#richmondsway

[tartt9]

"De Villardi's already jealous of me," Jamie mumbles. Even in this state, he knows the truth - the reason his captain has treated him like dirt since his call up. Jamie's better than him. Jamie's not even a forward, and he can play forward better than him. Jamie's dreamt of playing the 8, but he'd outplay De Villardi at the 10. He'd outplay fucking Zava at the 10. That's exactly what James wants to see him doing. Playing forward. Outplaying De Villardi. Outplaying Hendrick. Making a case to the gaffer to make Jamie a striker, even though he's been playing midfield from the minute he first kicked a ball. Tomorrow, De Villardi won't look twice his way, not until he's put into the game [ if he is put into the game at all - and if and when he is put in, it's still unlikely De Villardi'll look his way ]. "No fucking way am I putting myself in the way of your feet while y'sleep, old man, you'd kick me in m'beautiful, sexy face." Paddy's got some of the strongest legs in the Prem - Jamie wouldn't be surprised if he's got the strongest legs on City. When they're together, Jamie's typically the first to fall asleep, so he's not sure how much Paddy kicks in his sleep, if at all, but it's not something he'd put himself in the way of just in case - he's still got a brain in his head.

When Paddy asks if he's hanging in there, Jamie forces himself to breathe, resting his head back against his kitchen counter. "I'm okay," he replies - the default answer he'd given since he was fucking nine, every time someone asked him how he was doing, or how he got those bruises, or if he got enough sleep last night. He knows Paddy can see - or hear, he supposes - straight through him despite the answer, though. He's not okay, he's fucking broken, he needs to be held and hugged and told he's good enough. Because he is good enough. He'll earn his smaller numbers, his 8, eventually. He'll start playing nice with the older players tomorrow if that's what it takes. Jamie knows his talent, knows his skill. Someday he'll play for England. Someday he'll make a World Cup squad. And he won't need to play forward or score a bunch of goals to do it. "Jus'... jus' need y'tonight, Pad..."

paddy  cannot  help  but  chuckle.    “ almost  spoken  like  a  true  captain,  jamie.    i  nearly  considered  listening  to  you.    de  villardi  would  be  jealous. ”    he  couldn’t  really  help  the  taunt;  not  including  it  might  make  this  whole  thing  heavier  for  the  both  of  them  than  it  needed  to  be.    paddy  knows    –    although  he’s  got  no  idea  what  happened,  he  knows  why  jamie  calls  him  this  late  at  night,  knows  he’s  on  his  way  to  offer  comfort  and  try  not  to  grind  his  teeth  if  he  winces  if  paddy’s  protective  nature  holds  him  a  little  to  tight.    ( for  a  moment  he  considers  them  in  the  dressing  room  tomorrow,  bruises  blooming  on  the  kid’s  skin,  and  paddy  doesn’t  know  if  he  should  ram  his  fist  on  his  steering  wheel  or  cry. )    his  chuckle’s  disappeared,  the  car  rides  to  jamie  always  carrying  an  air  of  instability,  but  paddy  doesn’t  allow  his  voice  to  quiver  when  he  speaks  again.    “ y’know  i  don’t  need  to  be  awake  for  you  to  paint  my  toenails.    maybe  you  could  surprise  me  with  your  color  scheme. ”

his  foot  itches  on  the  gas  padel,  eager  to  rise  above  the  speed  limit  so  that  he  could  make  it  to  jamie  a  little  quicker.    there’s  always  a  sense  of  urgency  surrounding  these  calls,  one  that  paddy  cannot  quite  explain.    maybe  it’s  the  tone  of  jamie’s  voice,  which  he    –    to  his  credit    –    manages  to  hold,  but  of  course  paddy  knows  jamie  enough  to  recognize  all  the  nuances  within  it,  when  it  comes  from  a  place  so  small  and  frightened  it’s  a  miracle  he’s  scraped  up  enough  courage  to  call  paddy  up  in  the  first  place.    maybe  it’s  just  the  amalgamation  of  circumstance;  their  game  against  tottenham  tomorrow,  nearing  the  end  of  the  season,  the  late  hour  on  which  jamie’s  called.    maybe  it’s  just  because  paddy  loves  him  and  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  jamie  all  alone,  facing  whatever  shite  thrown  at  him  by  himself.    “ you  hanging  in  there,  lad?    i’ll  be  with  you  in  a  few  seconds. ”    perhaps  paddy’s  saying  it  for  his  own  sake  as  well  as  jamie’s.

[hornidevils]

usfw blog for @moedich3, @richmondsway & @amoreno9 ! mostly focused on headcanons & slightly riskier shippy prompts/threads. not for writing full on smut. feel free to assume some pre-established stuff if you want to send anything in! find some prompts here.

[tartt9]

There will be nights - many nights — as long as Jamie's in Manchester, these nights will continue - where he'll be faced down with a ghost, a man more monster than human, being told he wasn't good enough, didn't play hard enough, that he was soft, he was fragile, he was so many unspeakable things that Jamie can't bear to think of. Those nights will come, and Jamie won't have Paddy to turn to anymore. His only option will be knocking on his mum's door, bothering her and Simon, making her worry for him. He's never wanted Georgie to feel even an ounce of guilt about the man she'd slept with when she was just seventeen. Jamie never wants her to think that his treatment at the hands of his father is her fault. That's why he doesn't go to her after encounters like the one he had in the visitors' treatment room at Richmond after he'd relegated them. He'd gone to Paddy, he'd let the other man hold him, and by the time he visited Georgie the next morning, all was well.

Things have gotten better since Pep was hired. Before Pep, it was the simple, honest truth that De Villardi could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and nobody could stop him. Or nobody would stop him. Pep put an end to that - to making Jamie pick up cones, fetch towels and water bottles, to hotel duty during away matches. Pep has no room for attitudes, for egos, for anything but sportsmanship in his dressing room. And Jamie's endlessly grateful to him. He still remembers the feeling of Pep's arms draped over his shoulders when they won the Prem in 2018, and again last year. Pep has emphasised the fact that Jamie means a lot to Man City, to the supporters, to the city of Manchester as a whole. Pep has told him time and time again that he intends to keep Jamie close from here on out, that he wants him to grow in his mother club. Pep was a homegrown player himself, raised in Barça's Academy, and played for them a majority of his career. He knows the merits of a homegrown player, of an Academy player made great. Jamie is to Pep as Pep was to Cruyff. Jamie trusts Pep. Jamie's always been good at reading people, and he knows that Pep trusts Jamie with Paddy.

But what will happen when Paddy's gone? Who will Jamie turn to? Who will Pep trust him with? Jamie doesn't want Pep to think that Jamie's entirely dependent on players who are his senior. At Richmond, Jamie showed that he could be a star on his own. That he didn't need to rely on anyone. But that's not how things work at City. At City, they all need to be one team, one interconnected system. Jamie hopes that he can prove to Pep that he can be a part of that system. This season, he tells himself, he can rely on both Paddy and himself to prove his worth in this team. And, after this season... well, fuck, it'll ache to not have Paddy to lean on anymore at team celebrations, to not be able to run to after he's scored a goal, to jump around with in the dressing room after a particularly good win. Jamie doesn't know how he'll manage. For Jamie, there has never been City without Paddy O'Gara. When Jamie joined the fucking Academy, Paddy was already with City.

Of course Paddy's retiring now. He's had a long, successful, decorated career. But why does it have to be now? Jamie doesn't want him to hurt himself the way Roy Kent did. Permanent injury just to play another few seasons of football. It's not worth it. But Jamie wishes Paddy were a few years younger just so they can share the pitch just a bit more. He tries to blink tears from his eyes, but that only leads to them falling down his cheeks. Great, now he's crying.

