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iamquiantrelle · 30 days ago

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GOLDEN BOY ────── iamquaintrelle (☁️☔️💕)

⌗ pairing : trent alexander arnold x black oc

⌗ summary : trent is having a quarter life crisis but will a smart-mouthed girl whip him into shape?

⌗ warnings : 18+ only!!

⌗ taglist: @foreverisntenough, @trentswrld, @trentswhore @cinnaleaf @v6quewrlds @football-and-fanfics

The bass from Gunna's "P Power" was hitting different tonight, vibrating through the penthouse while Trent nursed what felt like his millionth shot at the bar. 2025 was around the corner and here he was, drowning his sorrows because another relationship went tits up. Brilliant.

Sophie had been the last one - all polished edges and old money, exactly what he thought he needed. Ended just like the others though. "You're trying too hard, Trent," she'd said, fixing her perfectly styled hair in the mirror. "It's exhausting watching you pretend to be something you're not."

Rich coming from someone who thought scouse accent meant uncultured. But maybe she had a point. These days, he barely recognized himself - trading his usual spots for posh London clubs, swapping FIFA nights with the lads for wine tastings. All because what? He was scared of being that kid from Liverpool forever?

He could practically see tomorrow's tabloid headlines swimming before his eyes. They'd have a field day with this one - another failed relationship to add to his growing list of "almost but not quite"s. Just like his career lately.

Jude wouldn't shut up about Madrid these days, his texts getting more insistent. "Different world out here, mate. No pressure of being the hometown hero." Arsenal was hovering too, Arteta promising him the keys to the kingdom. But Liverpool... fuck, Liverpool was home. Wasn't it?

Or maybe that was the problem. Twenty-six years old and still defining himself by a postcode. The gaffer kept saying he was born to wear that Liverpool red, but lately it felt more like a straightjacket than a second skin. Everyone wanted their piece of him - the local lad made good, the next Gerrard, the face of the academy. Sometimes he just wanted to be... Trent.

The scent hit him first - something posh and floral that made his head turn.

Dior... and something else... caramel?

"Spiced vanilla," came a voice that made him freeze mid-shot. When he turned, his breath caught in his throat. Her eyes met his, deep brown and mischievous, and the way she bit her full lower lip had his mind short-circuiting. The sparkly mini dress hugged every curve, her shoulder-length bob framing a face that screamed trouble with a capital T. "You said it aloud," she added, those burgundy-painted nails trailing along the bar counter.

Trent gulped, watching as her gaze raked over him like she was deciding which part to devour first. Christ. He wasn't ready for all that. She had 'complicated' written all over her, and he had enough complications in his life right now.

But something in his brain (definitely not the part doing the smart thinking) liked the way she was looking at him. When was the last time someone challenged him proper? Made him feel like more than just TAA, Liverpool's golden boy trying to figure out if he still fit in his own skin?

Madrid would be easier in some ways. Fresh start, no history weighing him down. Arsenal too - London living without the baggage of being a traitor to his hometown. But running away had never been his style, had it? Even if lately he'd been running from himself.

'Chicken,' a voice in his head taunted, sounding suspiciously like his younger self. 'Proper soft lad, aren't you?'

Bloody hell. Maybe he did need a bit of trouble in his life. Something real in all this fake. And the way she was looking at him...they were caught in some sort of impasse, neither willing to break eye contact first.

"April," she finally offered, extending her hand.

April Alexander-Arnold. Christ, his brain needed to shut up. He'd known her for all of thirty seconds and was already playing that game again. Always thinking too far ahead, weren't you, Trent?

When she spoke again, he caught something in her accent he couldn't quite place. British, but... not quite? Like someone had taken her accent and scrambled it with something else entirely.

"Trent," he replied, taking her hand. Her grip was firm, confident, and her toffee-colored skin was warm.

Her smile widened, all white teeth and knowing eyes. "I knew I heard correctly. Bit hard to miss a scouser in these parts."

He felt his defenses rising immediately - here we go again, another posh London lot ready to take the piss. But before he could retreat back into his shell, she laughed, warm and genuine.

"Relax! My dad's from Liverpool, born and raised in Toxteth. Mum's American though - hence the weird accent. Bit of a mess, really."

"Explains why you sound like you're from everywhere and nowhere," he found himself saying, relaxing despite himself.

"Oi! Better than sounding like I'm about to nick someone's hubcaps," she shot back, eyes dancing with mischief.

