way Keeley can’t afford, so she makes sure she has a home base to return to, even if sometimes it functions more as a storage unit than a home.

Right now, she lives with the girls.

The girls are Emma, Chloe and Shandy, three other models that work under the same agency that she does and with whom she does many shoots. They’re also WAGs like her. Professional WAGs. It’s a whole lifestyle that Keeley never expected her thirteen year old lie to turn into, but here she is. And, you know what? She still likes athletes and the shorts have really grown on her, even if she still doesn’t really know the rules of the game and just knows when to yell: “Referee!”

Keeley loves the girls. Loves that they understand, that they’re in the same boat, that they use this house the same way she does and that they support each other, keep each other safe… best they can, at least.

“Ugh, I need a new boyfriend. I can’t with this singles life,” Shandy says as she’s leans over the bathroom counter to look in the mirror as she puts on mascara. “A hot, celebrity one, preferably.”

“I mean, Chelsea’s playing tonight, so you know Roy Kent’s hosting a party if they win. We can go there, pick out a man for you,” Emma replies, leaning over the same counter next to Shandy as she works on perfecting her smoky eye.

“Should we though?” Keeley asks. She wants Shandy to find a boyfriend too, because she can’t keep eating her hair in interviews to get away from questions about her love life, but… “Those parties always get wild and not always in a fun way. I mean, last time Becky did a line of coke of Kent’s dick and that was the least interesting thing that happened.”

“She sold that story to the paps for like three grand, though,” Chloe answers.

“Really?” Keeley exclaims, stopping her outfit fiddling to look up in shock, seeing the three at the mirror nod. “Holy shit!”

“I know,” Shandy says knowingly. “She also took the whole length down her throat, but she left that part out. But apparently it’s a great size.”

… Too much information, but Keeley can’t deny she’s a bit intrigued too. She’s not planning on ever taking the Kent Pleasure Cruise, since he’s such a self absorbed arsehole, who thinks he’s the greatest shit since beans on toast. But, he’s at least an interesting twat, who doesn’t mind throwing around his money and mansion for her to get a good picture for her Instagram feed. Plus, a few grand for a story? That is easy money and a small burst of fame. Maybe not Roy Kent, but she can have a different target.

“Sure, yeah, let’s go to Kent’s party if Chelsea wins,” she gives in, getting cheers and whoops from the girls.

Shandy finishes up her make up and comes over to her, adjusting Keeley’s tits until they sit perfectly in her top and giving them a self satisfied nod: “There. Perfect.”

“Thanks, babe,” Keeley smiles, leaning forward to wipe a bit of lipstick off Shandy’s chin, since it hadn’t fully dried yet and smudged when she talked.

“Ahw, you’re an angel,” Shandy squeals, pulling her into a hug that is basically smushing Keeley’s face into her boobs.

It had taken a lot of getting used to the casual touchiness of having model friends, but Keeley has managed. Touching and seeing each other’s tits is totally normal and means nothing. After May, she never assumes a girl is into her, no matter how much it seems like they are. Chloe, for example, is the straightest person alive and she touches everyone’s tits all the time, even kissed Keeley a few times at parties when she was drunk.

So, yeah, boobs. Normal part of her life. In a very platonic and non-sexual way… which she never thinks about anyway. Keeley can be straight just fine. Nothing wrong with boys. She likes boys. Men. Footballers specifically.

In fact, Keeley is doing very well at not thinking about girls. She can’t afford to anymore. When she’d been masturbating to the models as a teen, it was fine, but now those same models are her friends and she can’t let those lines blur. And she can’t be seen with an actual other girl. She’s always watched and monitored by all paps and phone cameras that people have now. It’s too much. She can’t risk it.

Footballers are more than fine and Keeley is going to a party full of them and finding a nice fit one for herself to fuck.

As expected, Chelsea wins, so they end up at Roy Kent’s party house. Keeley is pretty sure he doesn’t live here, since he’s inviting people over that bring people he doesn’t even know, while he’s famous for breaking the cameras and noses of people, who are trying to get an inch of private information out of him or about him.

The music is loud and there are flashing lights everywhere. Booze is flowing freely, as are drugs, but there are a bunch of snacks and fast food too. There are hungry footballers here.

Keeley and the girls stick together. Emma has a boyfriend right now, but he’s not a Chelsea player and his team is up north on an away game, so she’s a free bird for the night to play wing man. Keeley feels confident about find someone to shack up with for the night by herself, but Shandy is on a mission for something more steady to pad up her finances and socials, so they’re all sticking with her.

They end up on the dance floor after making a round to scope people out, setting their sights on a few and now setting a bait to see who bites.

All four of them cluster together, grinding on each other, arms thrown around one another’s necks as they roll their bodies to the music, making sure to catch the eyes of some of the men there. It’s a tried and true method, everyone loves girls grinding on each other.

She should probably have more morals hang ups about using sexuality like that. Fetishisizing herself. But she doesn’t. It’s a hard business to make it in and she is selling Keeley Fucking Jones; the fantasy. She’s a sex symbol and this is what she has to do to get there. To stay there.

Besides, who gives a shit. Grinding on your friends is sexy and fun and Keeley fears what her friends might think if she says something. They’re all fine with it. It’d be weirder to say something. Caring about stuff like that just isn’t something they do.

They all dance until there are men getting them drinks. Emma is taken, but willing to get drunk with a bunch of guys now that she can. Her boyfriend doesn’t like going out much. Her and Chloe are a bit of a set within their group, so she’s keeping an eye on her. Shandy has gotten the attention of one of the suitors she had her eye on.

Keeley knows that if she sticks around for too long, she’ll become competition. So she gives Shandy a wink when she gets pulled onto the dance floor by the bloke, while Shandy points at her new date and pulls a suggestive face behind his back, which makes Keeley giggle, before she finds herself alone at the bar.

She gets a fancy cocktail and leans against the bar, scanning the room. A one night stand might be nice, she thinks. She has a shoot tomorrow, but it’s not like she’s never did a walk of shame to work. Now she just needs a partner. She scans the room.

“I see your little girl group is out hunting again.” A gruff voice interrupts her cocktail sipping and scouting out potential one night stands.

In the privacy of her mind, she can admit she startles slightly, though she doesn’t react visually. She actually has a great poker face, despite how expressive she can be, especially when she’s on guard, which she always is at parties. So she turns to their… gracious host and puts on her best innocent face as she smiles: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure,” Roy chuckles. It’s snorted and amused, but genuine. In a nice way. There’s a crinkle around his eye that Keeley likes.

“What?” she asks with wide eyes, keeping up her act just to push his buttons. “Big Man Roy Kent isn’t scared of a few girls, is he?”

Another chuckle, this one closer to a scoff. He looks away for a second, then looks back. “I’m not fucking scared. I was just coming to check up on you, since you were all alone at the bar.”

That is actually quite sweet, she thinks, but she doesn’t let Roy know that. A bit of flirting is just fine, but as much as Roy Kent is masculinity incarnate, he’s not for her. He doesn’t seem the type that likes to be pushed around and Keeley loves pushing around big strong men. So she just snort giggles on purpose as she asks: “Does that line actually work?”

Her response seems to take Roy aback for a moment and Keeley thinks she fucked up and is planning an exit strategy, before Roy barks out a laugh. “You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you?”

“Some would call it charming,” she sniffs mock-snootily, putting her nose up in the air, before taking another sip of her cocktail.

“Charming. Sure,” Roy says.

“Very charming,” Keeley agrees, like that is what Roy meant. “Anyway, don’t you have to find some girl to snort coke of your dick or something?”

“I don’t suppose you’re some girl, eh?” Roy shoots his shot, sounding like a man who’s not used to getting rejected, leaning his weight on one leg to lean in closer.

Keeley places a hand on his chest and leans in as well, coming in very close before giving him a breathy whisper: “You can’t handle me, big boy.”

“Oi,” he goes, not actually offended, but a small genuine part still needing to defend himself. “I was player of the fucking match. I can handle a lot of shit. Don’t fucking decide that for me.”

“Oh wow, we all clap that you can play a game,” she fakes cheers for him, pulling back. Then she tosses her ponytail over her shoulder as she turns around and calls out: “See you around, Kent.”

She relishes in the way Roy is too stunned to respond, his face getting a bit red as he gapes at her back. It is so obvious that Roy Kent is not a person people say no to, which only makes it fun for her to do so. If she’s ever in a more ‘put me in my place’-kinky mood, he’s definitely a person to look up. He’s so fun to rile up a bit.

Like a kicked puppy, Roy licks his wounds in peace and doesn’t approach her again for the rest of the night, something that Keeley finds quite appealing.

Instead of Roy, she takes home one of his teammates to have a mediocre one night stand with, glad to sneak out in the morning to make it to her shoot. At least the lad had a banging car that they had round one in. She loves sexy cars and this was definitely one. Worth the mediocre sex, but she’s glad not to have to come back around.

Emma is doing this shoot with her and she takes a bit of comfort in the fact that she is so much more hung over than her as they change… well, into their nothing. Topless model is called that for a reason. At least they’ll get some footballs to cover their tits this time. It’s one of the less scandalous shoots that she’s done to date.

“Ugh, these lights are too fucking bright,” Emma groans as she unhooks her bra.

“Then you’re gonna hate the camera flashes,” Keeley reminds her, laughing slightly at the pained sound that Emma makes. Though, Keeley is nice and hands her a cool water bottle to drink that Emma takes gratefully. They all look out for each other in their own ways.

Getting set up for the shot and trying out poses as she follows the directions given to her is nothing new and this is a quite routine shoot. They weren’t given anything to cover up in between, which kind of sucks, but is unfortunately quite common. It’s cold too. Her nipples are hard as fuck.