Things will change. Jamie fucking hates change, no matter how much he knows change is inevitable. Someone else will fill Paddy's spot, someone else will earn City's 5, and it'll be an honour for them, but, for Jamie, it'll always feel like some imposter is on the pitch. Someone trying to replace someone they can never replace. He forces himself to breathe - they have one more season together. One more season where Jamie will have the comfort of sharing a pitch with Paddy. But then things will change and Paddy will be gone and who'll he talk to on Sunday afternoons and who will he watch the other matches in the Prem with and who'll teach him how to fix his mistakes and who'll be there to make him apple cake on his birthday and --

Jamie scrubs his hand over his face to try to hide his tears. He can still feel the spots on his hands that Paddy's lips touched - they're burning. He fears that they'll always burn. His love for Paddy is something indescribable. It's more than familial, less than romantic and sexual, but far more than friendly. Paddy is, in Jamie's mind, his brother, his lover, his best friend, his father, his coach, his teammate, his mentor, all wrapped up in one - even if the truth of the matter is that only the last two things are true. Will Paddy think of him when he moves back to Ireland? Will the girls remember him? Will Teagan have a godfather whose face she only knows from watching the Prem on the tele on weekends? How will Paddy describe him to the kids, to his mum, to Sinéad's family? Will he talk about Jamie at all?

His hands ache with emptiness when Paddy lets them go. He immediately shoves them under the hem of his t-shirt, trying to keep Paddy's warmth in. He's always called a footballer's retirement their first death. Paddy may not be dying, but Paddy O'Gara, City's beloved centre back for more than a decade is. He feels fucking pathetic, he shouldn't be letting this hurt him this much. "Can I 'ug ya...?" he mumbles, looking at Paddy across the table. His appetite is completely gone, no matter how good the burger was. Embarrassing as the desire may be, he just needs to be held right now.

“ oh,  jamie,  i… ”    but  the  words  get  stuck  in  his  throat,  which  takes  paddy  by  surprise.    his  vocal  cords  feel  pinched  shut  with  emotion,  tears  blurring  his  vision  the  longer  he  looks  at  jamie.    he  knows  it’s  the  sight  of  the  young  lad  that’s  causing  these  tears,  it  would  be  easier  to  look  away  and  have  his  tears  disappear.    but  it  would  feel  like  an  even  bigger  betrayal,  not   being  able  to  face  jamie  as  paddy  announces  his  retirement.    paddy  has  to  look  him  in  the  eye  as  he  does  this;  he  owes  him  that  much.    a  single  tear  falls  down  his  cheek  when  paddy  reaches  out  over  the  table  to  take  jamie’s  hand,  the  other  one  wiping  the  tear  away  as  quickly  as  it’d  fallen.    paddy  takes  both  of  jamie’s  hands  in  his,  pinching  them  so  hard  the  skin  of  his  fingers  turns  white.    “ yeah,  lad.    this  is  it. ”    his  words  wobble  dangerously,  balancing  an  edge  unfamiliar  to  it.

it’s  rare  for  paddy  to  get  this  emotional.    he  knows  he  won’t  cry  when  he  announces  the  news  to  pep,  shares  it  in  city’s  dressing  room,  says  it  out  loud  during  a  press  conference.    they  would  have  their  own  sort  of  gut-wrenching  goodbyes,  something  sweet  with  nostalgia  and  bitter  as  the  ending  of  an  era.    putting  a  period  behind  his  football  career  means  leaving  behind  a  part  of  himself  that  has  always  been  essential  to  how  paddy  o’gara  experiences  the  world,  how  the  world  experiences  him.    he  might  shed  a  tear  for  that  part  in  private,  when  he  feels  it’s  appropriate  to  grieve    –    if  he  finds  he  time  for  it,  between  taking  care  of  his  family  and  picking  up  the  dozens  upon  dozens  of  hobbies  he’d  promised  himself  to  take  up  once  he’s  in  retirement.    between  keeping  an  eye  on  jamie,  which  he  swears  to  himself  and  his  teammate,  as  he  pulls  his  hands  closer  and  leans  over  to  press  a  kiss  against  jamie’s  knuckles.

one  more  time.    jamie  and  paddy  will  share  one  more  season  on  the  pitch  together.    admittedly  paddy  had  worried  about  not  being  able  to  play  with  jamie  by  his  side  before  he’d  gone  into  retirement.    jamie’s  return  to  manchester  city  had  been  a  relief  in  many  aspects  and  paddy  would  lie  if  this  wasn’t  one  of  them.    ( it’d  also  been  a  tragedy,  paddy  knows,  one  he’d  hoped  to  keep  jamie  safe  from    –    but  some  things  even  paddy  o’gara  can’t  stop  from  happening. )    it  tears  at  him,  to  have  jamie  crawl  back  from  london,  only  to  give  him  another  kick.    paddy  had  hoped  to  have  finished  their  meal,  at  least,  share  a  few  laughs  as  to  not  entirely  taint  jamie’s  return  to  manchester,  their  long  awaited  reunion.    paddy’s  breath  turns  shaky.    he  presses  one  more  kiss  against  jamie’s  hand,  this  time  with  an  apology  attached,  before  he  lowers  them  to  rest  on  the  table.

paddy  remembers  the  first  time  he’d  offered  help  picking  up  the  cones.    he  hadn’t  really  offered  in  the  sense  that  any  other  human  being  would.    paddy  had  just  started  picking  up  the  cones  on  his  side  of  the  pitch,  making  his  way  to  meet  up  with  jamie  halfway.    he’d  carried  his  fair  share  into  the  stock  room  in  silence,  followed  by  the  dumbfounded   young  lad,  and  paddy  had  refused  to  let  him  out  of  his  sight  ever  since.    paddy  looks  at  him  now  and  still  his  love  and  pride  for  him  shines  through  his  regret.    look  how  much  he’s  grown,  he  thinks  to  himself,  he’s  going  to  be  fine  just  without  you,  pádraig.    but  maybe  it  wasn’t  a  question  of  how  jamie  would  fare  without  him.    what’s  paddy  going  to  do  without  jamie?    who’s  going  to  keep  him  company  every  sunday  noon?    who  will  paddy  make  his  apple  cake  for?    whose  hair  is  he  going  to  ruffle  and  laugh  at  their  dismay?    he  remembers  the  shape  of  jamie’s  head  on  his  lap,  the  weight  familiar  and  comfortable  by  now,  as  paddy  strokes  his  cheek  and  tells  him  it’s  going  to  be  alright.    paddy  hadn’t  realized  before  that  he  might  have  been  talking  to  the  both  of  them.    paddy  considers  his  kitchen,  empty  of  jamie’s  laughter  and  apple  cake  slices,  and  it’s  not  something  he  wants  to  think  about    –    because  it  feels  impossible,  his  life  without  enough  room  for  jamie  to  exist,  for  jamie  to  grow.

jamie  will  be  his  hardest  goodbye.    paddy  has  always  known  this,  even  if  it  was  something  he  didn’t  want  to  consider  to  its  full  extend;  he  knew  because  he  never  wanted  to  consider  saying  goodbye  to  jamie  to  its  full  extend.    he  knows  this  is  far  from  turning  his  back  towards  him.   there’s  no  way  that  paddy  would  ever  do  that.    but  paddy  will  move  back  to  ireland.    jamie  will  have  to  navigate  manchester  city  without  him.    although  paddy  thinks  they’ll  always  be  side  by  side  in  heart  and  mind,  they  will  no  longer  be  close.    watching  jamie  kick  a  ball  around  with  his  daughters  will  be  an  off-season  privilege  from  now  on.    paddy  will  have  to  watch  most  of  his  games  on  television.    their  late  night  conversations  will  now  become  video  calls  on  the  scarce  moments  both  will  find  the  time  to.    their  dynamic  will  change,  an  inevitable  consequence,  and  both  will  need  time  to  fill  up  the  empty  space  it  leaves.

