Chapter Text
Keeley sat next to Rebecca in the stands, leaning in to hear the commentators on Higgins’ phone, eyes intent on Roy standing on the side lines, pointing and shouting at the Richmond lads, a blob of black against a sea of green.
It was Richmond’s first match against City with Roy as gaffer.
Arlo White’s voice came from Higgins’ phone. “I feel bad for the Richmond lads really, Chris, it must be awkward. Like playing a game against your gaffer’s son!”
“Yes Arlo,” Chris’s voice. “Can you imagine being the player who fouls Tartt? Not really fair for the Richmond boys, is it?”
“Honestly, was it strange when you started dating Roy?” Rebecca inquired, eyes focused on the pitch.
“Not that awkward, honestly. I was his agent first before I started going steady with Roy,” Keeley replied, turning her head to keep the ball in view. “And it’s like dating someone who had a kid when they were fifteen or something. Like having a really, really old stepson… oh, sorry, Simon. I know you are his real stepfather…”
Simon and Georgie were in the row behind them in the VIP area. Jamie always got them tickets when City was playing at home. Always in the VIP area. Only the best for Jamie’s beloved Mummy.
Simon reached down to place a friendly hand on Keeley’s shoulder. “Oh, no worries, duck! Our little Jam Tart made it very clear. I am Jamie’s coach, not his stepfather. And well… Roy Kent is … Roy Kent, innit? No one would ever be like Roy Kent. Not to Jamie. It takes a village anyhow…”
Keeley smiled, “Yes, and Jamie Tartt is Jamie Tartt. No one would ever be like Jamie to Roy Kent…”
Keeley still remembered that interview when Roy started coaching at Richmond. Trent Crimm asking if Roy Kent would take on another protégé, help another young player improve. The Roy Kent Effect at work. Only for Roy to sit there, and stonily insist that there would only ever be one Jamie Tartt.
When Roy was still in his post retirement funk, Keeley had tried to suggest that Roy work as a coach for one of the academies. Maybe back at Chelsea with Coach Doyle. Since Roy had enjoyed coaching Phoebe’s team so much. “You would be good at it, babes.” Only for Roy to shudder and look at her with wide haunted eyes. “It’s too much fucking responsibility. Fucking… I did not see it with Ruth. What if I miss it in one of the lads? What if I lose my temper in training and they don’t dare tell me what’s going on at home? I would never be able to fucking forgive myself. I look at those little faces and all I see is fucking Jamie fucking Tartt looking back up at me. Fuck… I just … can’t.”
Keeley had stopped insisting, understanding Roy’s fear even if she did find it irrational.
Keeley gasped as Jamie jumped up to knock the ball away from City’s goal, colliding with Jan Maas before falling awkwardly onto the grass.
“Fuck.”
Chris’ voice over the speaker. “Tartt looks injured. I think it’s the ankle…”
Keeley could only watch, white knuckled as Jamie limped to the side lines, helped by two physios. Predictably, Jamie made an immediate beeline for Roy fucking Kent. Even from the stands, Keeley could see Roy’s shoulders hunch up with worry.
“’No, see, am fine, swear down, just a sprain, can still play, stop worrying about me Grandad…’” Keeley muttered to Rebecca, mimicking Jamie, before switching to her Roy impression. “No, you fucking muppet, you will listen to the fucking physios, a game is not worth your career, fucking do not play on that fucking ankle…’’”
Jamie gave Roy a quick hug before limping back over to Pep who just shook his head and motioned for one of the other players to get onto the field from where he had been warming up.
Keeley could hear Simon let out a breadth in relief, patting Georgie’s hand to reassure her. “I think Pep wants him better rested for our last game of the season… No need to risk Jamie getting more injured when we could still win the Prem even if we lose to Richmond today. You can go fuss over him later, love.”
“Well, Arlo, I would not want to be Jan Maas in the locker room today after the match…”
“No Chris, though Tartt does not look seriously injured, so that may save him from the worst of the famous Kent temper…”
The match was finally over. A tie. Jamie had managed an assist at least before he fucked his ankle. So, neither man would be pouty at dinner with Georgie and Simon, thank fuck. Roy and Keeley were staying the weekend before flying back down to London in Rebecca’s private jet. Keeley was looking forward to a dinner where they did not dissect football, though knowing Roy and Jamie, Roy would spend the whole dinner lecturing Jamie on the importance of rehab as Jamie sat there, listening, reverant, like a congregant in church or a saint hearing the voice of God. At least Georgie was fun to talk to…
Roy went to shake Pep’s hand. Jamie went ambling over to the two men, as a harried physio hovered behind him with an ice pack. Roy finally reached out and ruffled Jamie’s hair, which Keeley knew Roy had been wanting to do since the start of the match. Her boyfriend had spent half the coach ride grumbling about the little muppet's latest hairdo. Pep laughed good naturedly, patting Jamie on the back.
Roy and Pep slowly started walking off the pitch together, bickering. Keeley sighed. She recognised that expression on Roy’s face from endless rants and post-match dinners with the City lads. It was his Jamie would be better if he lost a bit of weight and was leaner expression. And Pep was doing his “but Jamie fits the team better with more muscle and we must politely agree to disagree” face. A well worn conversation both men could do in their sleep.
Jamie bounced between them the whole while, his ankle in a brace, like a child of amicably divorced parents: just happy both his parents were in the same room again, together, and all the attention was on him.