… Which was probably the point, she realizes, glancing over at the director to see him palming his dick while he looks at the models in between shots. Iew. Gross. But typical also. Keeley looks away and pretends she hasn’t seen. At least he’s touching himself instead of them. Silver linings.

Her life at this point is a bit of a blur. She goes from shoot to shoot, from party to party, from boyfriend to boyfriend. She has fun. She is frustrated. She loses friends, makes new ones, loses those too.

Meanwhile the world around her spins. Gay marriage becomes legal in the UK, then the USA. Pride campaigns become more normal and there is some genuine representation out there, instead of the eroticized yet tension-less shoots she used to do.

And one day, Keeley finds herself at a gay club. Alone and feeling a bit out of place, her stomach in knots, nerves alight with anxiety… and something so deeply, achingly longing lodged under her ribs.

She’s already twenty-four now and while she’s still on top of the world – enough where she feels like she can get away with it without it closing doors for her – but she knows the end is coming. You don’t get to be over your mid-twenties and still model. Younger girls are coming in every year and this society doesn’t like women who don’t still look like teenagers.

Despite her extroverted attitude most of the time, Keeley finds herself hanging around at the bar, trying to keep a low profile. The only reason she’s even dared to be here, is because she practiced her one liner about why she’s here a million times, though she still hopes no one will even notice her enough to ask.

Keeley doesn’t even know why she’s here. She has amazing sex with men and it’s all fine. She isn’t missing out on much by not dating women. She doesn’t have to do this…

But she wants to.

God, she fucking wants to.

It feels like she’s been standing on the sidelines her whole life, looking at the other kids on the yard playing, but too scared to ask if she can join in. They all look like they’re having fun, laughing and free, and she just wants that for herself. Wants to know what it’s like. Years she spends looking, while reminding herself not to look, while wanting to look anyway. She has never been great at denying herself simple pleasures, and while this one feels complicated in her chest, it’s simple at the core and she has finally convinced herself to try. To cross that field and see if she can play too. To believe that it’s safe enough that she won’t be ridiculed and thrown out.

Still, it’s a bit more nerveracking than her usual forays into uncharted territory for the sake of pleasure and joy, which is why she’s trying to be inconspicuous, but she’s here. That’s a win.

All around her all sorts of people are having fun with loud boisterous laughter filling the air as groups screech along to the songs that are playing as they dance. In a way, it’s not that different from the clubs she usually goes to, though those who are grinding on each other are a little different and the men are dressed slutty too.

She’s having a pretty good time just sitting at the bar and observing the crowd around her. She usually likes being at the center of things, but she also likes knowing what she’s getting into. You have to read the room to know how to act and play into what they want to see, so you can get what you want. She’s not entirely sure what she might want, but she’s sure she’ll figure it out.

So, she sits at the bar and watches as the DJ announces an act and the lights converge onto the stage that’s in the back of the club. On the stage appears… a short biker dude, leather jacket, dark beard, tight leather trousers and without a shirt. The DJ announces him as Long John and it takes Keeley two seconds of closer inspection to realize he isn’t actually a guy. Or at least, that most of this guy is make up.

Keeley isn’t entirely oblivious when it comes to queer culture, even if she has mostly stayed away from it in her career, too far into sports to cross over much. She knows that drag queens existed, she just never considered the opposite being true. However, she can’t deny she’s mesmerized as she watches this performer stomp over the stage, oozing charm and cockiness, exactly how she likes.

Long John is charismatic and a bit of a prick as he winks at the cheering crowds and accepts their tips with flirtatiously blown kisses. It makes Keeley want to get up and give him a tip too, but she hesitates at the idea of getting a spot light on her here. It makes her freeze and just watch Long John with eyes she can’t even fully place herself either. She still doesn’t know what she wants.

In the end, what she might want comes right up to her at the bar after the performance is done. Long John himself, sliding into the seat next to hers, make up still on while in the background a new performance starts up.

He slides into the seat next to her like it’s the most natural thing in the world and confidently leans against the bar as he says: “Keeley Fucking Jones, as I live and breathe.”

“You don’t sound surprised to find me here,” she replies, trying desperately to sound nonchalant and amused, instead of deeply terrified.

“I am,” he assures her, which is comforting in a way, especially when he gives her a cheeky grin after and adds: “Just looked at your poster on my brother’s wall enough times while imagining a scenario like this that I’m willing to be delusional about it.”

The response is so brazen and humorous that Keeley actually laughs. It’s not the worst thing that has been said to her. At least Long John isn’t informing her about how he used to masturbate to her, or how his brother would. She gets it. She’s Keeley Fucking Jones. She’s not a person, she’s a fantasy. And she has spent years of her life working to become that fantasy. She’s used to it. It’s not all horrible anyway. It gets her into hot people’s pants, so she smirks: “Is that so?” delighted when it makes Long John blush, a small crack in the cocky facade.

However, Keeley has to hand it to Long John, he recovers quickly. The cocky smirk from before turns into a more boyish grin as he says: “Well, I have a beard drawn on my face and you’re still talking to me, so why the fuck not.”

“I think it looks handsome,” Keeley tells him, reaching out to trail her fingers over the smooth surface of his face. It’s strange and doesn’t match with the sensory memory Keeley has with the look of the beard, no scratchiness.

She doesn’t know where she’s getting the confidence to flirt with a drag king in the middle of a gay bar, but something about Long John’s energy is putting her at ease. Maybe it’s because he acknowledged how weird it is that she is here, while taking it in stride without blinking anyway. Maybe the illusion of manhood is enough for her to create a mental distance. Who knows?

“Yeah?” Long John breathes, quirking a brow in an attempt to make it less hornily docile than it is.

“Yeah,” Keeley confirms with a sharp grin, heat pulsating between her legs. She might be new at the whole picking up women thing, but she isn’t new at sex and she knows what she likes. And she likes pushing at cocksure masculinity and having it turn into putty in her hands. Long John presses all those buttons. “I mean, pretty boy wrapped up in leather? What’s a girl got to do?” she adds flirtatiously, pulling on the belt loop of Long John’s tight leather trousers.

“I, uh- I don’t know,” Long John stammers, before he recovers with: “Take me home?”

Ah, confident. Keeley likes that. She can’t wait to break it either. With a Cheshire smile she happily agrees: “Your place?” She tires not to take strangers to her house first hook up. That’s a third hook up level you have to reach. Fortunately, Long John seems more than amendable to that suggestion.

She ends up riding his face until the beard make up has practically washed off with how she gushed all over his chin. Then she rides the strap six ways to Sunday, before passing out.

The next morning, she meets Melissa without the make up on and learns she’s a plumber in the day to day and does drag for fun and little bit of cash on the side. The morning after isn’t bad with a girl, just different than what Keeley is used to. Melissa makes her coffee and breakfast and lets her borrow clothes so she doesn’t have to do the walk of shame in her club gear.

Melissa gives Keeley her number as she sees her out, telling her that she had a good time and that Keeley can come back any time. “You’re really cool. I mean, we didn’t talk much, but I like your vibe,” Melissa tells her with a small crooked grin that has Keeley’s insides swirling.

“You’re pretty cool too,” Keeley says her smile shier than it would otherwise be. Despite their introductions Melissa makes her feel like Keeley, instead of Keeley Fucking Jones. It’s a nice change of pace.

“High praise,” Melissa grins, before handing her a coffee in a to go cup. “See you ‘round?” she greets, trying not to make it sound like a question but a casual goodbye, failing slightly.

It presses a vain button inside Keeley that loves attention and she preens a little as her smile widens. “I might,” she winks, getting a boost of confidence as she presses a kiss to Melissa’s cheek and takes the coffee, letting her ponytail swish behind her as she goes without turning.

Her heart is racing slightly when she gets into the cab and she spends the whole day waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the news to break or for everyone around her to see the fact that she fucked a woman on her. For everyone to call her disgusting and leave her standing in the cafeteria all alone.

However, when that doesn’t happen. When nothing gets splashed on the cover of The Sun, when she doesn’t get ousted or told that she’s disgusting… she slowly comes down. A giddy feeling appears in her stomach.

She got away with it!

Keeley Jones slept a woman and the world didn’t end. All her fears and worries have been unfounded. The world is different now. Nobody cares. …Well, nobody knows, but it’s still huge to her. She can try to figure out more of herself without being scared. She’s not thirteen anymore and it’s no longer 2004.

With a week of nothing breaking the peace, she contacts Melissa with the number the other woman left for her, heart beating in her throat.

If Melissa is surprised to hear from her again, or at all, she doesn’t let Keeley know. She’s friendly and excited – eager in a way that is great for Keeley’s ego – at her reaching out. They fuck. Then fuck again. And again. And then again. They fuck at Melissa’s, they fuck in the bathroom of the bar he performs at, they fuck at Keeley’s.

Before she knows it, the two of them have rolled into a relationship. Her first relationship since she’s eighteen where the other person isn’t someone famous, someone more famous. She’s the famous person in the relationship now and she’s not even famous-famous, more like… famous for being almost famous. Famous for being the person that famous people date. Famous for dating publicly.

Her relationship with Melissa is not public. Sure, she hangs around with her at the gay bar they met at and a couple of Melissa’s friends know, but other than that, the dating part has been carefully kept under wraps by Keeley. Despite not being famous-famous, she still has an image to maintain and that image cannot contain her genuinely fucking a woman.

Sure, she’s done ads that are suggestive, made borderline soft core porno’s with other models in the name of selling people something. However, that’s not genuine. Not real. It’s made for the gratification of men, to be hung up on the walls by horny teenage boys. Nothing actually happens and they all know it. It’s pretend for the sake of making someone else horny. What she and Melissa are doing is very much not any of that. It’s real and for no one’s gratification except their own. It’s not palatable to the masses. Not something people can sell. It’s not a fantasy. Not Keeley Fucking Jones.