“ ah,  shite. ”    paddy  curses  as  he  lets  go  of  jamie’s  hands,  wipes  away  another  tear.    he  tries  to  think  of  a  joke  to  make  things  a  little  more  bearable,  exchange  the  heaviness  of  the  moment  with  something  familiar  they  can  both  cling  to.    but  paddy  fails  to  come  up  with  anything  else  but  silence.    he’s  unable  to  fill  it  for  a  while,  coming  in  short  with  anything  else  to  say,  until    –    mercifully    –    something  does  come  to  light.    “ come  on  now,  jamie.    you’re   acting  like  i’ve  died  or  something.    it  isn’t  something  that  dramatic.    i”m  not  that  old   yet. ”

[arachnidiots-a]

peter doesn't see it in any certain way. he thinks so little about any fame or title he might have. sure, he's a professional footballer, but he's also just peter. sometimes connecting the two as one in the same is hard. kitchen work is not so outlandish when he really only sees himself the latter way.

"dishes, you got it," he moves without much of a complaint for the assignment, eyes running down the stack of things waiting for him. damn, it's a lot, but he'll get through it, he thinks. sleeves rolled, sink turned on, he starts working, shifting lightly on his feet in a small sway as he does. "oh yeah! yeah, me aunt did this stuff all the time. sort of. she wasn't a chef, not really, she just, uh, liked to help people and did a lot of stuff with shelters and kitchens. that sort of... i went with 'er a lot."

bianca  cannot  help  but  rise  her  eyebrows  at  him.    it’s  not  that  she  doesn’t  believe  him    –    she’s  been  around  long  enough  to  know  sincerity  when  she  sees  it.    it’s  just  the  absurdity  of  having  one  of  the  football  players,  of  the  men’s  team  no  less,  doing  the  dishes  in  her  kitchen.    maybe  the  lasso  and   beard  duo  were  as  good  an  influence  as  they  appeared  to  be  and   bianca  had  been  a  bit  harsher  on  them  than  she’d  needed  to  be.    maybe  peter  parker  is  just  a  good  kid.

“ i  could  really  use  some  help  with  the  dishes. ”    bianca  turns  around,  a  bit  ashamed  to  see  that  they’re  already  quite  the  pile  waiting.    she  turns  to  face  peter  again,  a  shrug  and  a  sigh  following.    “ i’ll  help  you  as  soon  as  i’m  done  chopping  these  for  soup,  okay? ”    she  continues  chopping  for  a  while  before  she  talks  again.    “ it’s  kind  of  you  to  help ” ,  she  says,  look  half  thrown  over  her  shoulder,  “ you  help  out  in  the  kitchen  often,  peter? ”

[tartt9]

Jamie's used to people frowning at him for one reason or another. Between focusing too much on football and not enough on school as a child, and the way he'd fidget when he was trying to focus on school, and his teammates of the past not liking the fact that he was better than them, and everything he'd ever did in regards to his father [ and on the direct opposite end of the frown scale, Roy ]. He takes the towel from Ricky, using it to properly wipe up the sweat on his face. His shirt is well soaked through already, and it hasn't done him any good in trying to dry off since well before half-time. "How's making me do extra tests takin' the piss with Roy?" Is he that obvious about his attachment to the man? He has no fucking clue how his teammates and the club staff sees his relationship with Roy, and he's curious to hear Ricky talk about it.

ricky  sighs,  turning  to  him  with  a  look  on  her  face  that  balances  between  annoyed  and…  worried?    the  frown  on  her  face  is  so  familiar  to  most  players  that  it’s  nuances  get  lost  sometimes;  she  always  managed  to  hide  her  concern  behind  witty  remarks,  stern  directions  to  be  followed  set   down  with  professionalism.    ricky  shakes  her  head  as  she  puts  the  bucket  down,  makes  her  way  to  the  towel  rack  and  goes  over  to  hand  him  one.    “ oh,  that  actually  sounds  a  whole  lot  more  like  you, ”  ricky  says  as  she  sits  down  next  to  him,  “ i’m  still  adding  the  test  to  take  a  piss  at   roy. ”

[tartt9]

"C'mere," Jamie mutters, taking Paddy by the shoulders, brushing them off, smoothing his hands down Paddy's sides, then his chest. Jamie'd be a right idiot to not admit that Paddy's handsome, that he looks good in a suit and tie. Almost as good as he looks in his sky blue City kit - but Jamie's always been biased away from fancy dress and towards football. "Don't think you'd let me get away with growling at this crowd." Jamie's not much of a growler, anyways, despite how much Roy Kent he'd watched in his formative years. "Oi, stop fidgeting, y'look dead fit, swear down." He smacks Paddy's hands away from his buttons. But Jamie understands fidgeting; he's just barely resisting the urge to do so himself. He feels incredibly out-of-place.

Jamie had only accepted the invitation because he's striving to fit in more with his teammates; he knows Paddy's time in the Premier League is coming to a close and Pep's time with City is just getting started - Jamie wants to prove to their gaffer that he's a team player, that he's someone you can reliably put on the pitch to get work done. Which means playing nice with De Villardi, with Power, with Hendrick. Jamie can play nice. Even if he's attached to Paddy's side all night [ and he knows he will be; he feels safest with the Irishman ]. "Right, sponsors," Jamie mutters under his breath. He doesn't know what sponsors want with him, but at least they aren't people trying to buy him away from City. Just shake their hands, look pretty, act normal, follow Paddy's lead, he tells himself. "I'm right behind you, big man. Guess we ought t'get this over with."

paddy’s  fingers  busy  themselves  with  fixing  up  his  own  appearance:  adjusting  his  tie,  fussing  over  his  hair,  checking  if  there’s  anything  between  his  teeth.    paddy  had  excused  himself  and  jamie  to  some  half  empty  hallway  as  soon  as  they’d  arrived,  already  fed  up  enough  with  everyone  else  present  to  call  for  a  break.    he  remembers  attending  gatherings  like  these  at  jamie’s  age,  usually  finding  himself  in  the  shadow  of  whichever  teammate  had  taken  enough  pity  in  him  to  invite  him  to  sit  at  their  table.    paddy  had  already  been  quiet  and  off-putting  then,  something  that  strangely  earned  him  the  respect  he  needed  off  the  pitch,  carrying  enough  talent  to  force  talent  on  the  pitch  as  well.    “ i’d  just  growl  at  whoever  started  talking  to  me, ”  paddy  mumbles  as  he  fidgets  with  the  buttons  of  his  blazer.

he  sighs  when  he  casts  another  look  down  the  hallway,  into  the  ballroom  that’s  slowly  but  surely  filling  with  their  teammates,  coaches  and  staff  and  whoever  important  enough  to  be  invited  to…  which  one  is  this  again?    paddy  hadn’t  bothered  to  read  the  invitation  past  the  time  and  location,  had  only  decided  to  come  when  a  decent  amount  of  his  fellow  teammates  had  agreed  to  go    –    jamie  accepting  the  invitation  the  most  deciding  factor  of  all.    “ they  are  our  sponsors,  people  with  big  shares  in  the  club,  anyone  with  any  influence  worth  noting. ”    paddy  takes  a  step  towards  the  ballroom,  deciding  they  both  look  decent  enough  to  be  seen  now.    “ you  ready  for  this,  lad? ”

[arachnidiots-a]

"thank you," liam takes the ice pack with a small smile. they're partially embarrassed by the injury, how can they not be? running into a post like that, it was loud, and in front of the whole team no less. holding it to the side of their head, they use their free hand to yank out the tight pony tail and relieve some of the pressure on their head. ricky makes her feel at least somewhat better about it. "but, i think when you're paid... it's not really out of your way. it's in your way... to help? or at least part of it is. i don't know. i've had far less nice help in the past."