"That's proper cheeky, you know that?"

"You have no idea," she smirked, turning to sneakily grab a bottle from behind the bar. "Speaking of which, we can't just sit here being weird on New Year's Eve."

She started pouring tequila into his glass, and Trent immediately shook his head. "Nah, I hate tequila-"

"Take the fucking shot, Trent."

"No, honestly-"

Her eyes narrowed playfully as she enunciated each word: "Take. The. Fucking. Shot."

Jesus Christ. Everything about her was wild and refreshing and exactly what he'd been missing. No calculated moves, no carefully crafted persona. Just pure chaos in a sparkly mink dress, and his head was spinning with it. Where had she been all this time?

The crowd started chanting. "TEN! NINE! EIGHT!"

She clinked her glass against his, leaning in close enough that he could smell that spiced vanilla again. "Just FYI," she murmured with a Cheshire cat grin, "tequila makes me horny."

"SEVEN! SIX! FIVE!"

His brain short-circuited completely.

"FOUR! THREE! TWO! ONE!"

"HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

April knocked back her shot without hesitation, while Trent stared at his glass, then at her, then back at his glass.

Who the actual fuck was this girl?

He downed the tequila in one go and placed the glass back onto the bar, groaning as the alcohol coursed through his bloodstream.

The first thing Trent registered was pain. His head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, his mouth tasted like something had died in it, and there was this weird weight on his chest that-

His bleary eyes snapped open and met large yellow ones staring directly back at him.

"Fuck!" He yelped as sharp claws dug into his bare chest. An orange tabby cat was just... sitting there. Making itself at home. On him.

"Shoo," he tried weakly, waving his hand. The cat just blinked lazily and continued kneading his chest like it was making bloody biscuits. "Get off- ow, Jesus-"

"Pussy just trying to say hello."

April appeared in the doorway, hair slightly mussed, wrapped in a silk robe. She scooped up the cat like it was a baby, and Trent's hungover brain tried to process what he'd just heard.

"What you just say?"

"Pussy," she repeated, pressing a kiss to the cat's head. "Her name is Pussy."

Trent furrowed his eyebrows, slowly pushing himself up to lean against the headboard. "Like the one between your legs?"

April rolled her eyes. "No, like Pussy Galore. 007?"

His blank stare must have said it all.

"Not surprised that you never seen that movie."

He rubbed his temples with both hands, trying to will away the hangover. "More of a Daniel Craig type James Bond. The others were trash."

Finally, his brain caught up enough to actually look around. This definitely wasn't his place. And he was... he lifted the covers... in just his boxers. Shit. Did they-

"We didn't," April said, reading his mind. "Had a nice make out session though, but we both got liquor dick unfortunately."

"What?!"

"That's when you drank too much-"

"I know that but I never get... liquor dick."

"Well there's a first time for everything," she smirked, standing up from her perch on the edge of the bed. She bent to set Pussy Galore down, and Trent definitely didn't watch the robe gap slightly, revealing smooth skin underneath. When she straightened, she pulled the tie tighter. "You can't handle this, Trent."

"Whatever..." he scoffed. Who was she to tell him what he couldn't handle?

"I think you should see the damage I've already caused. And to think this was only from kissing. Hope you don't have a girlfriend. Poor thing might have a nervous breakdown."

She tilted her head toward his neck, and Trent's hand flew up to touch it. He scrambled off the bed to the mirror and... fucking hell. His neck, collarbone, and chest were a masterpiece of hickeys, bite marks, and lipstick stains.

Who the fuck was this girl?

Don't act like you don't love seeing the evidence, his traitorous brain whispered. Such a shame you can barely remember how they got there...

"Coffee or tea?" April called out, and his eyes snapped from the mirror to watch her arse as she sauntered out of the room.

"Coffee, thanks," he managed, still staring at the doorway long after she'd gone.

Making his way into the kitchen, Trent couldn't help but notice the photos lining the wall. One showed a white man in a crisp British Army uniform, his arm wrapped around a stunning Black woman - had to be April's parents. Had the same smile as her, her mum did. There was a graduation photo of April pulling a face while clutching her diploma, and next to it the actual degree in Arts, all properly framed. The flat itself was... interesting. Modern but lived in - art prints and photographs everywhere, books stacked on nearly every surface, a vintage record player in the corner surrounded by vinyls. Splashes of color against white walls, plants hanging from the ceiling. It felt chaotic but intentional, just like her.