She does feel bad for Melissa, who has to sneak around. She asks her once, but Melissa just smirks and pulls Keeley close, pressing a kiss against her lips, before murmuring: “I don’t mind. Kinda hot to be your dirty little secret,” which they naturally fuck about.

It’s fun to date Melissa. Fun to find out how her fingers feel in someone else’s cunt, fun to learn how to eat someone out, fun to share make up, fun to have shoes her own size to steal, fun not have to battle through layers of internalized misogyny just to convince her partner to do something with her that she enjoys doing or watching. It’s fun to figure herself out with someone else.

Melissa is putting on her Long John make up in the mirror of Keeley’s vanity, while Keeley is right next to her doing her own make up for a night out. They’re doing such vast different things to their faces, but they’re sharing products and laughing.

“Look at us, both in our drag,” Long John smiles at them in the mirror when they’re done.

“What?” Keeley huffs out with amused confusion. “I just did my make up, babes. Nothing drag about any of this.” She gestures at her long lashes, dark lips and glitter on her lids.

Long John blinks as if surprised by her response. “Yes it is,” he says. “I mean, I know quite a few girls who are drag queens, but I meant, like, your style and stuff. You do femininity over the top. Like a costume. Drag.”

Keeley looks down at her self, rolling Long John’s words through her mind as she assesses the way she dresses herself. She’s dressed hyper-femininely, she always has. From the moment she got clothing money, she has been unstoppable, putting together outfits other girls didn’t dare to wear and following the big fashion brands like a religion.

It’s not like Keeley doesn’t have any masculine clothes. She loves a good set of boxers when she wants to be comfy and has enough stolen hoodies from ex-boyfriends that she can start her own store, not to mention all the football kits she has accumulated over the years. But she can admit she doesn’t own many trousers or shirts that are truly her own that she can claim are very masculine.

“I suppose,” she agrees reluctantly, wrinkling her nose. “But it’s just clothes. I don’t become like a whole new person the way you do. It’s mad cool.”

“Glad you think it’s cool,” Long John smiles shyly, looking down and playing with his make up brush to avoid Keeley’s eyes. “Some of my exes thought it was weird.”

What! Why?” Keeley exclaims. “That’s fucking stupid. It’s hot and sexy, first off, but besides that, it’s just cool, it’s fascinating. You’re playing with identity and shit. Becoming a different person for the night, experiment with make up, faces, who you are. It’s fucking aces.”

The shy smile becomes a grin and he meets her eyes again. “Thanks, babe.” Then he turns more thoughtful and says: “It’s not really being someone else, though. Not for me, at least.”

“No?”

“Nah,” Long John shrugs. “Maybe, kinda. But not really. I don’t become someone else, I just play a caricature of me, if that makes sense? Like I love being butch, this is just me being butch to such an extreme it becomes a performance. I’m not doing masculinity the way society says I should, I’m not taking it seriously. I’m putting it on like a costume.” A small pause. “Like you do femininity so over the top it becomes unappealing to men and you do it more when it’s just us. When you’re not out there being Keeley Fucking Jones. You’re femme, like proper femme. In the best ways. I love it about you.”

“Oh, uhm, thank you,” Keeley says, feeling very shy and very seen in a way she’s not used to, because Long John isn’t wrong.

She hadn’t even noticed it that much, but he’s not wrong that her outfits are a lot more experimental and less mainstream when the two of them go out together and she’s not selling the fantasy that is tied to her brand. She is performing. She’s doing femininity as a performance. She’s performing the girl that every guy wants to have and every girl wants to be. It’s a costume.

As much as she has tried, she’s never been the kind of women society tells her she should be. She’s dominant in bed, she’s unapologetic about being girly, she loves cars and is unabashedly sexual. She’s queer also.

So, yeah, she loves being feminine, but she isn’t doing femininity seriously. She’s playing pretend, selling an image, not her genuine self. It’s just fun to play pretend and dress up in cute clothes, but now that she thinks about it, she has never truly felt at home with the word woman in how society pushed it.

“Huh,” she finally says. “Maybe it is a bit like doing drag,” which makes Long John preen at being right, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“And you look beautiful doing it,” he tells her, warmth in his eyes. Then he gets up and holds out a hand for her to hold, pulling her to her feet with a delighted shriek.

Keeley is about the same height as Long John, but in her tall heels she towers over him. She pulls him in for a deep snog, before pulling him out the house by his tie, smirking and with a satisfied feeling in her stomach at how easily he follows. She chauffeurs, feeling powerful behind the wheel of her car. It’s a beautiful car and she got a handsome girlfriend next to her. She’s on top of the world.

However, the bubble has to burst eventually. Keeley is used to being in the rags for her relationships, but the longer her tryst with Melissa continues, the more the narrative shifts and suddenly Keeley finds herself confronted with rags speculating that the Keeley Jones charm is drying up and her days of being dated and desired are over. She knows she’s twenty-four, which is getting older for a model, but these articles make her sound ancient and decrepit.

This can’t go on.

It’s not that her feelings are hurt – no, if she let things like this get to her, she never would have made it out of high school – but it could actually be damaging to her career. Like genuinely. Keeley Jones is a big name, but it isn’t a big name on its own. She’s the accessory to athletes, making them look better by standing next to them. Her on her own isn’t a product people can sell. If she doesn’t publicly attach herself to someone or something soon, she might be forgotten.

And it sucks that she has to have that conversation with Melissa. To stand there and explain to her girlfriend that she loves her and that she’s great, but that Keeley also loves her job, even when it comes with gross, ogling, groping men and feeling uncomfortable in clothes that pinch. That she doesn’t know what to do, but that she has to do something before she loses it all.

She’s shocked when Melissa doesn’t immediately hate her – because she’d been bracing for it – and instead tells her she doesn’t want to lose her either, even if she gets it. Then she shocks Keeley even more by asking if she’d want to claim her publicly, if she’d be queer in the public eye. If that would be something she could market her way around.

Keeley’s mind instantly starts to whir, thinking about the diversity projects she could do, maybe a shift into more charity work or sex ed. How it’s terrifying, but also not, because she’s been in the queer scene for months now and nothing bad has happened yet. How she’s established. How she can make it work.

When the next red carpet even rolls around, Keeley shows up in extravagant make up and Melissa clad in a suit next to her. Both of them are nervous as fuck, but it only shows on Melissa’s face as they flash smiles to the cameras and ignore most questions as they walk in. Keeley doesn’t dare do more than kiss her date on the cheek and pose with her like she has done with her boyfriends, confirming that they’re dating before disappearing into a cab at the end of the night.

The next day, she sits and waits, checking her socials and re-reading the statement she wrote about love and acceptance, ready for when the rags decent on her.

However, that doesn’t happen. Instead of the shit storm she’d been expected, the rags just proclaim them gal pals and Keeley never has to say a thing. She’s not sure if she’s disappointed or relieved as she watches nothing change on her socials.

Slowly people do catch on, but it’s not taken seriously. Her near engagement to some footballer in 2011 that was so painfully obvious in being a stunt was taken more seriously than this. It’s just a thing that is and isn’t, leaving her in a strange limbo.

She does a few pride launches and answers uncomfortably lewd questions, but that’s it. She isn’t big enough for it to be a scandal and she’s been too sexual for people to see it as anything more than her pulling something for publicity.

It’s weird. She expected so much more from all this, but it just fizzles. Well, for her, at least. Melissa has a different experience, which comes to a head two months after going public.

“I love you, Keeley, you know I do. But I can’t do this,” Melissa tells her, tears streaming down her face. “Every job I go to, I get questions if I’m that girl Keeley Jones is shagging. They ask me questions about my sex life, they feel entitled. Do you know how hard it is to be taken seriously as a plumber when you’re a girl? How shit people are? Because they are. And I can deal with it, yeah? I can. But not this. Not this- this- this invasiveness. It makes me feel unsafe, Keeley. And I can’t-”

“Please, just- We can talk it through. You and me. I’ll- I’ll release a statement. Take it back. Anything,” she pleads. “Just- Don’t do this.”

“I’m sorry,” Melissa says and Keeley knows she means it. She also knows that Melissa isn’t going to take it back.

The break up devastates her. She hadn’t realized how nice it was to date Melissa until it was suddenly gone. How nice it had been to not have to be Keeley Fucking Jones in her own relationship – even though it sometimes felt like Melissa got a kick out of her being Keeley Jones, until it wasn’t a brag to her friends anymore, but a day to day reality. Hadn’t realized how nice to was to have friends and a relationship for the sake of it, instead of what they could do for her.

It fucking sucks. Keeley doesn’t like it. She hates being lonely and she always is. Sure, she wants her space and her time alone, but she wants that with the knowledge there is someone there when she is done recharging. She needs that. She’s always been on the sidelines, always in a group of friends but never part of the group, always surrounded by people that know of her never by people that know her. There’s a loneliness in her heart she’d been able to ignore, but now creeps up on her again.

Instead of working through any of that, though she throws herself into parties and the arms of the first single footballer she can find. Keeley Fucking Jones has been quiet for too long and she needs to get back into action.

She lifts off the publicity of her returning to the dating scene, getting more calls back than she had before and lying to herself that that is good. That she likes the way the director’s eyes linger on her and doesn’t mind the fact that she’s in the skimpiest outfit alive, having to change in the middle of the streets to speed things along, while everyone else around her is wearing winter coats.

With the cat out of the bag around no one caring, she also goes through a slew of women after she dumps footballer number a hundred… and consequently finds out that even though the journos don’t take her relationships with women seriously and she can say and do what she wants, but she will be hetero sex icon Keeley Fucking Jones regardless, the same doesn’t go for fellow models.

When she gets to the shoot everything is the same with everyone bustling around to get it all up and running so they can get a move on. She nods hi to people, gets her outfit and makes her way over to the dressing room, since this gig actually has one.

The room falls silent as she walks in, her cheery “Hi” falling flat in the face of it.