@arachnidiots / liam    says ,        “  i’m    not    used    to    people    going    out    of    their    way    to    help    me .  ”

“ i’m  paid  to  go  out  of  my  way  to  help  you. ”incorrect.    ricky  is  paid  to  help  the  players.    she’s  not  paid  to  make  them  an  extra  cup  of  tea  or  do  half  of  the  house  visits  she  does  over  the  weekend.    although  there’s  a  price  for  her  professional  care,  her  kindness  isn’t  for  sale    –    and,  regardless  of  what  she  might  want  people  to  believe,  she  gives  it  freely.    ricky  sits  down  on  the  bench  opposite  of  liam,  handing  them  the  pack  of  ice  she’d  gotten.    “ just  tell  me  when  you  start  feeling  dizzy. ”

[premleague-a]

Callum’s eyes light up at the sight of Dr. Doherty. It’s nice, the fact that he still gets to see all of the familiar faces from his Academy days, being with the senior team. “Hi, Doctor,” he greets, taking the seat in question, folding his hands together between his legs as he grins. “Oh, I’m great-! I’m really great. This is, like, a dream for me- I’m super honoured to be here…!” He nods rapidly, repeatedly. “How’re you doing? I feel like it’s been ages…!”

@premleague ( ducky ) , starter call .

"callum!" gabe rises from his office chair, taking it with him as he gestures at the chair opposite of his desk. he takes a seat next to the young man, the backrest of his office chair pressed against his chest. "how are you doing? you adjusting well?"

[jmaas13]

       ——        height, a common factor in requests for help when it comes to anyone needing something from jan and although even his girlfriend stands at a back-breaking 5'4, he can't say he's gotten used to it yet. but he does as is expected of him, hands the can down and let's his eyes wander the room. ❝ ja, the layout of this kitchen is not ideal for someone your size. ❞

                      and just like that the mask he has started to oh so rarely carry in richmond slips right back into place, presenting the chef with an interested but guarded expression. no, there is still a shackle of shame tied to his legs, cold metal reminding him of years and years of glares and ugly comments sitting right beneath his ribs. - what grown man still likes - grow up and stop being picky - seriously, you want to eat this again. - he waits for more to come but bianca remains mum, not letting on what she's been told about his eating habits. ❝ realistically, i really need help with my diet because i have some food-related issues - but i'm not sure how much a nutritionist really can help. ricky just recommended i seek one out. ❞

@jmaas13 ,        a    try    out    starter    for    bianca ,    richmond’s    resident    chef !

it’s  not  often  that  bianca  finds  herself  anywhere  else  outside  of  the  richmond  kitchen,  but  necessity  had  caused  her  to  go  out  and  look  for  the  tallest  person  she  could  find.    of  course  jan  had  been  the  most  obvious  choice,  although  that  kind  boy  cedric  had  been  just  as  quick  to  offer  his  services    –    but  jan  would  do,  thank  you.    bianca  had  a  thing  or  two  to  discuss  with  the  dutchman  anyway.    the  sigh  and  slightly  piqued  expression  on  her  face  changes  when  jan  takes  the  can  of  tomato  sauce  from  the  cabinet  that  had  been  too  high  up  for  her,  even  with  the  small  step  she’d  used.    “ i  don’t  know  which  asshole  put  it  so  high  up.    thank  you,  jan. ”    her  smile  is  warm  when  she  looks  at  him,  taking  the  can  from  him  gratefully.    “ doc’s  told me you could use a nutritionist. ”

[tartt9]

Jamie's unused to people caring about him. Obviously, Georgie would give him the world if she could. And he thinks that Simon likes him, because he doesn't think there's anyone in the world Simon dislikes. And he's got friends from the estate, but they're all so busy with their lives that he doesn't think he takes priority in any of them. So he calls Paddy, who has proven time and again that Jamie matters to him, beyond how skilled Jamie may be on the pitch, beyond his playing time, his statistics, everything that everyone his dad has ever cared about. After an encounter with James - because of course Jamie allowed him access to the penthouse, he really didn't want James starting shit with his doormen causing Jamie to get in trouble with the building - the only person he could think to turn to is Paddy. Paddy, who understands the game more than Georgie does. Paddy, who says things like twenty minutes is a lot when you've got something to show, which brings tears to Jamie's eyes.

He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to breathe normally. He's sore. Paddy keeps lathering praise on him - we both know you need less than that. He's right. Jamie can show his skill in just a handful of minutes. Five, ten, even. He knows twenty minutes is an exaggeration for what he might get tomorrow, but it's a decent assumption, in his mind. "Y'can't tell me t'fuck off..." he mumbles - if there's one thing he's certain of, it's that Paddy O'Gara's stupid fond of him. Key term stupid. Jamie presses his forehead to his knees, rubbing his hand over his jaw. He's not going to be visibly bruised in the crowd's eyes tomorrow, but under his kit he will. Nobody'll say anything, and things'll continue on as normal, but Paddy'll know. "No, you're going back to sleep." He tries to speak as sternly as possible. Jamie doesn't know if he'll get any sleep at all tonight, but he can't keep Paddy up all night. Paddy's in tomorrow's XI for sure. There hasn't been a game that's mattered in Jamie's fucking tenure in which Paddy was excluded from the XI. He needs sleep. "I'll let you paint m'toenails in the morning, old man."

there  was  a  time  in  paddy’s  life  when  all  he  had  to  worry  about  was  himself.    it’d  started  as  soon  as  he’d  left  for  the  academy  and  had  been  the  only  thing  to  live  by  until  he’d  reunited  with  sinéad.    although  there  had  always  been  enough  space  in  his  heart  to  worry  about  home,  worry  about  his  mother,  all  alone  in  a  house  that  would  now  feel  too  big  for  just  her  while  it  felt  too  small  when  it  was  the  two  of  them.    even  with  sinéad  the  worry  was  different;  she’d  proven  herself  strong,  stronger  than  paddy,  even,  and  needed  him  as  a  rock,  a  cool  place  to  rest  before  pushing  herself  off  of  him  again.    the  way  paddy  worries  about  jamie  keeps  him  up  at  night.    it  makes  him  wonder  if  he’s  a  good  man  himself,  a  good  enough  person  to  hope  he’s  pointing  the  young  lad  at  the  right  direction.

“ twenty  minutes  is  a  lot  when  you’ve  got  something  to  show. ”    his  keys  jingle  dangerously,  the  noise  clattering  through  the  house  like  a  thunderstorm.    paddy  becomes  a  statue  for  a  few  breathless moments,  but  the  only  thing  stirring  is  his  heart.    he  doesn’t  dare  speak  again  until  he’s  outside,  however,  and  into  his  car.    “ that’s  twenty  whole  minutes  where  you  can  show  off  what  you’ve  got.    we  both  know  that  you  need  less  than  that. ”    the  car  starts  and  is  out  of  the  driveway,  something  of  relief  settling  in  paddy’s  bones  as  he  gets  closer  to  jamie  by  the  second.    “ come  on,  jamie.    i  could’ve  told  you  to  fuck  off  just  as  easily. ”    they  both  know  that’s  not  true    –    not  for  jamie,  at  least.    “ it’s  a  pre-game  sleepover.    i’ll  paint  your  toenails  and  you’ll  paint  mine,  aye? ”

[tartt9]

The 2020 season. Jamie's fifth season in the Premier League. He's going to do great things, he tells himself. It's necessary that he does. It's his time to shine. This'll be the year. He'll get his call up to the Three Lions, he'll impress Southgate, he'll be a fucking star. The fucking star he's always meant to be, shining in City blue. Richmond was just a step along the way to becoming the next Ronaldo, the next Roy Kent. Sure, Ronaldo and Roy Kent never went on loan, but that just shows how much harder Jamie will have worked by the time he's an old fuck like them - like Paddy, that voice in his brain adds. Like Paddy.

