Roy Kent: Minder Extraordinaire
Chapter 9: Roy Kent and the Consequences of His Words
Nothing is wrong, everything is fine.
Ch8, (on ao3)
Roy doesnât think about the conversation he had with Jamie. Doesnât think about it as heâs eating dinner (even if he does take a moment to contemplate what gold-covered steak tastes like). He doesnât think about it when he receives a text from Jamie, cancelling the next dayâs personal training because of some photography thing Kelleyâs got him doing (what fucking photography thing happens at 4 a.m.?). Doesnât think about it when he wakes up at 3:40 a.m. despite having put his alarm on for later (he does not fall back asleep).
Doesnât even think about it when he finally gets to work in the morning and Jamie refuses to look at him.
He doesnât think about it because there is nothing to think about.
If Jamie wants to be an immature little prick and make something out of their conversation, even though there is nothing to think about, well, thatâs not on Roy.
And when Jamie doesnât greet him, Roy goes up to Jamie as Jamieâs tying his shoelaces, and Roy says âHey Jamie,â polite as shit because heâs a Mature Fucking Adult.
âHi.â One word and Jamie goes back to his shoelaces, not even bothering to look up.
Nothing else.
No unnecessarily detailed narration of some brain-rotting reality telly Jamieâd watched the night before. No gossiping about whatever Instagram scandal caught his scatterbrained interest. No bemoaning whichever influencer surpassed Jamieâs follower count and the strategies to take them down.
Just Hi.
Because Royâs so fucking mature, Roy doesnât do or say anything about Jamieâs decision to be monosyllabic. Instead, he turns to his locker and gets ready for training.
Roy doesnât do anything when Jamie doesnât pair up with him during the warm-up exercises. He barely even glares in Jamieâs direction (though, by Goodmanâs wide eyes and pale complexion, Roy didnât do a good job about the not-glaring).
If Jamie wants to pair up with fucking Jeff, then that is Jamieâs right, even if itâs a stupid right.
Though, because he is once again a Mature Fucking Adult, when theyâre having a little breather in between drills, he does go up to Jamie. Jamie may be immature enough to enact the silent treatment, but Roy is better than that.
He glares at Goodman again as heâs approaching who wisely decides to go get a refill of his sports drink. Smart guy, Goodman.
He marches up to Jamie while Jamie is stretching his hamstrings. The moment Roy stops in front of Jamie, Jamie immediately gazes down at the grass.
âSo,â Roy says and then realises that he doesnât actually know what to say.
Sure, he has some ideas. Like stop being a fucking idiot. Or fucking talk to me. Or what the fuck is wrong with you. Those kind of ideas. But heâs gone through enough emotional growth these past few weeks to know that all those ideas are bad, unhelpful and would be unproductive.
Grasping at straws, he asks Jamie, âHow was the fancy restaurant?â
Which seems like a safe enough topic.
Jamie has yet to stop stretching his hamstrings even though theyâve already been stretched more than enough. He also has yet to stop starring at what must be some really fascinating grass.
âYeah, no. Didnât go in the end,â Jamie says quietly, âYou were right; that place is a bit stupid, isnât it. Who puts gold on food anyway? No point in it, no benefits or shit. It just passes right through you.â All enthusiasm about the restaurant gone, as if Jamie hadnât just yesterday spent five minutes going on about the virtues that snooty place.
âRight.â Roy says.
Fuck. Abort. Abort.
Some deity must take pity on him because Lasso whistles, bringing an end to their break and an end to Jamieâs hamstring stretches.
Roy doesnât try to stop Jamie when he runs away to hide behind Goodman. He thinks about glaring at Goodman once more, but when he goes to do just that, Goodman is already watching him.
Goodman doesnât look scared anymore. No, itâs something so much worse. As he glances from Roy to Jamie, he looks concerned.
Then Goodman looks over at Isaac whoâs also been staring at Roy and Jamie. They share some silent communication that involves a lot of raised eyebrows. Colin joins in on the eyebrow conversation as does Sam, and then Moe, and Richard, until everyone on the pitch is wiggling their eyebrows at one another, not-so-discreetly pointing at Roy and Jamie, all wearing expressions of concern. Even Nate and the fucking coaches are staring at Roy and Jamie.
When they notice Roy watching them, they all immediately stop and look away up at the sky or down at the grass that Jamie finds so interesting.
Nate goes so far as to do a full 180° to face the stands, dropping all the bottles he was holding in the process. He doesn't pick them up, staying frozen in place, his back to the pitch and to Roy.
