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Sam doesn’t have any particular reason to feel lonely today. For him, the twenty-fifth of December is usually just another day. He knew people back home who celebrated, but his family never did. If anything, Christmas reminded him of colonisation, and so he had always been determined to let is pass by without any mention.
But Sam isn’t at home right now. He’s far away in a foreign country where Christmas has been shoved in his face for the last month, decorations in the streets, music in the shops, advertisements everywhere, and his teammates talking endlessly about their plans. So, it’s pretty much impossible to forget that today is a special day for nearly everyone around him.
It's perhaps not so much of a surprise that he feels lonely then, that he misses his family more than ever, when so many of his teammates will be spending today with theirs. Richmond has the fortune of being one of two teams in the Premier League not playing on the 26th so Cartrick had generously given everyone the day off. Generously probably isn’t the right word, given what Sam knows about Cartrick. He probably has his own reasons not to work on Christmas. Sam can’t imagine him having a family he’s desperate to spend time with, though perhaps that’s a mean thing to think. His father had always taught him not to make judgements about how other people might live their lives.
But Richmond feels so far away from his father and the values he made sure to instil in Sam. Sam had been so excited to come and play in one of the best leagues in the world, even despite his trepidation at moving so far from home. He’d spoken to a nice man named Higgins on the phone, who had talked him through all the arrangements, helping to get him set up with a house, car and bank account and all the basics he’d need. He’d even offered to come and personally pick him up from the airport, though he seemed like a very busy man, so Sam didn’t want to put him out and just took the offer of a taxi booked for him. The house had felt far too big and empty, lacking the warmth of a real home, but Sam had figured that would come in time, once he made friends, once this place began to feel like his.
Then his first day at the club came. It was a disaster from the start. He was meant to go in and collect his keycard which would allow him access to the club facilities, only the place seemed woefully understaffed, and it had taken ages for Sam to find someone who would let him in and get him sorted. And when he’d finally stumbled into the dressing room a little late, he felt everyone’s eyes turn toward him, including Richmond’s manager.
“You must be the new African lad. You’re fucking late. I want you changed and out running laps immediately,” Cartrick barked at him. A few of the team snickered and Sam tried to apologise and explain his lateness, but he found the words failed to come out and instead he stood opening and closing his mouth like a goldfish. He got dressed as quickly as he could, even while his hands shook. On the way out, Roy Kent bumped his shoulder.
“Oi, Cartrick’s an arsehole. Don’t listen to him.” That had been nice, though too this day it was the most Sam had ever really got out of Roy.
And finally, there had been Jamie Tartt. There was no doubt about it that Jamie Tartt was a very talented player, and he played with a confidence that Sam admired, running across the pitch knowing exactly where he needed to be. Sam wanted to learn from him. Only Jamie Tartt didn’t seem to have any interest in helping anyone else, hogging the ball even in training, not letting anyone else take a shot. Sam tried to be understanding. There was no doubt Jamie was an extremely dedicated player, perhaps he just wanted to make sure he was the best he possibly could be. And maybe like Sam, he was also struggling to adjust to being at a new club. Though he was closer to home than Sam was, from what he’d heard about Man City, Richmond was quite a change. Back at City Jamie’s teammates would have been able to keep up with him. Perhaps he hadn’t realised how far his teammates at Richmond were falling behind. Having Cartrick as a coach certainly hadn’t helped. He’d seemed perfectly happy to allow Richmond’s entire tactic to be “get the ball to Jamie”.
So, Sam is trying to be graceful with Jamie, to forgive him for the ways he makes Sam feel inadequate. If it was only his behaviour on the pitch, then perhaps he could do that, but Sam’s issues with Jamie don’t stop there. It had started as snickers and whispered comments with Colin and Isaac, but then those comments got louder, to the point where Sam could say with certainty that they were intended for him to hear. They’d talk about a pass Sam fumbled during a match, the way he’d run the wrong way to try and intercept a pass from the opposing team, every little mistake Sam made was something new for Jamie to make fun of. Sam had tried, tried so hard to take it as constructive criticism, to take those comments and use them to improve his game. That was one of the reasons he’s here after all, to play with the very best and learn from them, but Sam isn’t sure how much more of it he can take. Every comment cuts through him like a knife and sometimes he almost wishes he could run right back home - away from it all and into his father’s arms.