Jamie's always called Paddy old in an affectionate sort of way. It's different from the way he calls Roy old. Called, he supposed. Jamie'll never meet Roy Kent again. He fucked that one up good, didn't he? His childhood hero, the man he'd truly worshipped on the pitch, the man that Jamie would have done just about anything to impress... Paddy had been on the pitch the first time Jamie had been substituted into a Chelsea match facing down Roy Kent. He had seen the way that Jamie had paused, had stuttered in his steps, had practically handed the ball over to Roy Kent and Chelsea. Jamie had been nineteen, still so new to this game, still feeling small in his boots, especially faced with the legend - the god - that he believed Roy Kent to be his entire childhood; Jamie was only substituted in because of an injury to their 9, an injury that required treatment off of the pitch, so Pep had needed to put someone in - and that someone was Jamie. City had lost to Chelsea, 3-1. De Villardi was fuming after the match, but James had been fucking furious that night. Why had Jamie just stood there like a deer in headlights? Why had Jamie just let Roy Kent do whatever the fuck he wanted out there? His son doesn't let City lose to fucking Chelsea, you looked like a fucking fa- Jamie pushes that thought out of his head. It had been Paddy's doorstep that Jamie showed up on that night, far too late. He apologised to Sinéad, he hadn't meant to wake Éire, he hadn't meant to bother Sin, but it was cold and he was tired and his head hurt and his shoulder hurt and his body hurt and 'I just need your husband for, like, an hour, and also maybe a bed, please...'

Paddy O'Gara is like a four leaf clover - not just because he's Irish. But because he's... he's Paddy. He's let Jamie past his hard outer shell, let Jamie see the man he is. The man who loves to cook and bake for his loved ones, who dances with his wife in the kitchen, who's carried a giggling Éire around the pitch at the Etihad. Jamie held Teagan as a newborn - she'd been so small. He'd never seen a person that small before. He's had kickabouts with the two little O'Gara girls in their massive back garden, he's let them score goal after goal on him, and celebrated like they'd just won the World Cup. Because Paddy let him in. And Jamie feels so, so incredibly lucky to have a mentor like Paddy. He can't think of anyone else - other than Georgie - that would open their door to him in the middle of the night, let him in, let him cry into their lap on the sofa while Jamie tried to muffle his sobs. Paddy O'Gara is the best of men, Jamie's sure of it. The man Jamie is around Paddy is the man that Georgie has always wanted him to be. And, fuck, Jamie's glad he's back from fucking London so that he can be around him again.

Jamie looks across the table at Paddy - he senses something. An uncertainty that's so unlike Paddy before the start of a season. Paddy has always been so certain. He was certain in 2017, when they won the whole fucking thing - the first year of Teagan's life, Jamie knew he did it for her. And then he was certain again in 2018, and they did it again. The framed picture of Jamie leaning on Paddy during the trophy celebration is one of his prized possessions. It's one of the few things he brought down with him from Manchester to Richmond when he moved for his loan. It sits on his bedside table to this day, reminding him of what they're playing for, the goals they've set out to achieve. That City can truly do anything, if they just put their mind to it and dig their boots in.

But Paddy's uncertain. Why is he uncertain?

He speaks, and his voice shakes. Jamie sets down his own burger, wiping his hands off on his napkin. What's going on? His brow furrows, his eyes meeting Paddy's. When he speaks, Jamie feels like he's been slapped. Like the air has just been forced from his lungs by a strategically placed knee. Like he's that nineteen-year-old boy on that doorstep in December of 2016, lost, confused, scared. "What...?" he asks, his voice cracking. He's heard nothing of this. He knows Paddy is getting older; he knows it'd be fucking stupid to keep playing until your body's ruined the way Roy Kent did. But... this? This season? This is it? Fuck, did Paddy wait one more season to retire so that they could play it together? Jamie feels tears in his eyes. He fucking hates crying - how does Paddy manage to get him to cry so easily? "You- I-" He doesn't have the words to say. He feels a lump in his throat, making it even harder to catch his breath. "This-" Jamie knows it'd be unfair to force him to stay, to tell him to take that back, that they aren't finished yet, that they've got more to prove. This season will be for proving more. This season is their finale. "Fuck-" Jamie's voice cracks, scrubbing his hands over his face. Don't cry, Tartt. Don't cry. "This's it, then?"

although  this  evening  holds  everything  that  feels  familiar    –    jamie  across  the  table  from  him,  a  good  fully  home  made  meal  on  the  table,  the  soft  buzz  of  the  television  from  the  living  room    –    paddy  cannot  shake  the  feeling  that  something  is  off.    the  whole  thing  has  a  sense  of  finality  about  it,  as  if  this  is  the  last  time  he  and  jamie  might  see  each  other.    paddy  knows  it’s  a  ridiculous  thought;  modern  day  technology  made  it  so  that  everyone  is  reachable  all  the  damn  time,  even  in  the  small  cottage  sinéad  and  he  have  been  eyeing.    the  cottage  sin  and  he  have  been  eyeing.    he  hasn’t  told  jamie  about  this  yet,  has  he?    at  last  the  pit  in  his  stomach  reveals  its  source.    although  he  hasn’t  outright  said  that  this  will  be  his  final  season,  hasn’t  even  thought  of  it  with  such  final  wording,  he  knows.    sinéad  knows,  too,  although  she’s   been  giving  him  the  space  to  speak  up  about  it  when  he’s  ready.

all  things  considered,  it’s  not  so  strange  that  paddy  comes  to  this  conclusion  during  this  moment,  facing  jamie,  doing  something  that  has  brought  them  both  so  much  comfort  throughout  all  the  years  they’ve  known  each  other.    it  almost  feels  like  he’s  been  looking  for  permission  from  the  one  person  he  cannot  leave  behind,  only  to  realize  that  jamie  never  wanted  to  be  the  one  to  hold  him  back.    of  course  it’s  the  look  on  jamie’s  face  when  paddy  tells  him  that  was  the  best  he’s  ever  seen  him  play  that  make  paddy  think  that  it’s  time  to  stop.    perhaps  it’s  that  he’s  taught  jamie  all  he  can.    perhaps  it’s  the  fear  that  jamie  might  never  fully  grown  into  his  own  if  he  has  to  grow  against  the  giant  that  is  paddy  o’gara.    perhaps  it  is  something  else  entirely,  but  right  here,  catching  jamie’s  eye  as  he  declares  they’ll  win  the  whole  fucking  thing,  paddy  knows  it’s  time  to  stop.    he’s  had  a  good  run.    it’s  time  to  pass  the  ball  to  someone  else.    paddy  can  only  hope  that  jamie  doesn’t  miss  his  last  shot.

the  prospect  of  retirement  isn’t  so  bad.    he’d  move  back  to  ireland  with  sinéad  and  the  girls.    reconnect  with  his  family,  finally  be  around  his  aging  mother  enough  to  take  care  of  her.    he’ll  no  longer  have  to  carry  the  guilt  of  robbing  sinéad  and  his  daughters  of  a  childhood,  a  life  lived  among  their  family  members,  where  they  can  finally  feel  at  home.    manchester  has  been  kind  to  paddy,  yes,  but  only  until  he’d  found  sinéad  again,  only  until  he’d  forced  the  city  on  his  knees  on  the  pitch  and  demanded  the  welcome  and  respect  that  was  long  overdue.    now  he  could  say  goodbye  to  the  flashy  life  of  a  star  football  player.    he  could  finally  start  the  rest  of  his  life,  something  both  thrilling  and  terrifying  at  the  same  time.    he  would  take  sinéad,  éire  and  teagan  and  build  a  home.    paddy  just  wishes  he  didn’t  need  to  leave  jamie  behind  in  the  process.