Roy doesnât do anything about that either. He doesnât do anything when the weird looks continue. He doesnât do anything when the eyebrow movements transition into whispering, everyoneâs gaze going back and forth between Roy and Jamie with what their demented minds must think is discretion.
Roy runs and he plays and he continues to pretend that everything is fine.
When training ends, Roy thinks about going up to Jamie again, but Jamie beelines for Nate before Lasso has even let go of his whistle.
Nate stares up at Jamie, petrified as Jamie start talking to him. Or more like as Jamie starts talking at him. One of Jamieâs full-speed incomprehensible monologues if Nateâs wide, confused eyes are anything to go by.
Roy loiters on the pitch, thinking maybe he could time it right so that he and Jamie walk to the locker room together.
He kneels down on the grass and reties the laces of his right shoe even though there was nothing wrong with them. He ties the bow to perfection.
Jamie continues to talk to Nate whoâs blinking SOS signals at the few remaining people on the pitch (and why Phoebe thought it was important for Roy to know SOS in Morse code, Roy still does not know).
Roy re-ties his left shoe as well.
Jamie is still not done terrorising Nate. Heâs gesticulating wildly as he talks about arts and crafts of all fucking things. From where Royâs kneeling, Roy can here all about Jamieâs adventures in box decorating and bedazzling, and about the best type of glue for glitter.
Roy is considering re-re-tying his right shoe when he sees Lasso starring at him again, that concerned cow-eyed look on his face.
Roy stands, giving up on his shoelaces.
He ignores Lasso as he walks past. Ignores Nateâs rapid blinking too.
He leaves the pitch as Jamie segues into his favourite colour of sports drink. Roy already knows itâs fucking fuchsia.
In the locker room, Roy is alone. Everyoneâs things are still there but not a soul is in sight. It should concern him that his whole team has disappeared. Especially now that heâs meant to be making a fucking effort to be a half-way decent captain.
He decides to put his âGiving a Shitâ initiative on pause today and resume it tomorrow.
Instead, Roy undoes the laces that he spent so long neatly tying up, destroying the perfect loops and the meticulous double knots.
He goes for a shower. Does not think about whatever shenanigans his teammates are up. Does not think about Jamieâs silence today.
For once, he is unable to enjoy the showerâs incredible water pressure.
By the time he gets out, there is still no one in the locker room. Lasso and Beard are back in their office. Nate is nowhere to be seen, probably still held prisoner on the pitch by Jamie.
Lasso at least has the decency to wait until Royâs mostly dressed, just the socks and shoes remaining, before he pounces.
âHowdy, Roy,â he says, popping his head out of the office.
Roy rolls on the first of his fried-egg-patterned socks and does not look up at Lasso and Lassoâs unfortunate facial hair that he somehow manages to pull off.
âJust wanted to check in,â Lasso continues, not perturbed by Roy pretending he doesnât exist.
Roy doesnât say anything, rolls on his other sock.
âCouldnât help but notice a little bit of tension on the pitch today between you and our resident Mancunianâjust learnt that word today, actually.â Lasso steps fully into the room. âItâs an odd word. Doesnât sound nearly enough like Manchester to my liking, but then again the United States is home to the Hoosiers of Indiana, so I, as an American, donât really have a leg to stand on.â
âWeâre fine,â Roy says before Lasso can go on some other random tangent about his home country that only Beard can understand.
He puts on his left shoe, tying the laces with far less care than he did earlier.
âOkay, well, if in the eventuality that it stops being fine,â Lasso starts, âIâve got a pair of real good ears you could borrow. And if my two ears arenât enough for whatever conundrum youâre not having, with the click of a few buttons, I can round up the Diamond Dogs and offer you an extra six ears to assist you in your non-existent troubles.â
âWho the fuck are the Diamond Dogs?â Roy asks, finally looking up, his last shoe on and tied.
Lasso edges closer, his hands nonchalantly in his pockets, though the same cow-eyed concern remains on his face.
âItâs just a group of people who care, Roy. Not unlike folk at a hip-hop concert whose hands are not in the air.â
Roy stares blankly at Lasso.
âWe deal in any and all relationship dilemmas,â Lasso continues, âHere to support and counsel. To help navigate all of lifeâs little predicaments.â
âI donât have any fucking predicaments. Weâre fine,â Roy repeats because repeating things make them true.
He stands up and grabs his bag, deciding itâs well past time to flee this conversation.
"The Diamond Dog Doors are always open, Roy, if you change your mind,â Lasso calls after him as he leaves the locker room.
Itâs at that point that Lasso starts howling like a dog. Beard, in the office, joins in.