As lonely as Sam is feeling today, he still finds himself glad that he won’t have to deal with any of that today. That thought sparks an idea. Nelson Road should be blissfully empty, free of the cruelty Sam had come to associate with it.
Sam packs up a training kit and a ball in case the equipment cupboard is locked, then drives to Nelson Road. The roads are far quieter than he’s become accustomed to driving through London and he makes it there in record time. He lets himself in and parks up. He’s so excited to be able to spend some time just practicing by himself without all the pressure that’s piled up since he’d arrived here, that he hardly even registers that there’s already another car parked in the car park, nor does he register the bag on one of the benches in the dressing room.
He changes into his kit and shoes and finds that the equipment cupboard wasn’t locked after all, so he picks up a few cones and a couple of extra balls so he can set himself some drills and practice shots. He walks out onto the pitch more relaxed than he ever has been here, until he hears a sound from one end of a ball flying into a net and his head turns to follow it. Standing in front of it is Jamie Tartt, already picking up another ball to place in front of him. Sam drops the balls he’s holding, his mouth falling open in shock. He quickly scrambles to pick them back up, intending to turn back around and give up on this idea entirely before Jamie even notices he’s here, but unfortunately the sound of the balls bouncing on the concrete floor gets Jamie’s attention.
Jamie looks back toward Sam. It’s hard to read his expression from this distance, but his face twists into something like a frown, his whole body tense. Sam braces himself, waiting for whatever insult Jamie is going to through his way, but then nothing comes. For a minute they simply stare at each other, neither one of them moving an inch, waiting for whoever is going to break the tension first. Somehow Jamie looks different today, standing on the pitch alone on Christmas day, his body filled with tension. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d say Jamie almost looked scared. It’s perhaps this vast difference in appearance that gives Sam the confidence to be the one who speaks first.
“Hello, Jamie. I wanted to get some extra practice in today. Do you mind if I use the other end of the pitch?” Sam asks, trying to keep his voice as neutral as possible. He waits for Jamie’s response, waits to hear a sharp refusal, or perhaps a comment about how desperately Sam needs that extra practice, but that doesn’t come. Instead, some of the tension leaves Jamie’s body.
“Yeah, alright,” he says simply, already turning back to line the ball up in front of him. It takes a minute for Sam to process the response, to let down the guard he’d put up as soon as he’d seen Jamie out on the pitch. By the time Sam is unfrozen from his spot, Jamie has already kicked the ball, and it goes sailing in a beautiful arc towards the goal, only to hit the bar on the left. Jamie’s reaction is barely noticeable, but it’s that same tension that had appeared when he spotted Sam. He mutters under his breath to himself, then seems to shake himself out of it and pick up the next ball. Sam almost wants to keep watching, it’s fascinating to observe Jamie in this way, but he doesn’t want to think about how Jamie will react if he catches him, so he makes his way up to the other end of the pitch.
Sam lays out the cones with more care than strictly necessary, spacing them evenly across the grass. The familiar routine helps settle him, gives him something concrete to focus on. He sets the ball at his feet and starts weaving through the cones, slow at first, concentrating on keeping close control, on the feel of the ball moving where he tells it to go.
For a few minutes, it works. His shoulders loosen, his breathing evens out. There’s no one shouting instructions at him, no eyes tracking every misstep. Just the pitch, the ball, and the quiet thud of his boots against the grass.
Still, he can’t quite forget that he isn’t alone.
Every so often, without meaning to, his gaze flicks up the pitch. Jamie is still at the other end, taking shots again and again. There’s a rhythm to it: place the ball, step back, shoot. Sometimes the ball hits the back of the net cleanly, sometimes it goes wide or rattles the post. Jamie barely reacts either way, just jogs to retrieve it and starts over.
He lines himself up for a shot of his own, aiming for the far corner of the goal. The ball sails a little higher than he’d intended, skimming past the post. Sam exhales slowly and jogs after it, setting it up again. He takes another shot, then another, gradually finding his rhythm. Though he can’t seem to help giving a quick glance back at Jamie between each shot. He jogs over toward the goal to pick up all of his balls and deposits them back where he started.