Uncomfortable, Keeley makes her way over to a corner to drop her stuff and get changed. As she does, she can see the other girls exchanging looks with each other while glancing at her.

She swallows thickly and keeps her head down as she looks at the outfit – barely enough clothes to cover anything, like all of them will be wearing – and tries not be reminded of secondary PE. She’s not a teen anymore, she shouldn’t have to watch where she’s looking because what if they think she’s gay? They are adults. The press was fine. This is fine too. Why wouldn’t it be fine?

It’s not fine.

Before she can even start to take of her top to change, Amelia clears her throat and in that uppity voice she has always had, she says: “Uhm, can you… not change here?”

“What?” Keeley laughs disbelievingly, because what the fuck is she supposed to say to that? What is even happening here.

Amelia juts up her chin, gathering a lot more regal grace than a topless model should try for, and meets Keeley’s eyes head on and repeats: “Can you not change here? It’s really uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” Keeley chokes on rage and fear, unsure what to feel, but knowing it’s being fifteen all over again with her nudes all around school, with Chris making stupid jokes about her showing her tits to everyone now.

“Yes,” Amelia says. “Uncomfortable. I don’t want you looking at me and thinking about what it’s like to shag me. Ogling me.”

“That’s dead fucking rich, ‘Melia,” Keeley says, gathering the same wit and spine she had needed at fifteen to survive and that had never left her. “I’ve seen you topless a dozen times and I never jumped your fucking bones. Besides, everyone has seen you topless. There are loads of girls rubbing one out to your poster right now. Get a fucking grip. And I’m not the one that’s gonna be ogling you, that’s gonna be fucking Ben, ‘cause he’s a perv and creep and we all know it. Get over yourself.”

Then she snatches up her assigned outfit and gets out of there, pretending her face isn’t burning and there are no tears threatening to ruin her mascara. As much as she snapped, she doesn’t want to change there anymore, doesn’t want to feel the discomfort hanging in the air. Doesn’t want to know what will happen if she actually oversteps.

It’s not like she’s stupid and didn’t consider this, but in her heartbroken haze, she hadn’t realized what doubling down would mean and now she’s faced with it. She loves her job, despite the creeps, and if this fucks it up for her, she would be heartbroken in a different way. She knows Amelia is in the wrong here, but she can’t help but feel gross anyway. Like she did something bad. She hasn’t felt like that this deeply since she let her crush on Danica Patrick slip to Lizzy and Claire.

She ends up changing in the bathroom and she knows her energy is off during the shoot, but she tries to keep her head up high and not let the presence of the other women throw her off more than they already have.

However, when it’s all said and done and she’s changing in the middle of the studio, because who gives a shit at this point, Sophia comes up to her. She is looking over her shoulder as she does, as if she’s scared to get caught talking to Keeley, like they’re a pair of fucking criminals.

Keeley braces herself for impact, but instead Sophia says: “Don’t listen to Amelia, we don’t all think that and you can just change with us. I think it’s really brave that you came out.” She hesitates. “I wish I was that brave.” Then she hurries off, before Keeley can reply.

The interaction leaves a warm feeling in her chest and she walks away from that gig without feeling like proper shit. Sophia is right. She was brave and they can all suck her clit. She’s not doing anything wrong by changing with them.

Next time, she walks into the changing room with confidence. She doesn’t let her gaze linger and is very aware of everyone’s eyes, including her own, the whole time, but she acts normal and like it is no big deal as she switches clothes. There are definitely some women who aren’t happy with her there, but they aren’t Keeley Fucking Jones. She is. And Keeley Fucking Jones does whatever she wants. She’s been doing this since before they were allowed to drink. Piss off.

After Melissa, her public coming out and her equally public heartbreak bender, she scrambles herself together into the shape of who she used to be. She flutters between people, meeting new ones every day and forgetting them just as quickly. She dates mostly footballers, but branches out to include the women’s team as well and tries to further her career the best she can while only being famous for almost being famous.

There’s an empty ache in her heart by the time she’s twenty-nine, but she’s used to it. Loneliness doesn’t exist when you pretend the warm bodies in the club are enough and the hands on her hips as you dance are the same as someone holding you tenderly.

Tonight she’s not even looking for someone, but she wouldn’t mind if she ran into someone either. It’s a mixed bag where she feels kinds lonely but also too sexy to be desperate.

With this mix running through her veins, a pretty face appears before her, giving her a cocky smirk that screams trouble in the best way as he leans against the bar next to her and says: “I like the sparkles on your face, makes you look mad shiny, like a disco ball.”

The words are not “great tits” or “you’re my childhood wank fantasy” (even though she can tell that she was, she recognizes the look by now), but instead a compliment her make up, despite the fact that it’s obvious he knows nothing about it. “Cheers,” she smiles. “Can’t go wrong with glitter.”

Across from her, he makes a so-so gesture and his smirk morphs into a cheeky boy-ish grin as he says: “Dunno, ‘ave you tried getting it out your pubes? Mad work tha’, innit?” which makes her laugh again, his somewhat crude humor matching hers. “I’m Jamie, by the way. Jamie Tartt.” Then he holds out his hand, like genuinely actually holds out his hand, as if to shake hers to introduce himself, like that is normal club behavior. Like anyone has done that with her since May.

She recognizes him. He’s the transfer to Richmond from Man City, young and sure of himself and predicted to carry the team this season. It’s clear he knows it too, but she has always been a sucker for pretty boys with a too big ego and athlete bodies for her to prod at. Not to mention that his nerves about meeting her are endearing him to her.

“Keeley Jones,” she responds, shaking his hand, while trying not to laugh and failing slightly.

Jamie looks thrilled at her responding well to his advances, though he tries to hide it. It’s cute. He continues shaking her hand for a second too long, before dropping it. Then he asks: “So, what’s a fit girl like you doing in a dump like this?”

“I don’t know, maybe I could ask the same of you,” she shoots back, taking a step close to him and positioning herself so she’s looking up into his eyes, even though they’re close to the same height with her in her heels. She places a finger under his chin and takes a risk, because who cares if it doesn’t play out, plenty of fish in the sea. “What’s a pretty boy like you doing in a dump like this, Jamie?”

It pays off exactly like she hoped with a lovely blush spreading over his face that is embarrassed but not in a ‘I’m about to explode from toxic masculinity’-way and he swallows thickly, Adam’s apple bopping under her finger. “Oh, well, uhm,” he squeaks slightly, before getting his voice under control. “Wanted to see what the locals are up to ‘ere, y’know? Get a feel for the place.”

The answer is probably more honest than he might want to be with her when flirting, but she finds his flustered honesty refreshing. “So, Mr. Inspector,” she replies, playing with a button near his collar as she pushes her tits together. “What’s the verdict?”

His eyes track the movement and he gapes slightly, before they snap back to her face, his cheeks redder than they were before. “Very good,” he breathes.

“Yeah?” she teases with a smirk, she likes pulling him off kilter and making him blush. He truly is very pretty. She usually goes for more masculine people than Jamie, but he’s not too far from her usual type either. Strong, muscled frame and a sharp jaw with a style that is blossoming away from boring lad’s outfits into something more fashion.

“Yeah,” he confirms, nodding like a bobble head while being careful not to dislodge her hand that is now tracing along his cheek and nose.

Keeley studies him a little more, contemplating in her mind. Richmond isn’t a big club, but Man City is and he’s a rising star, whose loan has already made waves. Attaching herself to him would pull her into the spot light and she can use the boost. And Jamie seems eager enough. He’s sweet too. Cute, really. It might not last, especially with what she knows from him on the pitch, but she can’t deny she’s curious about the different sides of Jamie Tartt.

Besides, she’s been bored lately and she can use a project. Jamie seems perfect with the way he’s already eager to please and she can tell he moisturizes. With a bit of effort, she can really make something out of him. His brand is still mailable and she can totally make her mark, give him a slight up in this cutthroat world like people in the past have done for her. Give something in return for how he’ll pull her along with his fame. This is a favor based industry, after all. She helps him and he helps her.

So, she lets Jamie take her home, figuring it’ll be a bit of fun like all her relationships except with Melissa have been, before she dumps him and move onto the next sod, who can use a bit of a fix-him-up and a pat on the bum before they’re released out in the wild again. She’s like a rehabilitation center for lost footballers. Makes her use of them, before they can go find their forever home. Keeley isn’t made to keep people in her life. She is great at making friends, not keeping them and she has accepted that.

She doesn’t know yet that going with Jamie is the start of something new, but it is. They say you are a few handshakes away from success and she has found the right hand to shake. Not because of Jamie himself, no. Jamie’s a bit of a prick, actually, though he tries.

And through him, Keeley has come to stand on the threshold of the rest of her life, because Jamie is the reason she’s going to meet Rebecca, and Rebecca will be the first proper friend she has ever had.

~~

A/N:

There is something so special to me that Keeley used to be a girl who was always left to sit alone in friend groups, like she reads as someone who makes acquaintances so easily and friends never. Her and Rebecca seem like they only have each other that first season and that really made me think, you know? Keeley is such a surface level only, social butterfly type. Always the third wheel, always less close than everyone else. Always surrounded, never seen. Idk, it fit, to me

Also I love baby Keeley already being so aware of her image, like she has always done what she does now on some level, it’s a strong headcanon of mine <3

Imperfect, ‘bad girl’ victim!Keeley, my beloved. She didn’t deserve any of the things that happened to her, even if sometimes her own choices let her to an unsafe situation and even if she didn’t always realize she was a victim in the moment or ever.

I also think it is really intriguing how, yeah, having those older art school friends was bad for her, but they also did put her on this path. You can be successful of your own abuse/exploitation and that doesn’t make it right. Victimhood in our society is so interesting to explore. This fic has kind of become a thesis, I fear

Honestly, I love that Keeley doesn’t give a fuck about football so much. It’s a character detail that gets overlooked sometimes, but it adds so much to her imo

Keeley must have been here before and Sam wonders how Jamie kept all the mess out of sight… then again, he hadn’t noticed either until the dishwasher. If Jamie spent most of the time at hers, he probably would have gotten away with it.

