#plausibly

Three days ago, Jamie hadn't show up for practice. Only one person in the entire room knew why... until everyone knew why.

A notification, and another, until everyone was forced to turn their ringers off. The Sun, of course, was the first, with a tacky headline as always.

"Jamie Tartt; Mad or Meth?"

Then came the daily news.

"Political Footballer in Hospital"

And, graciously, The Independant.

"Jamie Tartt Hospitalized in South London"

Sam tried calling, left dozens of texts, to no avail. Actually, almost everyone tried to get ahold of him, they had lost track of time.

"Who's tried calling? Raise your hand," Isaac announced to the room, finally looking up from his textless phone.

Up went almost all of the hands in the room, save for Richard's and Will's.

"I don't have his number," Will shrugged.

"My ex-girlfriend stole my phone," Richard said.

"Right then. Anyone got an answer?"

Down went the hands.

"I do," said a very gruff voice from the doorway of the coach's office. "But I'm not telling you, because it's none of your fucking business. If Jamie want's you to know, he can tell you when he get's back. Now get on the fucking pitch."

Jamie did come back, in 5 days, for the last practice for a match he was not going to be playing in. He looked pale, and really thin in the face. As the last of the players trickled into the dress room, he stood. He was hiding, almost, in on himself and in the corner, but he was going to say something.

"So," he started, his voice meek. "I know you've heard, 'cause, well, everybody's heard. Erm... I were in the hospital."

His voice went weak at the end, and he looked down. The thin shirt he was wearing was worn around the end, from wringing it between his fingers. He took a breath, scrunching up his nose.

"Well, erm, not just the hospital, like, in general. I were in the psych ward. I, well, they gave me these tests and asked me a bunch of questions and stuff to figure out what kind of crazy I am, and, erm, my doctor, she said I was- no, that I have... bipolar. So. That's where I was."

"We're glad you're okay, mate," Isaac said, cutting through a suffocating silence.

Jamie nodded rapidly, looking away.

"That can be a... rough diagnosis," Ted chirped, bringing himself from one corner to the other to put a grounding hand on Jamie's shoulder.

"But there are plenty of talented, successful people who lived with it. Like, uh..." Ted snapped his fingers. "Sylvia Plath, or Van Gogh."

"Kurt Cobain," said Beard.

"Kurt Cobain!" Ted agreed.

Richard chimed in, "Anthony Bourdain."

Jan Mass nodded. "Kate Spade," he said.

"Earnest Hemingway," Colin added with a smile.

Ted turned back to Jamie, smiling and shaking him softly. "See? You're life's not over."

Jamie nodded solemnly, looking down with a clenched jaw and tight brows. He rocked on the balls of his feet, bringing his thumbnail up between his teeth.

"Thanks, but...

all those people killed themselves."