Pussy Galore had claimed a chair next to him, watching his every move like he was about to commit a crime. Even the bloody cat had April's intensity.

"Here," April handed him coffee. "You look proper rough."

"This is why I don't do tequila," he groaned, taking a grateful sip.

"Whatever. You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?"

His phone buzzed from its spot near her entryway - someone had actually thought to plug it in. Tyler's name flashed on the screen: 'Oi where you at??'

"Should probably head out," he said, sending his brother a quick 'Tell you later'.

"Mmm," April hummed, disappearing down the hall. She returned with his clothes - cleaned and folded, of all things.

He opened his mouth for what would've been a proper clever comment about her washing his clothes, but she beat him to it.

"I don't wash no man's clothes. My cleaning person did all the work. Must've thought you were special."

"But I am right? You took me home with you," Trent said, feeling cocky.

"I took you home to use you, Trent. You and that stick between your legs. Although maybe I should get a refund." She glanced upward thoughtfully, like she was genuinely considering it, before shooting him that infuriating smile and taking a slow sip of her coffee.

Well that was fucking brutal... and the sick twisted part of him enjoyed it. A lot. Damn, am I a masochist?

"Are you gonna go or not?"

Trent cut his eyes to her, staring for a few beats. This fucking girl and her mouth!!

"You sure do say a lot of shit," he said, pulling on his clothes.

"So I've been told."

"Let me make it up to you. You know, for the... uh... liquor dick."

"Oh?" She arched an eyebrow. "And how exactly you planning to do that?"

"I could plan something nice."

"Yeah, whatever," she said, but there was a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

Fully dressed now, Trent stood there awkwardly. Usually, this was where a girl would kiss him goodbye or something, but April just walked to her front door and swung it open.

"Figured you needed some help since you were looking dumb as fuck."

He couldn't help but laugh. This fucking girl. "See you-"

SLAM. The door shut so fast it nearly took his nose clean off.

Trent stood there for a moment, an actual genuine smile spreading across his face. Couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled like this - not the media-trained one or the polite one for posh parties. But a real one.

The hallway of her building was all exposed brick and industrial lighting, probably one of those converted warehouse spaces in East London. Bit edgy, bit posh, completely her. His footsteps echoed off the concrete floors as he made his way to the lift, still grinning like an idiot. The doorman gave him a knowing look as he passed through the lobby - probably seen his fair share of morning-after exits.

As he stepped out onto the street, the January air hit his face like a slap, but even that couldn't shake his mood. She was refreshing in the most aggressive way possible - no pretense, no trying to impress him, just pure unfiltered chaos. And fuck him if he wasn't already addicted to it.

For the first time in ages, he felt... light. Something told him April wouldn't be impressed with the usual fancy restaurant routine.

This girl was going to be trouble. And for once, he was perfectly fine with that.

Trent's mind was still on April as he made his way back to the penthouse, barely registering the early morning London streets. Proper fumbled that one, didn't he? Didn't even get her number.

Fucking hell.

Maybe he could find her on Instagram later - though something told him she'd probably take the piss if she knew he'd gone searching. Probably post about some desperate footballer sliding in her DMs.

His phone buzzed with another text from Tyler: 'Meet at The Pig & Butcher? Got some business to chat. That new spot just outside London.'

'Sound. Give me 30.'

The valet brought his car round - thank fuck he'd had the sense to leave it here last night - and he headed out to meet his brother. His mind kept replaying that swift door slam, the way she'd looked at him like he was both a snack and something stuck to her shoe. Who even was this girl? Making him feel like some teenager with his first crush instead of... well, who he was supposed to be.

The drive gave him time to think about last night - what he could remember of it anyway. That first moment at the bar, her challenging him with every word, those hickeys he could still feel on his neck. Shit, he'd have to wear a high collar to training.

Tyler was already at their table when he walked in, and they did their usual dap. "You look rough," his brother grinned.

"Fuck off," Trent laughed, sliding into his seat and grabbing a menu he didn't really need to look at. His brother probably already ordered his usual.

"Nah but what's with that stupid grin though?"

"What grin?"

"That one right there. Looks proper daft."

Trent tried to school his features but failed miserably. "Just met someone innit. Proper baddie. Mad personality too."

"Yeah?" Tyler raised an eyebrow as their food arrived. "Must be something special to have you looking this gassed."