Right now, she’s walking around like she’s seeing the place for the first time, eyes catching on the spices on the counter that Sam has left there, before they drift through the rest of the room, perhaps noticing for the first time how barren this house is.

Roy’s expression is unreadable, but his face twitches when he spots the toilet with the removed door. In light of recent events, Sam cannot blame him for reacting. He is grateful this house doesn’t have lockable rooms anymore. Jamie feels safer here.

Jamie himself is standing in the middle of his house, maybe also looking around and judging it through their eyes. His hands are buried in his shirt and he’s grimacing slightly. When he spots Roy looking at the door, he comments: “Ah, yeah, uhm, we should maybe put a curtain there or summat.”

At his voice, Roy tears his eyes away from the bathroom and turns to Jamie, demanding: “Is this what the fucking communal pissing was about?”

“Communal pissing?” Keeley repeats incredulously, having been out of the loop for that.

Mortification heats up Sam’s cheeks as he remembers everyone overhearing that. Jamie looks flabbergasted for a moment, before he’s choking on laughter, the shameless bastard. “Oh my god, you fucking heard ‘bout tha’?” he asks.

“It’s an actual thing?” Keeley asks, starting to sound concerned.

Sam can find some hilarity in the situation and lets go of most of the embarrassment from it all as he admits: “A little. But it was a bit of a joke also.”

“Yeah, Sam ‘ere took me solo bathroom privileges,” Jamie adds, shoulders a lot less tense after the laughter took some of the weirdness out of the atmosphere.

Roy and Keeley’s spirits dampen a little at that, but Sam is determined not to let it get to him. “Here, do you want anything to drink?” he pivots, moving through Jamie’s kitchen with ease, locating glasses and pouring them all drinks.

Once they’re all seated, Keeley starts them off, asking: “So, what does this usually look like?”

Jamie takes a breath, likely to say something self-deprecating and deflective, so Sam quickly speaks before he can. “Depends on how Jamie is feeling. I try to make sure he eats dinner and we watch television most nights. I’ve kind of taken over dishes and laundry. We haven’t been thinking long term, so it’s mostly me making sure he’s not alone and okay.”

Next to him, Jamie sinks down further in his seat, cheeks red. Sam cannot change the embarrassment he is feeling right now, but Jamie can live with temporary embarrassment. It’s not like they can minimize any of it when Roy and Keeley are here to help. They need to know.

Besides, there is nothing for Jamie to be embarrassed about. Everyone struggles sometimes and Jamie just struggles a bit more. They want to help, no one is being forced.

“Have you thought about getting a cleaner? They’re bloody useful,” Roy asks. Sam hadn’t thought him the type with how private he is, but then again, he also really cannot picture Roy dusting. He figures he must pay an obscene amount of money for the discretion.

“I ‘ave,” Jamie admits, fiddling with his plastic cup. “Jus’ feel bad ‘bout how bad it get sometimes, you get me? They don’t got to deal wi’ tha’.”

“It’s their fucking job,” Roy says.

Jamie glares: “Don’t mean they gotta put up wi’ shit. Me mummy cleaned posh houses when I were a sexy little baby. They were all fucking shitheads with vomit stains from parties and piles of mess everywhere, I’m not doing tha’ to someone.”

Keeley puts a hand on Jamie’s arm and her voice is gentle: “That’s very sweet of you, babe, and I totally get that, yeah. But it’s not always like that. You know you’re not going to throw wild parties where you leave a mess, right? You just need some help with the day to day. And you can tip well. You can be a house they don’t mind. A break from all that. Yeah?”

As he fiddles with his sleeves, Jamie considers her words for a moment. Finally, he shrugs: “I guess. I mean, it would be nice for it all to not pile up, jus’ ‘cause I don’t ‘ave the energy. Not like I feel any better wi’ Sam doin’ it.”

“I do not mind,” Sam assures him, because loading the dishwasher and doing Jamie’s laundry alongside his own, has honestly been one of the better parts of this. Though perhaps the general cleaning of a house is a bit much for him to manage alone.

“Cheers,” Jamie says, giving him an exhausted smile.

“I’ll find a good one, who won’t publish your shit in the papers,” Keeley promises, pulling out a pink sparkly pen and an equally pink sparkly notebook to write it down, making a list. “We also got to get you curtains and maybe a locks.”

“Locks?” all three of them repeat, wondering what the hell she means with that after everything that just went down due a door being capable of locking.

“Not for doors,” Keeley quickly says, eyes wide. “No, not that. I mean for drawers and cabinets.”

“Why would I need to lock me drawers?” Jamie frowns, but Sam sees the utility of it. If it hadn’t been for the lock on the medicine cabinet, Jamie might have been too fast for them today. He had locked everything away in the hotel room and he can kick himself for nothing thinking about doing it again before now.

“Just to lock some stuff away. For safe keeping,” Keeley says with forced cheer, her eyes subconsciously flicking to the same knife block Sam had put away after catching Jamie listening to his dad’s voicemails with it, before having to get it back out in order to cook. It had already been worrying then, but it is practically menacing now.

Jamie catches the look and follows it, confusing morphing into that ever present embarrassment. He swallows and fiddles with his sleeves some more, attempting casual as he replies: “Ah, yeah, tha’ makes sense, I guess.”

“I can put them in,” Roy surprises them, earning looks from all of them. He scowls: “I put in a bunch when my niece were a toddler, fucking say something.”

“Oi, I’m not a toddler,” Jamie exclaims.

“No one is saying that,” Keeley soothes and Sam feels a little bad for her. He knows how frustrating it can be to dance around Jamie’s ego (and his inability to believe this is serious) when it comes to dealing with this.

Jamie crosses his arms, frown deepening. “I don’t like you touching me stuff.”

“And we don’t like you dying, Jamie,” Sam adds tiredly. The adrenaline crash is catching up to him and he just needs a moment, but in lieu of that, he’s lost a bit of his filter.

At his words, Jamie has the decency to look abashed, rubbing the back of his head, before he goes: “Oh, yeah, no, course. I’m- I’m sorreh.”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, bumping into him, because he doesn’t mean to get snippy with Jamie, truly he doesn’t. Jamie is his friend and he loves him. A part of him had just hoped that after the harrowing morning they had, Jamie would finally start letting them help, start understanding how grave this all is, how he needs them and be okay with that. But he should have known better.

Keeley takes the opportunity to get them back on track. “Okay, so locks for the cabinets and cleaning, I’ll also take a look at creating some sort of schedule to keep watch, yeah? I can take tonight if you’d like, since I don’t gotta kick a ball around tomorrow.”

She looks at Jamie expectantly and it takes a beat before he remembers his demand to know who the fuck is watching him sleep. When he does, he quickly says: “It’s fine when it’s you, babe. You know tha’. I mean, not the first time, eh?”

He pulls a face and she rolls her eyes at him, though it’s a fond eye roll. She makes another note and says: “Good, so we got that settled. Let’s see. What else?”

Sam thinks for a moment like Keeley does, trying to remember if they’re glossing over something important. He should know this. He’s been doing all this for a week already. But he’s coming up blank and can’t be sure if it’s because there is nothing or if it’s because his brain is too full. It’s nice to hand it over to someone else for a moment, but he feels guilty for it too. He chose this. He wants to do this right.

“We still have to prep for tomorrow’s match,” Jamie offers after a moment, because he’s football obsessed and not entirely on the same page.

However, the comment does remind Sam of something, so he doesn’t even bother glaring at Jamie with Roy and Keeley, instead saying: “Should we do something about your dad? He’s going to call after the match again, isn’t he?”

Wrong thing to say. Jamie is now glaring at him instead – which is rude, Sam didn’t even glare at him first, even though Jamie would have deserved it – and snaps: “We don’t have to do shit wi’ me dad.”

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Roy demands in return and the glare now turns to him. Sam is more than happy to let this one go, he’s a little exhausted of fighting with Jamie about everything. Not in a bad way, but it’s emotionally taxing to always have to convince someone you care. To feel like you’re not enough in what you do. To be shut out again and again.

“Nowt’s wrong wi’ me, what the fuck’s wrong wi’ you?” Jamie tosses back to Roy.

“So we don’t have to do jack shit about the dad that made you want to kill yourself to begin with and is apparently going to fucking kill you?” Roy growls.

“No,” Jamie replies mulishly. “It weren’t tha’ bad.”

“Sam doesn’t seem to think so,” Roy challenges, involving Sam again.

Going off Jamie’s look, he clearly wants Sam to pick his side here. And Sam wants to, because he’s always going to be on Jamie’s side, but right now, being on his side means doing something he isn’t going to like. Though he tries to remain neutral as he says: “He worries me.”

“Well, you shouldn’t,” Jamie says snidely. “He’s all the way up in Manchester and unless I call ‘cause I need to ‘ave me ickle hand held for the night, he’s not gonna bother wi’ more than calling me to tell me I’m shit and ask for money. It’s fine.”

“Jamie, that sounds awful,” Keeley says with big sympathetic eyes.

“He’s just a bit of dick, nowt to get all gooey eyed ‘bout,” Jamie mutters, looking away. “He helps me, when I need it. Sits wi’ me.”

“Ties you to the bed,” Sam adds helpfully. Roy had already heard, but Keeley gasps at the words, eyes growing even wider as she looks at Jamie.

“Shut the fuck up, Sam,” Jamie hisses, before adding to Keeley: “They also do tha’ at hospitals if you’re enough of a prick ‘bout shit. Not like he invented it.”