He looks at Jamie again, who’s now switched from taking shots to making sprints towards the goal with a ball. Jamie kicks the ball forwards, and it lands right in the centre of the net. He nods to himself then jogs over to pick it back up.
When he turns around, Sam isn’t quick enough to look away, and Jamie eyes meet his. Heat rushes to Sam’s face as he realises he’s been caught. He looks down at the ball, suddenly very aware of the way his heart has started to pound. He waits for a comment, something sharp, something cutting, but none comes. Jamie cocks his head slightly and his eyebrows crease, looking to be in deep thought.
Then Jamie starts walking straight towards him. Sam’s stomach tightens. He’s bracing already, instinctively preparing for whatever comes next. He stays where he is, hands resting lightly on the ball, reminding himself to breathe. He’s dealt with worse than this. He can deal with whatever Jamie Tartt has decided to say.
Jamie stops a few metres away, close enough now that Sam can see the uncertainty in his expression, a flicker of something that looks almost like nerves.
There’s a pause, another long tense silence, then Jamie clears his throat.
“I was thinking,” he says, not quite meeting Sam’s eyes, “we could try a two-person drill. If you want. Passing, movement. Might be… useful.”
For a second, Sam just stares at him.
He’d been so prepared for something else, for mockery, for dismissal, that it takes him a moment to understand what’s being offered. When he does, a cautious warmth spreads through his chest, tangled up with disbelief.
“Yes,” Sam says, before he can overthink it. Then, more carefully, “Yes, I would like that.”
Jamie nods once, quick and sharp, like he might change his mind if he hesitates too long. “Right. Yeah. Cool. So…” Jamie pauses. “There’s some I remember from the academy.”
Sam wonders if that’s an insult in disguise, a way of telling him the best he can do is drills designed for children, but he decides to take it as if it isn’t. Manchester City’s academy certainly isn’t anything to scoff at, after all.
“I would be happy to try those if you show me what to do. Then perhaps I can share some drills I did back home too.” Jamie nods.
“Right. Yeah. Is it okay if I move these cones?” Jamie asks, gesturing to the line Sam had set up for himself.
“Go ahead.” Jamie rearranges the cones into two small gates a little way away from each other and chucks the rest to the side. Jamie jogs over to stand behind one.
“So, you go on the other one, then pass the ball to me through the cones. Then I dribble it around the cone like this,” he drops a ball at his feet and weaves it around the two cones in figure of eight, “then I pass it back. We’ve gotta do it all quick like.” Sam nods in understanding. It seems simple enough to get started.
Jamie kicks the ball over to him and Sam intercepts it, then he copies Jamie’s earlier movement. It’s not the smoothest ball control, Sam still feels a little nervous and unsteady, but he sends the ball back to Jamie and Jamie repeats the motion with no comment. They quickly get into a routine, and Sam finds his confidence growing. His movements speed up and he doesn’t have to think about anything except the way the ball feels under his foot.
They switch drills without much discussion. When one slows or starts to feel repetitive, Jamie just shrugs and says, “Alright, try this one,” and Sam follows along. Or other times Sam suggests a variation he’d practiced back home, short passing patterns, quick turns, little exercises designed to sharpen awareness as much as technique.
Jamie never laughs at his suggestions. Never dismisses them.
If anything, he seems… interested. He asks Sam to show him again when he doesn’t quite catch the movement the first time, and once, when Sam hesitates, worried he’s explaining it poorly, Jamie just says, “Nah, that’s good. Makes sense.”
As they work, Sam starts to notice things he hasn’t before. The way Jamie listens when Sam speaks, his attention sharp and focused. The way he adjusts his passes to match Sam’s stride without being asked. The way his jaw tightens when he messes something up, his frustration turned inward rather than outward.
It’s not the Jamie Tartt Sam knows from training, full of sharp edges, always looking for someone else to blame. This Jamie is quieter, almost careful, like he’s afraid of doing the wrong thing.