"She's different. Not trying to impress or nothing. Actually," Trent laughed, cutting into his eggs, "pretty sure she thinks I'm a bit of a dickhead. Called me out on everything - my accent, my game, my image, everything."

"And you're smiling about that?"

"Mad, innit?"

"Speaking of image," Tyler segued smoothly, stirring his coffee, "you know how we were chatting about revamping your social presence? Making it more mature? Less academy grad, more grown man?"

"Yeah..."

"Got this photographer, does amazing work with athletes. Proper artistic stuff. Some nude shots too-"

"What the actual fuck, Ty?"

"Nah hear me out!" Tyler pulled out his phone, starting to swipe through photos. "Look - OBJ did a shoot, Ja'Marr Chase too. Even got some Premier League boys lined up. It's all tasteful, builds that grown and sexy image we were talking about. None of that typical footballer pose with a watch shit."

Trent had to admit the photos were sick. Black and white shots that looked more art gallery than Instagram flex. Athletes looking powerful but vulnerable at the same time. "Who's the photographer then?"

"Her name's April Goodplenty-"

Trent nearly choked on his eggs. "What?"

Tyler turned his phone around, showing a professional headshot, and fuck him if it wasn't her. April from last night, looking proper professional but with that same hint of mischief in her eyes. Same full lips that had left those marks all over his chest, but now curved in a sophisticated smile instead of that devilish smirk.

"Shit," he said out loud, while his brain helpfully supplied: Well, at least you don't have to do that Insta deep dive now.

"You good?" Tyler asked, looking concerned. "Thought you'd be more excited about this. She's the best in the game right now, everyone wants to work with her-"

"Nah yeah, it's just..." Trent took a long sip of water, trying to process this new information. April. The April Goodplenty. The girl who'd basically called him useless and slammed a door in his face was the same one his brother wanted him to strip down for?

Life was having a proper laugh at his expense, wasn't it?

……..tbd

#liverpool fc #trent alexander arnold #quianwritings #taa x reader #taa x black oc #trent alexander arnold x reader #Trent Alexander Arnold fanfiction

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wosowrites · 2 years ago

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For Her Safety (Jessie Fleming x Reader)

warnings: swearing

prompt: in which you get tackled horrifically during a dirty game by an irish player and jessie is furious.

a/n: by the way I LOVE Katie so much she just does these things for the sake of the story.

Bev had given you all a talk days before the Ireland game. It went something along the lines of "Katie McCabe plays dirty. She's brilliant, she's tough, she's dangerous, she will do anything to win, including taking your ankles out." The gaffer warned you all to be careful but not back down, to fight but not let her have any reason to hold a grudge against you. But mostly she emphasized that you had no control over the irishwoman, and that the only thing to do was hold her off.

When the Irish scored in the fourth minute you knew you had time, you knew you had the skill, but you also had a new found sense of worry. That goal was lucky. You cant mark someone taking a corner. She scored a good goal by accident, but a good goal nonetheless. And then it was Julias turn. It was Canadas turn to get lucky.

Right before half, Julia crossed the ball in from the left side and into the far right corner. An Irish defender tried to deflect it, but it went into her own net. You screamed your lungs out, running to Julia and hugging her and Jordyn closely. The Canadians formed a mob of joy before the half time whistle blew, but you all knew that you couldn't perform like the first half in the second.

And you didn't.

The real Canada came into the light in the second half, you were pressuring the Irish box, making passes, tackles, smart plays and taking shots, but the next goal came in the 53' minute. You were desperate to get on the score sheet as the striker, and when you saw a cross coming into the left corner just out of your reach and just a little too low, you knew what you had to do.

Throwing yourself in the direction of the ball head first, you made contact and sent the ball slamming into the back of the net along with yourself. You slid into the Irish net and quickly got up, running towards the only person you wanted to celebrate this goal with. Jessie Fleming. Her arms were outstretched as your body connected with hers in a hug at the top of the box. You wrapped your arms around her waist and laughed as Sophie, Jordyn, Sincy, and the entire of your team crashed into the hug as well. But the only person who mattered to you in that moment was Jess. Jess, your beautiful, perfect girlfriend and her shining, proud brown eyes.