“But you hate it and they don’t leave you unsupervised in the hospital,” Sam argues, because why does Jamie defend his dad when he told Sam he wasn’t stupid and knew he was wrong? What does he have to gain here by being difficult about it? Why must the shame instilled in people about needing help exist in society?

“Okay, fine, no tying me to the bed and not calling dad ‘ere,” Jamie rolls his eyes, crossing his arms as he sinks down in his chair.

“And finding the fucker to beat the shit out of him,” Roy adds darkly.

“Not worth it,” Jamie sighs. “We need you on the pitch, you can’t go to jail.”

“I’ll make it look like an accident,” Roy promises.

“We’ll keep it as a back up option,” Keeley pats his arm to make him stop this. Sam gets the fantasy of it, but Jamie isn’t wrong; beating Jamie’s dad up isn’t the solution, even if it would feel good.

“How about we agree you turn your phone off, so it’s all voicemails and we go through them instead. I promise not to forget this time,” Sam offers, because that will at least spare Jamie’s mental health a bit and he accepted it last time.

“Why the fuck are we not just throwing them away?” Roy demands.

“He makes demands in them sometime and gets mad if they go unfulfilled,” Sam says before Jamie can, hoping Roy gets the underlying ‘Jamie feels like he has to do them and let’s have that argument another time and work with what we have.’

He must, since he just growls, before conceding: “Fine. Me and Sam will go through them.”

Sam is glad that he doesn’t have to do it alone. He already knows what will be waiting for them and even when it’s not even directed at him, the thought alone is enough to make his stomach churn. He can’t imagine what it is like for Jamie, who has grown up with it.

Jamie is less relieved by the news that he won’t have to listen to his dad at all, instead looking conflicted about the offer. He’d been conflicted the first time Sam offered too. Sam knows he doesn’t want to listen to them, but he thinks this is pity, that they think themselves better than him. There is so much insecurity hiding under the surface with him. He hopes that, like last time, he can see it is not pity but friendship that is making them offer.

“Sure, knock yourself out if you’re so pressed,” Jamie shrugs, like it’s all casual and this isn’t at all something he is feeling all sorts of things about. Sam rolls his eyes but lets him get away with it. At least he’s agreeing. It’s about the small victories with Jamie.

“Good, so we got that settled,” Sam says. “I think that is most of it.”

“So we’re done ‘ere?” Jamie asks eagerly.

Keeley checks over her list and says: “Yeah, think we got the basics down, babe.”

“Mint,” Jamie sags with relief. “I wanna have a kick about.”

“I need to go to the store, get the locks,” Roy tells him, “but I’ll have time after.”

“I’ll be calling people, but I can keep an eye out,” Keeley offers.

“Give me a moment to nap and I will have a kick about with you,” Sam promises. Now that he has space to have a moment, he is desperate to take it. So much has happened and he isn’t like Jamie. He can’t just wipe away the memory of Jamie holding that shard and move on like nothing happened. He knows they must right now to move forward with getting Jamie help and not letting him sink into it, but Sam still needs a second.

“Fine,” Jamie whines. “I’ll ‘ave a kick about on me own.”

“You’ll be fine, Jamie. I’ll cheer and everything,” Keeley promises.

“And you’re going to be alone for an hour or two tops, you dramatic twat,” Roy adds.

“Still,” Jamie says sulkily. “We can’t afford to lose more than we already have.”

Jamie truly is a hypocrite, Sam thinks, but he doesn’t say that, instead he offers: “Maybe we can run the decoy play next match. It will work, you know it will. They won’t see it coming.”

“Ted hasn’t said shit ‘bout the offside rule,” Jamie says stubbornly. Then after a moment, he adds: “But it is a good fucking play.”

“Think about it,” Sam says with mirth. It’s fascinating how quickly you can grow fond at someone’s antics.

After that, they all get up and go their own ways. They’re going to go through everything after Roy has returned with the locks. Jamie will be outside until then anyway and Sam will be a holler away if Keeley can’t stop Jamie on her own. He’s doing well right now, but he was doing well earlier this morning too, so that doesn’t have to mean anything.

It takes more effort than he might have expected to walk away from Jamie and Keeley. In fact, he stays frozen in the kitchen watching them go outside to the little kiddy-goal. He knows he can let it go now, that he can walk away for a moment, but doing so seems wrong.

Keeley isn’t as fast or strong as him, she can’t catch Jamie if he’s determined. There might not be any more locked doors here, but the knife block still stands ominously on the counter.

It has to at least be out of sight, he decides, taking the knife block off the counter and placing it into one of the cabinets. Then he puts a few more things in the same cabinet, before tying it closed with some zip ties he found.

Sam looks at the zip tied cabinet and gives himself a satisfied nod. Then he looks out the window again to find Jamie doing keepy-uppies with a concentrated look on his face and relaxed shoulders. He’s going to be fine, Sam tells himself, finally ripping himself away from the sight and going upstairs.

It’s not easy, but Sam only observes Jamie and Keeley for ten more minutes through the bedroom window, before he lets it go and trusts her.

Once he does, he takes the few steps to the bed and collapses on it, a big breath wooshing out of his lungs as he stares up at the ceiling. Tears are pressing at the corners of his eyes, but they don’t fall. They just sit there, much like Sam just lies there.

He hasn’t had a moment to just lie there by himself since before last week, he reflects. He never really did, often puttering about, listening to a podcast or calling with his father, but he did lie down sometimes. It feels weird to say he missed it, he hasn’t. And it feels weird to do it.

His plan had been to take a nap, but his brain keeps on going, unable to slow down for a bit. Keeley is taking on the logistics, Roy will be doing the locks, so Sam should be okay to lie here. He can still hear Jamie outside. It’s all fine now. He made it through, he knows he is okay and they won’t make him go to a hospital. Sam can rest.

…In theory.

It’s harder in practice. He keeps thinking of the knife block – now safely zip tied away – and all the other stuff that’s still out in the open. He can’t believe he never thought about locking any of it away. That what happened today, could have happened at any time.

Sam might have scrubbed himself clean under the showers of the club before coming here, but he still feels the tackiness of the blood on his skin and, when he closes his eyes, he sees Jamie with his face so anguished and bright red everywhere.

He squeezes his eyes, trying to rid himself of the image, before getting back up again. He’s not going to be able to lie down. Not when Jamie isn’t nearby. Not yet.

With his decision made, he goes back downstairs and makes his way outside. He stands next to Keeley for a moment, giving her a smile when she gives him a questioning look. She’s on the phone, so she doesn’t ask, which Sam is grateful for. He doesn’t know how to even begin to explain any of the feelings that are lodged inside his throat and chest.

Jamie spots him within seconds, lighting up when he sees Sam and waving him over. Despite the white bandages still contrasting with his skin, the sight does a lot to settle the mess inside. Sam is more than happy to leave it behind him and lose himself in football for a bit.

As he jogs over, he says: “Let me warm up, we can do some drills for your left foot cross. If you’re going to be stubborn about the decoy play, you can at least pass to me.”

“Ughhhhh, fine,” Jamie complains. “But only ‘cause you know what the offside rule is.”

“Glad I’m being held to the same standard,” Sam snorts, going for a stretch.

Next to him, Jamie continues his keepy-uppies, as he grins: “Yeah, I’m megamindious like that.”

“Megamindious?” Sam repeats, not even sure where to begin with trying to decipher what the hell Jamie meant with that.

“Yeah, like kind and graceful and shit,” Jamie replies, not even focusing on the ball it’s so instinctive to him.

He’s pretty sure Jamie meant to use gracious there and he’s starting to puzzle it together. With an amused huff, he asks: “Did you mean magnanimous?”

“Tha’s what I said, innit?” Jamie returns unbothered, wholeheartedly believing it too.

“Sure,” Sam gives it to him, feeling at ease and unbothered himself too. This. This is the good bit of all of it; being out on the grass with Jamie, shooting the shit.

They end up running drills together, much like they would have if training hadn’t been canceled. And Sam does force Jamie to practice his left foot cross. Roy also joins them after an hour or two, making good on his promise.

Roy doesn’t partake in anything, scowling on the side lines with his arms crossed while he yells at them to do this or that, and that they can do it better and why the fuck aren’t they doing it like this? It’s a very Roy style of training, but Sam thinks it’s pretty nice. He wants to learn and do better. He’s been on the rise lately, finally living up to his potential and he wants to grow to even greater heights.

A part of him had expected Jamie to be surly about it, telling Roy he’s a granddad and should fuck off or something. However, he is thrilled instead, buzzing around like puppy who got a treat the entire time instead, reminding Sam of the confessions Jamie made about his hero worship.

It makes him wonder what this season would have looked like if Roy hadn’t been so closed off and bitter at the start, but had stepped up as a captain like he has recently. Maybe if he would have taken Jamie under his wing, instead of telling him to fuck off that first day, they could have had this Jamie. An excited young player that is a bit too arrogant for his own good, but ultimately willing to be a part of the team. Maybe then Roy would have been the one he asked for help. Maybe then Sam wouldn’t have been brought into the fold through this. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been excluded to begin with.

He decides not to dwell on it and just focus on them having fun on the grass. Having Jamie be close, alive and sweaty, cheeks red with exertion and excitement, has been good for his blood pressure. Good for reminding him it’s all well and that his nervous system can calm down now.

They told and while it didn’t go as Sam had hoped and it was a lot more harrowing than he ever wanted it to be, it ended up okay. They ended up okay. There might be bandages on Jamie’s neck and there is still blood stuck under Sam’s nails, but the first bricks of a wider support system have been laid.

~~

A/N:

Someone else got the logistics covered, Sam thinks. Someone else is making sure he’s keeping his promise to Jamie that they’re going to be okay, that he doesn’t have to go anywhere. That he can stay here and be looked after. Sam can just focus on Jamie, alive in his arms.

Jamie is crying too, tears sliding silently down his face. The only reason Sam even knows he’s crying is because hot droplets fall onto him and Jamie’s breath hitches slightly in his ear.