he  worries.    of  course  he  worries.    it’s  what  made  him  a  great  player,  this  almost  obsessive  way  to  plan  out  every  possibility  and  anticipate  as  much  of  them  as  he  possibly  could.    once,  a  few  years  after  his  first  appearance  as  manchester  city’s  new  star  center  back,  one  of  the  game  commenters  had  made  the  joke  of  paddy  o’gara  and  his  mystifying  ability  to  see  the  future    –    and  it’s  been  a  running  joke  ever  since,  the  strange  truth  hidden  along  the  words  making  sure  it  never  falls  flat.    right  now  paddy  finds  himself  worrying  about  what  will  become  of  manchester  city,  of  pep  when  he  leaves,  but  he  knows  they’ll  be  alright  without  him.    they’re  a  strong  team,  with  or  without  the  fortune  tells  of  paddy  o’gara.    he  worries  about  how  his  family  will  take  to  moving  to  ireland,  uprooting  his  daughters  from  the  city  they’ve  always  known  and  forcing  them  to  move  countries.    will  they  resent  their  parents  for  it?   is  that  something  paddy  could  handle?    he  worries  about  jamie  most  of  all.    although  they  managed  to  get  through  the  separation  that  had  been  jamie’s  loan  to  richmond,  paddy  knows  this  would  be  different.    their  lives  will  no  longer  run  in  parallels,  their  schedules  will  be  more  difficult  to  match  up.    who  is  going  to  take  the  time  to  watch  the  game  with  him  on  sunday  morning?    who  is  going  to  bake  him  an  apple  cake  for  his  birthday?    who’s  going  to  help  him  pick  up  the  cones  after  training?    paddy’s  heart  wrenches  at  the  thought.    after  all  these  years,  after  all  they’ve  gone  through,  paddy  will  always  think  of  them  as  the  young  talent  and  older  mentor  picking  up  the  cones  after  training.

anxiety  creeps  up  on  him  like  slowly  rising  water,  giving  him  the  minor  discomfort  of  wet  shoes  as  it  snakes  up  his  legs,  climbs  his  torso,  comes  threateningly  close  to  his  lips.    he  knows  he’ll  break  jamie’s  heart.    but  they’d  always  known  their  time  was  limited  and,  damn  it,  did  they  make  the  best  with  what  they’ve  had!    paddy  puts  his  cheeseburger  down  as  he  notices  his  hands  trembling.    he  nearly  chokes  as  he  swallows,  taking  his  time  to  deliberately  chew  his  food  before  he  swallows  his  next  bite  of  fries.    he  knows  he’s  stalling  the  inevitable,  jamie  can  probably  feel  the  same  anxiety  rising  in  the  room,  adding  a  flavor  to  the  food  that’s  entirely  unsuitable.

when  paddy  speaks,  his  voice  is  uncharacteristically  wobbly,  not  fragile  but  something  close  to  breakable.    “ yes,  jamie.    i  really  think  so.    keep  it  up  and  i  think  you’ll  be  just  fine. ”    he  almost  manages  a  smile  in  between  bites,  taking  his  time  to  ground  himself.    he  nudges  jamie’s  foot  again,  plants  his  feet  onto  the  floor  and  hopes  his  slippers  are  steady  enough  to  catch  the  both  of  them.    “ of  course  we’re  gonna  win  the  whole  fucking  thing.    you’re  not  going  to  let  me  retire  with  anything  less,  are  you?”    and  there  it  is.    a  retirement  announcement  in  a  way  paddy  o’gara  would  think  to  put  it.    paddy  puts  his  burger  down  with  a  sigh,  reaching  for  the  napkins  as  he  braces  for  impact.

[arachnidiots-a]

the facility is a bit less lively than usual. it almost dampers his own energy to see it this way. passing the kitchen, he’s surprised to peek in and see it also rather empty. he’d caught word about the bug obviously. there was a couple players here and there with a headache that was clearly just the start of something. he didn’t think it’d hit the staff this hard though. that’s about where his greeting and ramble had started to bianca before offering to pitch in some amount of effort.

and peter is certain, already beginning to shed the jacket he’s got on to roll up his sleeves as soon as she starts to seek confirmation. “put me to work where you need me. i know how to clean, chop, all that.” may made sure of that. when they weren’t at practices or games, they’d always be in some kitchen alongside her doing just about anything she asked. in recent years, he hadn’t been so good about it. “can’t promise greatness, but i’m decent y’know.”

@arachnidiots / peter    says ,        “  are    you    sure    there    isn’t    anything    i    can   do   to    help    you    in    the    kitchen ?  ”

they’re  short  on  staff  today.    a  nasty  bug  has  been  going  around,  one  bianca  hadn’t  been  able  to  fight  off  by  sending  her  team  home  with  an  extra  portion  of  chicken  soup  to  keep  them  warm  and   well  fed.    she’s  been  doing  the  dishwasher’s  job  as  well  as  that  of  her  sous  chef,  while  trying  to  find  some  time  to  for  her  usual  tasks.    she  doesn’t  remember  why  the  young  man  had  come  to  her  kitchen,  to  her  regret  she  hadn’t  even  really  been  listening  to  much  of  anything  he’d  been  saying.    yet  her  ears  catch  her  question.    the  rhythmic  sound  of  her  knife  on  her  chopping  board  stops,  instantly  filling  the  kitchen  with  an  almost  eerie  silence.    bianca  looks  up  at  him,  eyebrows  risen.    he  could  do  the  dishes,  she  considers,  but  he’s  one  of  the  football  players…    “ you  sure?    you’re  not  taking  a  piss  here,  peter? ”

[tartt9]

Jamie can't just ignore that they've got a game tomorrow. It's half the reason his dad decided to show up tonight of all nights. He wishes that he could forget about it. Sometimes, he hates his life. All he ever wanted to do growing up was play this game that he plays now. It's all he's ever been good at, in his mind. But he's not good enough. Maybe he'd be a first teamer at a low-mid table team. But his dad wouldn't be satisfied if Jamie wore the 8 for a low-mid table team. He doubts that James would even be satisfied if Jamie wore the 9 or the 10 for a low-mid table team. He keeps his phone cradled to his ear with one hand, tugging his knees up to his chest as he sits on the floor. At least here, he's got Paddy. Who would he have if he was on any other team? He's not stupid enough to believe that Roy Kent would like him, not anymore, not since December.

"Y'don't need t'come pick me up," he mumbles. He can drive himself. He's pretty sure he can, at least. He's always been good at compartmentalising, at shutting off the part of his brain that's telling him that he's a shit man and a shit player because he's behind the wheel of heavy machinery. But he knows Paddy's tone of voice that says he'll come and pick Jamie up; there's no room for an argument. "I ain't gonna play more'n twenty minutes, maximum. There's nowt to talk about. Except the fact that I just woke you up, and you're gonna be fucking exhausted, and it's gonna be my fault."

paddy  winces  as  jamie  apologizes.    he  understands  why  jamie’s  calling,  why  he’s  called  paddy  specifically.    although  he’s  yet  to  fully  explain  it,  if  he  ever  wants  to,  paddy  knows.    “ nevermind  the  game,  jamie. ”    he  allows   them  both  a  moment  of  silence,  for  all  the  things  they  won’t,  cannot  say  out  loud.    his  heart  had  sunk  into  his  chest  as  soon  as  he’d  heart  jamie  speak;  the  tone  of  his  voice  so  fragile  that  paddy  wants  to  reach  into  his  phone  and  keep  him  safe  between  his  hands.    “ i’m  glad  you  called. ”    if  there’s  something  paddy  would’ve  hated  more  than  a  bad  night’s  sleep  before  a  game,  it’d  be  seeing  the  dark  circles  under  jamie’s  eyes  tomorrow  and  wondering  why  he  hadn’t  reached  out.    it  was  a  fact  that  paddy  was  out  of  his  bed  and  on  his  way  to  jamie  as  soon  as  he’d  decided  to  call,  just  like  the  sun  was  fated  to  set  in  the  morning.

the  irishman  pulls  a  sweater  over  his  head,  picks  up  his  phone  and  puts  it  off  speaker.    concern  has  pushed  his  sleepiness  out  of  the  way,  tensing  up  his  entire  body,  settling  most  cruelly  on  his  shoulders.    “ are  you  okay  to  drive?    i  can  come  pick  you  up… ”    he  doesn’t  wait  for  jamie  to  answer.    “ i’ll  come  pick  you  up. ”    he  sneaks  a  look  inside  of éire’s  room  before  he  makes  his  way  downstairs.    “ do  you  wanna  talk  about  the  game  tomorrow? ”