The first foul on you came only minutes later, you were running down the wing, having switched momentarily with Jordyn. You got to the left edge of the box when Katie started marking you, jockeying and holding you off until support came. You moved up to her slowly, keeping the ball controlled and then faked going left before taking a small touch to the right past the irishwoman. But before you could get the ball again, Katie's leg stuck out and wiped your feet from under you. You barely had any time to react, already having been low due to the position you were in to change sides quickly, the fall made it that your head smashed into the turf without your arms to support them. You sat up quickly, your arms wide and the slight feeling of blood going down your face from your nose. You didnt care though, choosing instead to stand up and demand that the referee give Katie a yellow... which she didn't.

"You're kidding me, right?" another voice said. Jessie had closed in on you, Katie and the referee. "She stuck her foot out and made her fall on her face shes getting a card," Jessie said, her eyes cold and fixated upon McCabe. "You're not the referee, Fleming," the woman said. "Jessie just leave it," you said softly, putting your hand on her stomach to try and get her to back away. She probably would have if Katie hadn't sassed her.

"Yeah, you're not the ref," she taunted. This made the midfielder have other ideas. She pushed forwards and into Katie so that their faces were barely apart from each other. "Say that again, huh? I swear I see you touch her one more time and you'll be off this pitch in a stretcher," Jessie threatened.

Somehow, throughout the commotion between both teams, no medics had come for your nose. A big clump of players had formed, the green behind Katie, pulling their captain away and the white trying to put themselves between the two captains. Due to the big group of people and the loudness, the referee ended up not hearing anything that was being said, so a free kick was awarded and that was that.

However your nose was still bleeding like crazy and your jersey was soiled. Your head felt light and Jessies head snapped towards you as she saw you sit down on the grass again. The Canadian waved over medics and kneeled next to you, pushing back your baby hairs swiftly. "You're hot when you're mad," you winked at her. "You're hot when your nose is bleeding," she winked. "Dont lie," you rolled your eyes at her. "I'm not," she said almost hungrily. It made your heart skip a beat.

But then the medics were there with some towels and ushered you off the field just for the time it took to change your jersey and stop the bleeding. And then you were back on, but Katie was still angry.

The second foul on you came due to a slide tackle you had done to her. You had honestly tried to get the ball but ended up clipping her ankles. Not enough to injure her but enough to piss her off.

You were quick to stand up yourself, apologize and offer her your hand but she refused it, jumping up on her own and pushing you to the ground with a loud cuss word. You sat there, slightly stunned with your hands up in submission, but what made you stand back up was Jessie rushing towards you both, followed by a worried looking Vanessa Gilles and Quinny. You were quick to place yourself between Jessie and Katie. You grabbed onto Jessies waist with one arm and turned to Denise O'Sullivan. "Get her away from us O'Sullivan, she's not big but she stings," you yelled at the woman, referring to Jessie. Denise led her captain away and you watched as you got booked.

Before Jessie could argue with the ref, you gave her a stern look and took the yellow card. The game ended 2-1 which you were thankful for, but somehow McCabe still had it in her to argue.

As you shook hands with the opponent, Katie was closing the line and so were you. She stopped you by putting her hand on your stomach and pushing you in the slightest. "You play just as dirty as me you're just better at hiding it," she whispered in your ear. You rolled your eyes at her before moving away. "Whatever, I'm gonna go talk to my girlfriend now because I still have one," you scowled, knowing immediately you should not have said that. You walked away from her and towards Jessie who was looking more calm and concerned now instead of angry and on edge. "What did she say?" your girlfriend asked. "Nothing, just banter," you answered.

The next time you saw Katie, she was being booked. You had no clue for what because the game had been over for about five minutes now. You exchanged a look with Jessie and burst out laughing, clapping your hands together as the Irish ignored you.

The locker room was happy but full of knowledge that you all collectively needed to perform better versus Australia.

Once you got into the bus it was late and dark outside. Your hair was wet from shower water instead of rain and you cuddled up beside your girlfriend in the bus. "It's cute when you get all protective," you said to her, nuzzling into her shoulder. "It's cute when you put your arms out to stop yourself from almost breaking your nose," Jessie answered, making you let out a short, loud laugh. "Okay Fleming," you rolled your eyes.

Jessie looked down at you and you shifted to look up at her so that she could place a small, sweet kiss on your lips. She closed her eyes and so did you, knowing that you had a couple hours of sleep before taking a plane back to Melbourne.