It’s strange for the aftermath to be so quiet.

Sam doesn’t think he can forget it. It’s had been so violent and so unlike the previous time Jamie got this close. Watching someone struggling with a pill bottle is not the same as watching them hold a shard of glass to their throat, threatening to cut it. The violence of it has shocked Sam to his core.

His eyes catch on a bloody footprint from where Jamie walked through some blood when Sam pulled him to him. It’s stark and vibrant against the linoleum and Sam has to clench his eyes close, a fresh round of tears falling from them.

After what feels like forever, but probably isn’t more than five minutes, Jamie lets go, pulling back. He takes a shuddering breath, trying to put himself back together again.

The ever present ability to stuff it all down nauseates Sam more than ever as he watches Jamie smear blood all over his face when rubbing roughly at his eyes, attempting to erase any trace of the tears he’d just shed. Like he can leave any of this behind him. Like this didn’t happen. Like it’s all fine.

It’s impossible for things to be fine, Jamie looks like he walked out of a crime scene and the reality is not too far off.

Jamie, however, doesn’t seem to notice, instead looking behind Sam at the crowd he has forgotten all about. Eyes flashing with embarrassment at being seen like this. Sam knows he shouldn’t be embarrassed or ashamed and he is pretty sure no one is giving Jamie a reason to feel that way, but to be sure, he still looks back.

In the hallway is the rest of the team, all pale and scared, shaken to the core most likely. Sam cannot blame them, this is not a pleasant thing to go through. He’s had Jamie pressed up against him and he still feels terrified himself, terrified that Jamie will slip through his fingers.

Nothing about any of this is a comforting sight. Sam is now soaked in blood as well and they’re still surrounded by broken glass and bright red. Bright red just everywhere. It might never wash out. Sam knows he’s going to be stained by this for a long time, at least.

Jamie tries to make them forget, though. He might stand there for a moment, helplessly opening and closing his mouth as the blood on his face crusts up, but soon he finds his voice again, trying to make all this smaller as he often does: “Uhm, sorreh ‘bout that, lads. Didn’t mean to- I’m not- I’m not usually like tha’, swear down. I’m better than tha’.”

He’s really not, but Sam doesn’t say. He doesn’t have to. Jamie knows it’s a lie when he says it and the way people’s faces contort at the words doesn’t make him more confident in it. Sam’s eyes follow a droplet of blood that slowly slides from Jamie’s neck to soak the collar of his kit.

No one is saying anything. They are still trying to process everything – from the reality of Jamie’s suicidality to his attitude towards it – so he can’t blame them for being speechless.

Next to him, Jamie starts making himself smaller again, likely filling in this blank with horrible shit he first heard from his dad’s mouth. He looks away, hand coming up to bundle under his kit, before he hisses, finally registering his cut up hand. He stares down, just watching it, even slowly flexing so that more blood leaks out, observing how it bubbles and drips. Sam hates the look in his eyes.

Without hesitating, he takes Jamie’s hand gently in his own, giving his best attempt at giving him a reassuring expression when Jamie looks up. It must work slightly, because Jamie’s lip twitches. He’s not capable of smiling yet, but he is trying. There’s a metaphor in there and Sam clings to it.

“It’s okay, Jamie,” he says, because someone has to fucking say something. “You stopped yourself, that is the most important part. I’m proud of you.”

At that, a ripple of agreement goes through the other players, clinging to Sam’s words to guide them through what is okay to say.

Thankfully, the medics arrive, so they don’t have to stand in the moment for long. Jamie is too overwhelmed to either accept or rebuke everyone and no one else has more to say. After all, what is there to say?

Sam can see them react to the mess, but they plaster on the professionalism and lead Jamie to sit on the treatment bench. They should probably be getting out of here some point soon, but Jamie’s wounds are more pressing.

Roy comes to sit next to him, wordlessly looking ahead with a stoic expression as they bandage his hand right alongside Jamie’s.

They report that the wounds are less deep than they look, explain how hands and necks have a lot of veins and it looks worse than it is. Sam isn’t comforted by the words, but he tries to be. Still, it looks wrong to see Jamie so bloody with a stark white bandage right there on his neck.

Jamie also keeps glancing guiltily at Roy’s hand, which is a lot less bad off than his own. It wouldn’t surprise Sam if Jamie was blaming himself and he wonders if he should bring it up so Roy can deny it, or if that will make it worse.

In the end, he doesn’t have to. As the medics pack their things, Jamie softly nudges Roy, waiting until he grunts, before whispering: “’m sorreh.”

Roy clearly hadn’t seen the words coming, surprise flashing through his eyes, before he settles back into his usual frown. “You don’t have to be fucking sorry, you muppet.”

“I- I don’t?” Jamie asks, voice balancing between being confused and wanting to take the offered out.

“You don’t,” Roy confirms firmly. “Ted’s a fucking wanker, who should’ve listen to you. I mean, you told him you would, didn’t you? The arsehole should have left fucking well alone.”

Jamie ducks down, looking at his own bandaged hand, before biting his lip. “He were jus’ trying to help.”

“And he should have done fucking better,” Roy says.

They sit there for a moment, before Roy takes a deep breath and turns to Jamie, cupping the back of Jamie’s head and meeting his blood covered face without flinching. “Look,” he starts seriously, making sure that Jamie is listening, “you scared the fucking shit out of me with this shit you just pulled.”

“I’m sorr-” Jamie starts again.

“No,” Roy cuts him off, before he can finish, “you don’t have to be fucking sorry, you can’t help this shit, right?”

Jamie’s quiet for a moment, then softly says: “No.”

“See,” Roy nods. “You can’t help this shit, which is why we’re all going to be pitching in and keeping an eye on you, because you’re not doing this again.”

The two of them are looking at each other, but Sam isn’t, so he can see how the players still gathered around the door are all nodding. It makes him so grateful to these men, who have all started to build friendships and teamwork. Who are trying to make a difference. Who are willing to help, even if they all are stunned by the reality of it all.

“I can’t promise tha’,” Jamie admits quietly, voice agonized. “Roy, I can’t- It’ll- It’s gonna- I’m gonna do it again. I always do.”

Roy closes his eyes for a second, letting Jamie’s hopelessness wash over him, before he takes a breath and opens them again. “And we’re going to try anyway,” he says with determination. “I mean, we’re already trying to do something fucking hopeless, aren’t we? Fighting to stay in the Prem.”

Football feels so very far removed from all of this, but at the same time, it’s at the core. Without football, none of them would have met, without football, none of them would be here now, without football, Jamie would probably already be dead.

And it works too. Jamie huffs out an amused breath. It’s not a proper laugh and it’s closer to incredulous instead of amused, but it’s something. “I suppose.”

“Good lad,” Roy nods approvingly and Jamie straightens up a bit, preening under the praise. “Now let’s get you the fuck out of here and get you cleaned up. You’re fucking covered in blood.”

“Oh…” Jamie looks down at himself again. “Yeah, might be smart.”

Roy helps him up, even if he doesn’t need it and guides him out of the room, softly saying: “Mind the glass.”

Sam quickly follows, taking Jamie’s non-bandaged hand and feeling relieved when Jamie gives a short squeeze. It feels good to leave that treatment room behind. It is already cursed enough.

As they make it to the door, everyone parts like the red sea, still staring at Jamie with these eyes. Like he is already a ghost among them, like they want to touch, but they’re not sure they’re capable. Like maybe they think their hands will go straight through as if he’s already dead.

The sight makes Sam annoyed in a way he hadn’t expected. Maybe it’s because he can see Jamie is affected by it, maybe it’s selfishly because they have other people to focus on Jamie, so they can focus on freaking out, while when Sam found out, he had to keep going, keep being practical. He didn’t get to process until much later. Maybe he never has.

“He’s not contagious,” he snaps, surprising not just the others, but Roy and Jamie too.

Once he gets over the surprise, though, Jamie manages his first smile and bumps into Sam as a silent thanks.

That snaps all the others out of it, finally and they all murmur this and that about how they’re glad he’s okay and they’re there for him. Isaac even reaches out, placing his hand on Jamie’s shoulder as he gruffly says: “We got you, bruv.”

“Cheers,” Jamie says, looking way too unaffected for the context, for someone with blood smeared all over his face and clothes, but he always is.

They lead him to the press room, since it’s currently unused, thus will give them some privacy while also allowing the others to get their stuff from their cubbies. After all this, training is definitely canceled for the day.

Roy detours to get a wet cloth and Sam takes it before he can even begin to wipe Jamie’s face or hand the cloth to him. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Roy, but Sam needs to do this. Needs to be the one to wash the traces of that moment away. Needs to see that Jamie is alright under all that blood. That even though Sam had been unable to catch him in time, they weren’t too late.

Gently, he wipes at the blood, washing it away. Jamie sits there motionless, staring at Sam with eyes brimming with an emotion he can’t place. He doesn’t stop Sam though and leans into his hand when he cups his cheek so he can maneuver him around to everything off properly.

Sam has gotten the worst of it off – not all of it, Jamie will need a good scrub and clean clothes for that – when the door opens. He half expects it to be Ted, however, instead there’s Keeley, looking at Jamie with tears in her eyes, mascara down her face.

Jamie’s eyes widen when he sees her, before he bites his lip. “Keeleh?”

“Jamie,” she sniffs.

From the look on her face, Sam gathers she probably witnessed the whole thing. At least from when Ms. Welton arrived, those two are not often far apart these days. He hasn’t seen her in the direct aftermath, but he can’t blame her for taking a moment to break down and cry, ruining her mascara the way it is.

He cannot imagine how she must be feeling right now. To know this was already happening when she was dating Jamie and she never knew. How she could share her life with him without ever knowing that anything was wrong with him, to now suddenly be confronted by it so violently.