[tartt9]

Seeing Paddy O'Gara on a pitch is an absolute delight. Even now, as he gets older [ Jamie fears that this will be Paddy's last season on the pitch, fears that he's about to lose his closest friend, his biggest advocate, the man he's loved since he was seventeen and picking up cones on a training pitch on Etihad Campus - it scares him ] Paddy is a sight. A tall, strong centre back, one of the best of his generation. It would be fucking stupid for other centre backs to not study what Paddy's done in his time at Man City. If Isaac McAdoo hasn't watched a single set of Paddy O'Gara highlights, then he's a fool. Not that Jamie thinks that Richmond players are the best at what they do - just that they could be better. And studying City players is a good way to do that [ Jamie's only as good as he is because he trained himself incredibly hard growing up; he knew it'd be near impossible to go from a council estate to the Premier League, so he worked his arse off. He trained harder than anyone in his Academy age group, he went home and ignored schoolwork to train more, he studied Roy Kent's every play. Learning the history of the game, the legends that came before you, it's important, in Jamie's mind. Studying Paddy would just be fucking smart ].

He had missed Paddy during his loan period - desperately. He spent his Sunday afternoons alone [ especially after he and Keeley broke up ] pouring over match film, trying to hear Paddy's voice telling him what he'd done well, what he could've done better. Since Jamie was seventeen, he's truly taken Paddy's word as law when it comes to football and strategy. He has a feeling that every minute of playtime he's gotten at City has come off of the tongue of Paddy, with the additional context that Jamie is the hometown kid, the Academy lad that City raised up, trained up into the man he is today. You need a champion in a club like City, where every single player is of an extremely high caliber. And Jamie's fucking lucky that he's got Paddy O'Gara as his. Of course, Pep cares for him deeply, as well - the way Pep cares for every single one of his players - but caring for him and championing him on and off the pitch are two very different things. Jamie's never found himself on Pep's doorstep late at night, bloodied, bruised, needing help. Paddy has seen him at his lowest. He just wishes he could've had a hug from Paddy when Jamie led Richmond to a 3-1 victory over Crystal Palace, or a hard-fought 1-1 draw against Burnley. He's glad they're back together now. Jamie is truly at his best when he has Paddy at his side.

I think it's the best I've ever seen you play. "Y'really think so...?" Jamie asks, his voice soft - much softer than what is characteristic for Jamie fucking Tartt. Paddy's voice is louder than James' in his mind. Even if only because Paddy genuinely knows the game. Paddy knows what it's like to play, he knows the strategy required on a pitch, knows how to manage a 90 minute match, knows what it's like to be breathing from exhaustion but being so fucking delighted that you're playing the game you love. He knows what the coaches are saying in the dressing rooms or on the sidelines. James Tartt likes to pretend like he knows. He likes to think that, because he's spent over forty years watching footy, he knows footy. But James has never played, not at a level nearly as close to Jamie. He was never an Academy boy, never felt the pressure of growing up knowing you could be cut at any time, that you had to be the best from the age of nine all the way through your Premier League debut, and that you could only get better after that - no stagnation, no getting worse to get better. Only harder, faster, stronger. Jamie curls 40 kilos, for fuck's sake, Jamie doubts that James could even pick up a 40 kilo weight. But Paddy knows. Paddy has been in dressing rooms for longer than Jamie's been alive. Paddy knows what it's like to learn from your coaches, to do as they're told - make the extra pass, drop back to defence, move up to forward, Jamie has touched almost every inch of a pitch under Pep - total football is a beautiful style of play. And Jamie likes to think that he's good at it. "Okay - okay, yeah, okay," he agrees, nodding. It's been so long since he's sat down with Paddy to watch game film. But it's always helped him improve his game, and he's missed it - desperately. Even if he'll have to see Roy Kent ruining his knee for the rest of his life again. Even if he'll have to watch as Richmond runs an absolutely ridiculous trick play that led to a goal because City had no clue how to defend it. He'll still get to curl up to Paddy's side, rest his head on the older man's shoulder, or in his lap, and listen to his commentary about what Jamie had done well, what he could have done better - because there's always better, even when Jamie's played the best match Paddy's ever seen him play.

But James' voice will always be stronger, in his head. No matter how loud Paddy's is, no matter how much he loves that smooth, soft Irish accent, it will always be beat out by the angry Mancunian one, the one that added violence into the mix to make sure that the words stayed put.

Jamie drops his head back to his food when Paddy breaks eye contact. He runs his tongue over his lips, finally reaching for one of his chips. "Yes, Coach," he teases, nudging Paddy's foot with his own again. It's intimacy, in a way, what he and Paddy share. Jamie has never felt anything like this with anyone he's ever played with before. The time and effort Paddy's put into making Jamie better... it's love. Jamie know it is. And Jamie doesn't know how he'll ever be able to repay him. Maybe he'd find Paddy's old kit from the Euros in 2012. It'd be fucking expensive, but a worthy gift, in Jamie's mind. God, Paddy was going to retire, and Jamie's going to be alone, and - retirement isn't death, Jamie has to remind himself. Even if Paddy moves back to Ireland [ which he fucking should, that's where his family is, even if he's lived in Manchester for his whole career ], Paddy won't be dead. Jamie can still call him on Sundays, ask if he's seen the match, text him, talk to him. And it'll be fine. Because, by next season, Jamie will be solidified in City's starting XI. He'll be achieving what he'd been meant to achieve since he got his call up. He'll be the hometown lad, his face on billboards across Manchester. He'll be fucking great. "This's really good," he says with his mouth full, gesturing to his plate with a chip in his hand. "Thank you, Paddy... happy... 2020 season. We're gonna win the whole fucking thing."

pádraig.    jamie  is  the  only  one  who  gets  away  with  it,  really,  unless  you  count  in  paddy’s  mother.    he  cannot  help  but  smile  slightly,  but  with  much  fondness.    it  feels  weird  to  remember  the  times  when  paddy  played  at  manchester  city  without  jamie  devotedly  by  his  side.    even  paddy  sometimes  forgets  that  he  was  once  like  jamie  too    –    except  he  enjoyed  no  one’s  protection  on  the  pitch  and  inside  of  the  dressing  room,  and  it’s  those  feelings,  however  repressed,  that  had  made  him  stop  after  training  and  help  jamie,  then  no  older  then  seventeen,  pick  up  the  cones.    paddy  had  done  it  in  a  very  paddy  way,  wordlessly  and  with  no  patience  for  a  stumbling  thank  you,   but  he’d  taken  the  time  to  stay  behind  and  help  nonetheless.    from  that  moment  on  paddy  made  sure  he  was  always  by  jamie’s  side    –    it’s  a  common  misconception  that  it’s  jamie  that’s  by  his  side  and  no  the  other  way  around.    paddy  would  stand  up  whenever  the  locker  room  bullying  reached  his  ears.    paddy  would  advocate  to  get  jamie  more  time  on  the  pitch.    paddy  would  take  time  out  of  his  day  off  to  tell  jamie  exactly  how  he’d  played,  what  was  good  and  what  to  avoid  next  time.    paddy  would  demand  to  speak  with  pep  as  soon  as  he  became  manchester  city’s  trainer  and  praise  the  young,  underused  talent  that  was  jamie  tartt.    not  that  he’d  needed  to,  in  the  end,  but  it  did  create  the  silent  understanding  amongst  the  men  that  jamie  is  to  be  a  priority.

and  my  god    –    what  a  delight  it  has  been!    jamie  had  returned  from  richmond  as  a  man  changed,  although  the  changes  had  been  subtle  and  hidden  away  at  first.    but  paddy  had  seen  it,  rustling  restlessly  underneath  the  disappointment  and  resentment.    something  he’d  been  waiting  for.    a  person  he  knew  jamie  was  always  able  to  be,  if  only  he  had  the  chance  to  grow  and  prosper  around  the  right  people,  with  the  right  environment.    paddy  and  pep  alone  weren’t  enough.    jamie  had  needed  a  club  like  richmond  to  find  out  what  he  could  be,  and  it  hurt  paddy  to  think  it  turned  out  to  become  just  another  disappointment.    he  could  only  hope  jamie  could  find  a  way  to  take  what  he’d  learned  at  richmond  and  hold  onto  it  without  the  anger  of  how  it  ended…  and  then  jamie  had  made  the  pass  to  hendrick,  and  paddy  had  hopes  that  jamie  would  be  okay.