#woso fic #woso imagine #woso x reader #woso #jessie fleming #canwnt #katie mccabe #chelsea fcw

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benedictscanvas · 2 years ago

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be still, my foolish heart [2] - jamie tartt x reader

pairing: jamie tartt x fem!reader

word count: 2.7k

series warnings: lots of language throughout, some allusions to smut but nothing explicit, a LOT of fucking fluff mostly ngl

a/n: the response on the first chapter of this was so overwhelming in the best way. i'm literally beside myself that people enjoyed it! my current plan is to update this every other day and try and get some little blurbs and one shots out in between. have a fabulous saturday night my loves <3

series summary: when jamie gets called up to the england team for the first time, he's terrified. enter you, all smiles and swearing, and suddenly his only fear is falling head over boots for you.

previous chapter | series masterlist | next chapter

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chapter two - i swear i thought i'd dreamed her

“Is that all you’ve got, Tartt?”

“Oh you’re so fuckin’ on, Rife.”

It’s day four of training camp. Jamie is over the moon to find that the England lads are largely similar to his Richmond lot and while he’s not half in love with them like he is back home, they’re a good bunch of lads. They get on. They can rib each other endlessly and then enjoy a good meal. He feels far more at home than he could have imagined.

He hadn’t expected Ted to get quite so jealous when he was telling him all this on FaceTime the night before.

“It’s nothin’ like being at home, though, Ted. ‘Course fuckin’ not. Haven’t got a grandad screaming at me all the time, ‘ave I?”

That was enough to placate Ted, allowed him to get on with telling Jamie how everyone was getting on at Richmond. Apparently, Ted had originally called him to get some advice on hair care products, but Jamie didn’t buy that for a second. He knew Ted could tell how nervous he was before he left. He was so grateful to have a gaffer - and a friend - willing to make up a shit excuse to check up on him.

He was holding his own in the training sessions too. He knew he wasn’t first choice up front, and however much it might have irked him previously, now he was able to enjoy the prestige that came with being here. The feeling he got when he shrugged on his England kit every morning just like he’d dreamt about when he was only a sexy little baby.

He loved penalty practice with Rife, tackling Marko in a 5v5 and knowing he’d be tackled back any second. He knew they were training for what would turn out to be some of the most important matches of his career, but it didn’t feel like it. It felt like making a few new friends and dragging them down to the nearby pitch everyday to have a kick about. It felt nice.

Still hadn’t managed to talk to the City lads, though.

It was beginning to affect his play, too. When one of them would shout out an instruction to him, he’d do it without hesitation, wanting to make nice. But he knew that his own instincts got him his place on this team and blindly listening to others wasn’t going to get him any minutes.

Which was why he was stood behind a plant, outside the hotel bar, trying to figure out his move to just go over and talk to the fuckers.

They were nice lads. He knew that. They used to be friends, yeah, but he was a prick back then, so maybe they only liked prick Jamie and weren’t that nice at all. Or they hated prick Jamie and wanted nothing to do with him ever again. Or they thought he was a total joke who didn’t deserve to be there. Or-

“What did the plant do to you?” came a voice from behind him, which made him realise he was gripping the stem with a vengeance, “You need me to kick it over? I’ll do it, but you’ll need to be lookout.”

That playful teasing, that voice, was familiar. When he turned and found you, kind head of PR you that he hadn’t seen properly since your first meeting, he couldn’t decide if he was a lucky bastard or had the worst misfortune in the whole world. He groaned either way as he let go of the poor plant.

“I’ll water it later to say sorry, I guess,” he said, patting a leaf in a way that felt pretty pathetic, “You’re stayin’ ‘ere too? I haven’t seen ya.”

That wasn’t totally true. He’d seen you about once a day since that first day, but only around the camp itself rather than the hotel. The two of you had shared curt nods each time, a reminder of your first meeting, but each time these nods had been followed by easy smiles to each other.

Each time you’d been sharply dressed. A pencil skirt here, a trouser suit there. It reminded him a little of Rebecca, except for the little touches that he’d noticed you let slip through the professional facade. A beaded anklet, a pair of fluffy earrings. You were a ray of sunshine around the place, that much he had picked up on. The regulars at the camp greeted you as a similar breath of fresh air.

“Perk of being head of a department,” you smile, “How’s training treating you? Issues with the grass that you’re taking out on all plants in sight?”

There was a very loud sigh waiting in his throat. He could make up a lie about waiting for someone, or checking out the plants because he wanted to get himself one back home, but you’d see through any bullshit he offered up. And he didn’t really want to bullshit you anyway.

“More embarrassin’ than that, I think,” he admits, watching as your face falls from that teasing smile to something with more worry in it. It’s very hard to keep eye contact with you when you’re looking at him all concerned like that, “I’m gonna give y’ the option to walk away now, if ya want, so y’ don’t have to be part of it, like.”