After a long silence, she finally asks: “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” The words aren’t accusatory, they’re hurt. Somehow that’s so much worse.

Jamie looks away, biting his lip again to stop it from wobbling, before he clears his throat and looks back. Once he does, his face is blankly nonchalant and he shrugs: “Weren’t owt to say. I were handling it, ‘s private shit, y’know. Nowt to bother anyone wi’.”

At his answer, Keeley looks absolutely devastated, like she’s been dealt a physical blow. She looks close to tears. Sam can relate, they’re still under the surface for him too. However, she bravely packs it up, swallowing them down to say: “I would’ve cared. I do care.”

“I know,” Jamie says, not unkindly.

“You- You do?” Keeley asks.

“Yeah, babes, you got a big fucking heart. Scared the fucking shit outta meh,” Jamie says with a crooked grin. “I knew you’d care. Jus’ didn’t want you to.”

“Why not?” Keeley practically pleads.

Jamie just shrugs again. “’Cause you’d wanna help. Like these fuckers all wanna fucking help. It’s dead sweet an’ all, but… I don’t like it.”

Despite it all, Sam can’t help but snort at the understatement of the century. Roy and Keeley whip their eyes over to him, the unasked ‘what the fuck?’ very visible. “I’m sorry. Struck by how true it is.”

“He’s right,” Jamie says, thankfully backing Sam up and getting the attention off him. “Sam ‘ere manipulated ‘imself into me house and fucking planted himself there. Tried to get ‘im to leave me the fuck alone so many fucking times and he just refused, the stubborn bastard.”

Sam looks quite pleased with himself and he knows it. He did manage to wiggle his way into Jamie’s home, into his space and life. Managed to carve out a place for himself there, until Jamie finally caved and let him in.

Next to them, Roy is having a very different reaction, likely realizing what he’d done when he stopped Sam from going with Jamie after the match. How he’d said that Jamie could drive himself home and wasn’t that useless. “Fuuuuuuck.”

“It’s alright, skipper,” Sam says, patting him on the back, not knowing what made him brave enough to do that. However, he doesn’t instantly pull his hand back in fear, not when it makes Jamie laugh.

As much as he doesn’t like how he’s been treated here, nor how Nate has, he cannot blame Colin and Isaac for trying so hard to make Jamie laugh. It’s a great sound. Though, Sam must admit he likes Jamie’s actual laugh a lot more than the sneering chuckle he used to pull out.

The laughter stops the whole room for a moment, draining out a bit of tension that had been there and smoothing it into a nicer atmosphere. One that is warm and filled with camaraderie. Friendly.

“I hate you,” Roy tells Sam without feeling, trying to stay in character.

“Nah, mate, it’s Sam, of course you don’t hate ‘im,” Jamie grins, not even letting Roy pretend. “Sam’s fucking mint.”

“Oi, I already fucking knew that, didn’t I,” Roy scowls. “Me and Sam are friends. Right, Sam?”

Now both him and Jamie are looking at Sam and Sam feels trapped. He looks over to Keeley for help, but she isn’t any, hiding her laughter behind her hand. He looks back, then decides he has already sealed his fate, so he admits: “I was kind of scared of you, sorry.”

“See,” Jamie crows triumphantly. “Got there first.”

Roy crosses his arms almost petulantly and growls: “Fuck you.”

“It’s the eyebrows, lad,” Jamie tells him unhelpfully. “Way too bushy and eyebrow-y.”

“Eyebrow-y is not a word. And my eyebrows are fucking fine.”

“You sure? ‘Cause the lady that does me waxing also does eyebrows. Bet she’d love to get in tha’ fucking jungle of yours, she’s a right fucking sadist,” Jamie continues to poke, back in full prick-mode. But it’s different now, more laced with affection instead of malice, though there is still that deep seated need to deflect from the situation, to make them forget and move on. But Sam will let him have it for the moment, they all need a second to not be stuck in it.

“No,” is all Roy says.

At this point, Keeley giggles and Sam can see Jamie’s shoulder relax a little at the fact she’s no longer upset. He probably still loves her. She smiles again, eyes bright despite the smudged make up. “Glad to see you two getting along,” which makes Sam laugh because this is indeed what the two of them getting along looks like.

Roy scowls, while Jamie squawks indignantly, his more animated self coming back to him. “Oi, he already liked me, I’m a fucking delight.”

“You’re a fucking twat,” Roy informs him on instinct, wincing when he realizes he’s saying that to the suicide risk.

Thankfully, Jamie just laughs again. “And you’re a granddad,” he twinkles.

“Fuck off,” Roy falls back on his trusty retort, clearly out of arguments.

“Okay, as fun as this is, let’s get this show on the road,” Keeley claps her hands, getting the attention back on herself.

“Huh?” Jamie frowns, not comprehending her, face confused.

Keeley smiles fondly at him and explains: “Let’s get out of here and go home, get comfy and have a chat about the plan, since we’re keeping you close with us.”

Jamie is conflicted between delighted at people being around him and the knowledge of why they think they have to be. Sam hates that Jamie can’t seem to accept that people want to be around him. It can be really grating that someone doesn’t believe you when you say you want to be there.

He slings an arm around Jamie, before he can say something and smiles at him: “Group hang out. That is fun. Don’t catastrophize”

“I never castrovice,” Jamie pouts.

“Sure,” Sam grins, ruffling his hair, pressing him close for a second before walking away, calling over his shoulder: “If you’re not fast, I’m driving.”

“It’s my car,” Jamie protests, quick footsteps following him.

“You snooze, you lose,” Sam says.

“Fuck you, Obisanya,” Jamie retorts, sticking out his tongue as he skips past, Keeley thankfully on his heels as to not leave him alone. None of them are ready for that. Despite how chipper he might be now, the bandage on his neck and bloodied kit are a grim reminder of how easily that can change.

Sam sticks his own tongue out in return, but doesn’t go any faster, just fast enough to keep him mostly in his line of sight. The whole thing was more to get Jamie to move without getting stuck overthinking about Roy and Keeley coming with.

Roy falls into step beside him once Jamie has passed, walking in silence fore a moment, before he speaks up. “You’re good with him.”

“I’ve had more time with him,” Sam shrugs, suddenly feeling bashful about it.

“Must have been hard,” Roy says, keeping his eyes ahead.

It’s the first time anyone has said that. His father thought it too, of course, but he didn’t say it with Jamie around, but it’s nice to hear it out loud. To have someone see how Sam has been stressed and worried, trying to keep it together the best he can.

Tears well up again without his permission and he stops for a moment to blink them away. This is the first time this week, Jamie hasn’t been around and the absence of the need to perform stability hits him like a truck. He sniffles for a moment, wiping at his eyes, before he clears his throat. He fails at giving Roy a reassuring smile and his voice cracks a little when he says: “It’s been…a lot.”

Roy has stopped when he did and now regards him for a moment, before he claps him on his shoulder and says: “We got you now too.”

“Thank you, captain,” Sam says in a watery tone, feeling off balance but not in a bad way. It’s a relief, to not have to do it alone anymore. That Jamie can be out of his sight and still okay. That it’s no longer all on him to keep Jamie alive.

For a moment, Roy observes him further, checking if he’s going to fall apart. When Sam keeps it in with a few breaths and nods, Roy nods back, before continuing on.

Sam stays behind for a moment to take a few more breaths, then follows after. This is a good thing, he is happy with this development. It’s good. It’s fine.

In the locker room, Sam can’t help but take a glance to the coach’s office. The blinds are drawn. He doesn’t know what to think or feel about how Ted reacted. He wants to understand, to see that Ted is scared of losing someone like that again, but he’s also so angry with him. Didn’t Ted realize the kind of damage he was doing by insisting? Why didn’t he stop when Jamie made it clear how serious he was? How did he let it get this far?

All of it sits uncomfortably in his chest, so he averts his eyes and finds Jamie instead. He’s already changing, unabashed about Keeley being right there, tapping away on her phone. As he changes, he complains: “We got a match tomorrow, haven’t we? Didn’t even get to watch tapes. What if we’re all shit ‘cause of this? We can’t lose to fucking Watford of all teams, it’ll be embarrassing.”

“Then it’s fucking worth it, you muppet,” Roy interrupts. “We can watch tapes ourselves if you’re so fucking worried about it.”

“I’m not worried about it, I’m just saying we could have trained,” Jamie says. He is probably the only person here that thinks that. It will honestly be a miracle if anyone can focus on the match tomorrow.

“Are you even cleared to play tomorrow?” Sam asks, dreading the answer. He knows how important playing is to Jamie and he doesn’t want to think about Jamie’s reaction if he’s told no.

“Probably,” Jamie shrugs, unbothered. “I mean, it’s just a scab, ain’t it? Played with a lot worse before, so it should be fine. Gail didn’t even say nothing.”

Roy narrows his eyes and declares: “You’re getting checked by medical tomorrow or you’re not playing.” Jamie starts to protest, but Roy is faster: “This is not up for debate. Now mush, Tartt.”

“You’re very bossy, shouldn’t you be nice to me now?” Jamie complains. “Sam were just nice, y’know. I got a cuddle out of it.”

“Do I fucking look like fucking Sam?” Roy shoots back, very aptly proving his point that him and Sam have very different ways of approaching others and the world around them.

Because Jamie is Jamie, he pauses to look at the two of them for a moment, as if genuinely contemplating the rhetorical question, before finally admitting: “I suppose not.”

Roy looks at him disbelievingly for five whole seconds, before shaking his head and turning to his cubby, not even deigning Jamie with a response. Sam just snorts to himself, before doing the same. Jamie might not always be bright, but he’s amazing at pushing buttons and that was hilarious. Sam knows he did it on purpose too. These are the moments that make Sam like Jamie so much. That make them friends, not just tentative allies. Sam is glad to still have that, to get to share it still, to not have lost that today.