Roy walks faster. Someone less generous might call it running away.
Somewhere else in the building, two other howls join in the chorus.
He power-walks to the car park, keeping his gaze straight ahead, not glancing down hallways or looking around any corners in the off-chance he catches sight of whatever his absent teammates are up to.
The car park is also empty of people, though all of his teammatesâ cars are still present.
At least outside, he canât hear the howling.
Heâs decided that today is a wash, and the best thing he can do is go home, not talk to anyone, hide away and pretend that he doesnât feel like a massive piece of shit.
Are he and Jamie fine?
Jamieâs actions today would indicate no. But they could also indicate that Jamie is just a fragile little bitch whose feelings get hurt at the slightest provocation every other day of the week.
Does Roy need to apologise?
Roy doesnât think heâs done anything wrong. All he had done to Jamie was tell the truth. Honestyâs the best policy and all that shit.
Though, according to Phoebe, youâre also not meant to speak if you donât have anything nice to say which Roy thinks is absolute bullshit.
Also, heâs apologised to Jamie Tartt far too much of late which Roy does not like one bit. Quite frankly, itâs becoming repetitive.
âHey, Roy,â Jamie calls out from behind.
Maybe someone is finally looking down on Roy, figuring he needs a break. Maybe he wonât have to apologise after all.
Roy turns around and sees Jamie jogging up to him. Jamie hasnât bothered to change, still in his training gear, bag slung over his shoulder and hair a mess.
âGlad I could catch you,â Jamie says as though he didnât spend the last half hour holding Nate hostage so Roy wouldnât talk to him, âYou got a minute?â Jamie asks.
âYeah,â Roy says. Roy would be willing to spare more than a minute to put whatever this weirdness was behind them. At least two minutes. And if he doesnât have to apologise for that to happen, all the better.
âYeah, itâs about the personal training thing,â Jamie starts.
Maybe Jamieâs going to apologise for missing out this morning?
For an instant, Roy lets the relief wash over him. Then he notices that Jamieâs still not looking him in the eye.
âListen,â Jamie continues. He starts to twist the bottom of his t-shirt, pulling at the fabric, only to force his hands down a moment later, keeping them still. âIâm really grateful and shit for everything youâve done for me. But I know the personal training takes up a lot of your free time,â Jamie says, starring over Royâs shoulder, moving on from his fascination with grass to a fascination for fences. âAnd, itâs just not fair to you to have to put up with all my shit when you donât want to. I mean, youâve probably got better things to do than shout at me at 4 a.m..â Jamie laughs the most fake laugh Roy has ever heard from him, his body rigid, only his mouth moving.
Roy thinks about opening his own mouth to interrupt Jamie, but that would require him understanding what the fuck is going.
âI know the deal we made, and I promise Iâll behave,â Jamie rushes on, the words as deliberate as Jamie can be, like heâd practised them beforehand, âI wonât go back to being a twat. Because Iâm really grateful for all the effort youâve put into making me better. Like as a player, but also a person. âSo, like, thanks for everything. But you donât have to train me anymore. Your mornings are your own again. So, yeah, thanksâ Jamie nods once, finished with his little speech.
Roy doesn't say anything, doesnât think heâd be able to speak even if he knew what words to use.
He canât even manage to blink, his eyes locked on Jamieâs face.
Fuck, is this shock? Is this what being in shock is like?
âAnyway, that was all,â Jamie says, filling the silence that Royâs incapable of filling himself, âI best be off. Before traffic gets too bad. Cheers.â Jamie finally moves one of his hands, doing an awkward little wave at Roy before he walks away.
Roy watches as Jamie speeds off to the Prick-Mobile, his mouth staying shut despite a growing need to scream.
He continues to watch as Jamie starts his car and drives away.
Okay, so maybe they werenât fine.
Roy stays there, in that car park, lips still firmly pressed together, Jamieâs car now long gone.
Facing the club gates, he doesnât notice the people creeping up behind him, his brain too busy trying to come to terms with whatever the fuck just happened.
He doesnât hear them either, their shoes off and socks on for maximum stealth.
He doesnât see the intricate hand signals these people make right before they strike.
He only realises that heâs being ambushed when a cotton bag that feels suspiciously like Moeâs tote bag is thrown over his head, blocking his view of the car park sans Prick-Mobile.
He finally manages to open his mouth, and he yells all the profanities that have been trapped inside his throat as he feels multiple arms restrain and lift him up in the air, manhandling him back inside the clubhouse.
Man, I love this fic đŠđ