He watches you make a face as if there’s an obvious answer to what he’s just said. Without thinking, he takes a quick glance back at the City players huddled around the bar to check they haven’t clocked him. Of course, you notice.

“I hope you know how mysterious and intriguing you just made this situation,” you say as you come to stand beside him, more behind the plant than you were, “Something to do with the lads in there?”

That big, loud sigh he’s been holding in manages to break free.

“Yeah, it is. Yeah,” he doesn’t even know how to say it without sounding like a sad sack of shit. You smell really good and it’s the first time he’s seen you in anything other than work clothes and you look incredible in cargos. His thought process is scrambled, “They’re all City, yeah? Sooo…we were teammates an’ then we weren’t. Now I’m…fuck, I don’t even fuckin’ know what I’m doin’.”

Part of him hates swearing like that in front of you until he remembers your penchant for swearing. He hadn’t looked at you when he was talking, but when he risks a look back at your face, there’s no more of that worry that had been there briefly. There’s understanding instead, and he likes it a lot more.

“You want to talk but don’t know how? Think they hate your guts?”

“Well, it’d be hard to hate these guts,” he says, words cocky but he doesn’t get the tone right and he’s quick to self-deprecate instead, “But yeah, that sums it up. Pretty fuckin’ pathetic, huh?”

“No. Not fucking pathetic at all, Just Jamie. Don’t call yourself that.”

You’re looking at him expectantly so he nods, a little confused by your ferocity.

“Good. Not pathetic,” you say again, for him or for you, he isn’t sure, “So, let’s get us a game plan. How about we go in there, order a drink maybe, definitely some chips, and I’ll wave them over after ten minutes. I’ll make up some PR bullshit, get the conversation going.”

He hesitates. Suddenly, he realises his previous plan was to stare at them all night through the leaves of this plant before running back to his room when they looked like they were about to get up.

“I dunno…maybe I should leave it? Like, I’m making a big deal out of nothin’, really.”

“I think they’d appreciate you making an effort,” you insist, “I can confirm that they don’t hate your guts, if it helps. They’re decent lads. Warne is a dickhead, but he’s harmless. I’m sure you know all this, really.”

“You might be underestimatin’ what a dickhead I was, Just Y/N,” he laments, although the use of what he could now call a nickname between the two of you makes him feel better, “I was fuckin’ awful.”

“No, I know,” she says instead, and he wasn’t expecting that. His head snaps to gape at her so quick she actually laughs at him, “I watched Lust Conquers All. It’s trash but it makes you feel better about yourself, you know? And yeah, you did seem like a dickhead, but you don’t seem like one now. Anyone with half a brain would notice, so I’m sure even Warne will realise you’re not coming at them from the same place you were at.”

It’s a lot to process. Firstly, that yet another person has watched that godforsaken fucking show and it’s you and he feels like a total idiot in front of you now. But then he registers the rest of it, that in such a short time you’ve just proclaimed that he’d obviously not like that anymore. That he’s changed. He knows he has, but he doesn’t always expect other people to notice straightaway.

“How the fuck did you watch that show and still manage to be so nice to me when we met?” he asks, because he can’t help himself. He wants to know the answer. Wants to know if you’re just like that with everyone, because that would probably be easier.

“Hey,” you lower your voice, “Richmond fan, remember? I’ve been to the games. Even a couple of the open training sessions. Everyone at Richmond knows you’re a different person now, right?”

He gulps. Nods.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. So…I do too,” you’re practically whispering now. Talking to you is like having a piece of Richmond with him, maybe even more so than the playlist. You’re Richmond and you know the new Jamie. It means more than he should tell you to feel like he has someone on his side, “Also I’m pretty good friends with this guy at the club. Do you know Trent Crimm?”

“You know Trent?” he exclaims, louder than he should. You hush him, but you’re smiling as you do it. He repeats his question a lot quieter, “Sorry. You know Trent Crimm?”

“Yeah, he used to do some reporting on England, for a while. We ended up chatting quite a lot. There’s not many male football journalists out there worth making friends with, but Trent’s one of the good ones. He texted me to look after you, actually, so you must be pretty great.”

Now Jamie was really torn. On the one hand, Trent texting you to take care of him was really fucking nice for a man he hadn’t even spoken to all that much. On the other hand, there was now a sinking feeling in his chest that all this kindness was a favour to Trent and had nothing to do with him at all.