“ i  think  it’s  the  best  i’ve  ever  seen  you  play. ”    high  praise  from  paddy  o’gara.    he  looks  at  jamie,  the  concern  he  feels  leaking  into  his  features.    there’s  nothing  but  sincerity  in  his  voice,  he  even  nudges  his  foot  again’s  jamie’s    –    but  will  it  be  enough  to  convince  jamie?    is  paddy  strong  enough  to  overpower  the  big,  bad  wolf  whose  shadow  still  hovers  over  his  shoulder?    he  can  see  jamie’s  doubt  in  the  unkept  hair,  the  slump  in  his  shoulders,  how  his  fries  remained  untouched  while  they  would’ve  already  been  gone  otherwise.    “ we’ll  watch  the  game  together  later. ”    paddy  is  brought  back  to  the  many  sunday  brunches  they’d  shared,  nothing  but  good  food  and  cheer  between  them,  paddy  pausing  the  game  to  share  some  of  his  hard-earned  wisdom  with  an  eager  jamie.    sometimes,  like  this  moment,  something  knots  itself  uncomfortably  tight  in  his  throat  when  he  remembers.    although  paddy  knew  things  weren’t  good  for  jamie  back  then    –    the  young  talent  lacking  the  chances  and  resources  and  support  to  become  the  legend  he  could  be,  much  to  paddy’s  and  later  pep’s  regret    –    paddy  couldn’t  help  remember  those  sunday  noons  as…  perhaps  not  simpler  times,  but  something  better  than  what  was  going  on  right  know;  something  softer  than  all  the  things  that  had  happened  to  him  that  paddy  wasn’t  able  to  protect  him  from.    as  long  as  he  allowed  himself  to  look  back  at  jamie’s  beginner  years  at  manchester  city  within  the  bounds  of  those  sunday  noons,  paddy  could  imagine  jamie  to  be  happy,  and  paddy  had  contributed  to  that  happiness.    it’s  that  thought,  the  idea  that  maybe,  hopefully,  he’d  made  those  years  a  bit  more  bearable  for  jamie  that  get  to  him.    he  finally  breaks  the  eye  contact  and  looks  away,  swallowing  down  some  of  his  food  without  really  tasting  it.    he’s  not  one  to  cry  easily,  but  the  twitch  of  his  jaw  comes  close  enough.

a  silence  falls  between  them,  heavy  with  jamie’s  troubles  and  paddy’s  worries.    “ eat  your  food,  jamie ” ,  paddy  eventually  breaks  through  the  stuffiness  in  the  air,  “ it’s  good  for  the  soul. ”    he  takes  the  salt  and  sprinkles  some  extra  onto  jamie’s  fries  for  good  measure.    an  encouragement.    please  eat.    feel  better.    i’m  here.    i’ll  always  be  here.    jaw  still  clenched,  paddy’s  defense  against  any  emotion  more  meaningful  than  anger,  paddy  concentrates  on  his  own  plate  again.

[tartt9]

Okay, so maybe that wasn't the right thing to say. It wasn't that Jamie's memory was bad, per se, it was just that his mouth ran and ran and ran more than his legs did, sometimes - how was he supposed to be expected to remember everything that he said? "I don't 'ave memory loss," he insists, clasping his hands together between his legs. "I just talk a lot. Say a lotta stuff I don't remember sayin'." He did have a lot of head trauma as an adolescent, but that was when he was, like, ten to... well, twenty-two, and he's an adult now, and the only head trauma he's got now is the normal footballer sort - taking headers. And if Dani and Sam and Bumber and Richard don't have head trauma, neither does Jamie.

@tartt9    says ,        “  when    did    i    say    that ?  ”

ricky’s  already  got  her  arms  crossed  over  her  chest,  so  she  can’t  do  that  for  dramatic  effect.    yet  the  look  on  her  face  says  it  all:  mouth  slightly  open,  the  frown  clear  on  her  features,  eyes  displaying  a  mixture  of  frustration  and  complete  awe  at  what  he’d  said.    ricky  sighs  out  her  annoyance,  one  hand  rising  and  gesturing  vaguely  at  jamie.    she  steps  away  from  his  side,  picking  up  a  discarded  bucket  of  ice  and  making  her  way  to  the  sink.    “ i’m  adding  a  memory  loss  test  to  your  weekly  checkups,  jamie.    it  might  provide  clarity  for  the  both  of  us. ”

[tartt9]

"I did this every day in the morning for years, every time they needed me at school," Jamie points out. All of the City Academy lads go to the same posh school with the same ugly uniforms. Jamie's used to tying his own ties. But if Paddy wants to tie his, Jamie won't stop him. He runs his tongue over his lips as Paddy inspects him - from anyone else, that might be sexy. But it's Paddy. Jamie's long since trained himself out of finding Paddy O'Gara attractive. "I can tie m'own laces, Pad," he points out, but Paddy's already on the ground to tie them for him. Jamie holds still, fidgeting with the sleeves of his suit jacket, before he forces himself to stop, to shove his hands into his pockets.

He nudges his arm to Paddy's, raising his chin just a little bit. "Who's they?" he asks. He hates these posh events. He became a footballer to play football, not to put on suits for posh fucks who think of him as a name and number, not a person. And his number isn't even a good one - why would they pay any attention to the prick in the 51 kit? Unless these posh fucks are posh fucks looking to buy Jamie away from City, which he absolutely does not want. "How d'you even put up with these things?"

@tartt9    says ,        “   i    can    handle    that    myself,    you    know .  ”

paddy  sighs,  the  disapproval  clear  on  his  features.    he’d  shaken  his  head  at  jamie,  approached  him  without  a  word  and  started  fixing  his  tie.    he’d  been  muttering  the  steps  more  to  jamie  than  himself.    although  paddy  wears  his  trademark  frown  on  his  features,  his  hands  are  gentle  as  they  fasten  jamie’s  tie.    he  takes  a  step  back,  inspecting  jamie  from  head  to  toe,  shakes  his  head  once  again  when  he  notices  jamie’s  shoelaces  being  untied.        “    you’re  a  mess.    ”        paddy  gets  down  on  one  knee  and  begins  tying  jamie’s  shoelaces  for  him.        “    who  taught  you  how  to  dress  like  this,  hm?    ” he’s  not  one  to  speak,  he  knows    –    he  can  already  hear  sinéad  complain  about  him  kneeling  down  in  his  good  suit.    paddy  slaps  the  dirt  off  his  knee  when  he  gets  back  up,  at  least.

he  hates  these  posh  gatherings.    he’s  dreaded  them  from  the  moment  he’s  learned  it’s  something  that’s  considered  part  of  the  job,  except  paddy  had  to  learn  how  to  fix  his  tie  on  his  own.    he  gives  jamie  a  soft  pat  on  the  shoulder,  at  last  joining  him  by  his  side  yet  again.    the  day  that  paddy’s  absence  during  fundraisers  like  these  would  be  excused  was  close,  perhaps  it  was  already  here,  but  there  was  no  way  he’d  let  jamie  walk  into  these  shitshows  on  his  own.        “ chin  up,  lad.    they’ll  be  watching.    ”