Sam isn’t sure what to do with that.
Between drills, they pause to catch their breath, hands resting on their knees, breath fogging faintly in the cold air. The pitch is still empty, the world beyond it distant and quiet. Sam realises, with a start, that he’s enjoying himself.
He hasn’t felt this relaxed in weeks.
He steals another glance at Jamie, half-expecting to catch him scowling or smirking, but Jamie is just staring out across the pitch, lost in thought. For the first time since arriving at Richmond, Sam wonders, really wonders, if there’s more to Jamie Tartt than the cruelty he’s shown.
The thought feels dangerous.
They stop only when the light begins to fade, which happens far too early at this time of year in England for Sam’s liking. Still, he hadn’t realised how long they’d been out there, and the dimming sky only serves to emphasise the cold settling deep into his muscles. Even Jamie seems to be struggling to keep warm, jumping on the spot and rapidly shaking out his hands.
“Perhaps we should finish up and get ourselves warm,” Sam suggests. Despite everything else today suggesting otherwise, a small part of him still worries Jamie will scoff at the idea, call him soft for wanting to stop.
Jamie only nods.
They gather up the cones and balls together in silence. The easy rhythm they’d found while drilling begins to fade, the quiet between them shifting from something companionable into something tighter, more uncertain, or perhaps that’s just Sam, suddenly aware again of how little there is between them without football to fill the space.
He realises, with a faint jolt, that he knows almost nothing about Jamie’s life beyond the pitch.
For the first time, Sam wonders why Jamie is here alone on Christmas Day. Maybe he doesn’t celebrate, like Sam. Or maybe he does and simply has no one to celebrate with. Sam knows Jamie has a girlfriend, but he doesn’t know how serious it is, or whether it’s the kind of relationship where you would spend Christmas together.
The thought sits uncomfortably in his chest.
He considers asking, then immediately dismisses it. Even without the possibility of Jamie biting his head off for it, it seems like an incredibly personal and invasive question to ask someone who in reality, he hardly knows.
Still, the idea of leaving it there, of walking away knowing Jamie might be heading back to an empty house, doesn’t sit right with him either.
“I was going to make some soup this evening,” Sam says, carefully, keeping his tone light. “I usually make too much. If you wanted to come by, that would be… nice.”
Jamie freezes for just a fraction of a second.
Then he scoffs softly, like the sound escapes before he can stop it. “I’m alright,” he says quickly. “Can look after myself.”
Sam’s stomach dips, though he’d half-expected the response. “I did not mean-” he starts, then stops himself. “Of course. I only thought I would offer.”
Jamie rubs at the back of his neck, eyes flicking away. “Yeah. Sure. Well…” He hesitates, then adds, a little more defensively, “I’ve got stuff to do anyway.”
“Alright,” Sam says, nodding. He accepts the answer for what it is, even if he can’t quite shake the feeling that Jamie’s final comment isn’t entirely true.
With that, Jamie scoops up the cones and half the balls and walks off the pitch, not even offering a goodbye. Sam gathers the remaining few and follows a moment later, but Jamie must have hurried. By the time Sam reaches the dressing room, there’s no sign of him at all. The quiet presses in, and the afternoon begins to feel strangely unreal, like something imagined rather than lived.
He should know better than to feel disappointed. Leaving without a word is mild compared to what Sam has come to expect from Jamie Tartt.
And yet.
Today, he had seen something different. The same drive and intensity, yes, but stripped of the cruelty and arrogance that usually followed it. For a few hours, Jamie had simply been another player, focused, frustrated, determined, not someone looking for someone else to hurt.
As Sam changes out of his kit and steps back into the cold evening air, the loneliness from earlier returns, settling over him once more, but it feels less sharp now, easier to sit with. He feels more settled. Later, he’ll call his dad, hear his family’s voices, let their warmth bridge the distance, even with them so far away.
Sam does not believe in Christmas miracles. Still, as he watches the gate at Nelson Road close behind him and heads home to a quiet house knowing his fridge has far more food than he needs, he allows himself one small, careful hope: that perhaps the version of Jamie he met today was real, even if it only appeared for a moment.
Even if it was only for Christmas.