“Oh. That’s- uh, that’s nice to hear.”

“Oh fuck, that’s not why I want to help you!” you said quickly, like you’d read his mind, “I just saw you with the plant, wanted to check you were okay. I’m not just, like, fulfilling a promise to him or anything.”

That sinking feeling lifted. Especially because he liked that you wanted to make sure he knew that. He could feel little pieces of his confidence floating back into his body. They were on thin ice, however, when you tugged on his arm to follow you as you walked straight into the bar, heading directly for the City players as you did so. He had no choice but to follow you.

His first thought was that you really did look criminally good in cargos, and his second thought was that this wasn’t in the fucking plan.

“Boys! My City Folk,” you greet them, definitely going for awkward on purpose. The three players smiled and waved as you came to stop beside them at the bar, Jamie following behind attempting to look as cool as possible, “I do hope you’re not breaking any rules? I am a known grass, and I will tell Gareth.”

They laugh and Jamie joins in because then maybe he’ll be part of things. Also, you’re funny, and he can tell you know it.

“Don’t worry, Y/N, just water for us tonight. We thought if we came down here, it might at least feel like we were drinking.”

“And I thought there might be some girls to chat with,” Warne added, as expected by pretty much everyone who knew him, “None around until you showed up, Y/N.”

“You’re a fucking idiot, Warne,” you reprimand, though there’s enough teasing in it that he just grins, “Didn’t the others remind you this hotel is entirely booked out for England players and staff?”

“Yeah. But you never know who you haven’t met yet.”

Jamie snorts at that and it draws more attention to him than he’d like. But it’s an opening, and your eyes are wide telling him to go for it! So he does.

“Strangely profound for you, Warne,” he supplies, grateful when you chuckle and the other two City boys join in, “Hey, how about the next round of water is on me?”

That really draws a laugh out of them, even Warne.

“You were always a generous son of a bitch, Tartt,” Rocky smiles, clapping him on the back. Again he sees an opening and with you still looking at him all encouragingly, he wants to take it.

“Nah, I wasn’t. I was a prick when we last talked. But I’ve been told I’m slightly better now, sometimes,” he glances at you when he says it, but you look so fond he has to look away, “Anyways, what I’m tryin’ to say: I’m sorry for before. Hope we can start fresh, like.”

“Mate,” Rocky shakes his head, brushing him off, “We’re all good. Long as you don’t keep drifting offside when I’m trying to thread one to you, I think we’ll manage.”

“Yeah, and don’t beat me in the fitness trials, alright? That’s my time to shine,” Warne adds, and even he’s got a friendly look in his eye, an attempt to respond to Jamie’s obvious and unexpected vulnerability. The weight that Jamie feels lift off his chest is massive. He can breathe properly again.

“No promises, mate. I’m fuckin’ fast now. Lightning, me.”

And with that, it’s easy to fall back into the banter he was used to. When Warne has launched into a story about not being able to find a toilet in Ibiza, he turns to you to say a silent thank you, but you’ve vanished from his side. He tries not to let his disappointment show on his face.

Searching around for a second, as subtly as he can, he spots a flash of your cargos behind the plant he’d been so well acquainted with. You pop your head out when you see that he’s looking and shoot him a double thumbs up and it’s all he can do not to excuse himself from the conversation and run over to you.

But you’re already giving a little wave and walking the other way. He watches you until you’re gone. Lets his eyes linger even a little longer than that.

When he turns back to tune into Warne again, hoping none of them noticed his wandering eye, he’s so incredibly grateful that you helped him face his fear. That he’s got his wish, and can get back to the game he loves without anymore unfinished business hanging over him.

Alongside that gratefulness, is the tugging at his heart that thinks his position behind that plant wasn’t so bad, once he gained some company.

But he wouldn’t have flirted with you. He isn’t going to. Bad idea. Just talking, in a totally friendly way, would have been a pretty fucking nice evening, he thinks.

---

next chapter

if you've got this far, i fucking love you!! <3 and if you're at all into real life football like i am (enough to be pursuing a job in the field ffs) then see if you can work out who any of the England players might be based on hahaha

#jamie tartt x reader #jamie tartt fanfiction #jamie tartt #ted lasso x reader #ted lasso #jamie tartt x you #jamie tartt imagine #jamie tartt fluff #jamie tartt series #be still my foolish heart

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