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danistartt · 2 years ago

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Gentleman- Jamie Tartt

pairings: jamie tartt x reader, richmond team warnings: language. i think i read this one too many times. about: request! secret dating because reader works for Richmond (as like pr or physio or something) but when they win a match one day Jamie is so overcome with joy he just has to kiss her

“Don’t you think someone is bound to get worried you’re coming in here every day?” you wonder, pinching away individual blades of grass stuck among the fuzzy dandelions of Jamie’s socks.

“Nah,” he says, watching your careful attention from his place on the pillow. He’s feeling bad about putting his muddy shoes over your clean lap, but you haven’t complained once, only appreciating the easy access to touch him. “They don’t know I come up here.”

You look perplexed. “Where do they think you go?”

Jamie shrugs. “The loo?”

“The one not in the locker room? Six times a day for ten minutes?”

“I keep myself hydrated,” he tells you, lifting up his water bottle to wag it at you. “Y’know, to keep up appearances.”

You chuckle, pushing the web of your thumb around his ankle and trying to touch your pointer. Your phone blinks up at you, the time precarious. Your hand slackens. “You need to get back soon.”

Jamie gets that sticky feeling he does whenever he has to leave something, gross and pleading at the pit of his stomach, his every cell calling out for him to use his time better. He wants to touch you like you’re touching him. He shifts onto his elbows and stares at you. “I can be a little late.”

You frown at the idea, your hands still and warm on his calves. “No, Jamie.”

“Yes, Jamie,” he murmurs, his arms making quick succession in tugging you to him. He’s strong, he’s always been strong, but you don’t tend to notice until he’s pulling you out from beneath his legs and hugging you in a single movement.

You don’t want to encourage him but you want even less to not make your delight shown at being pressed against his chest.

The minute changes. Your care for it begins to dwindle.

“Jamie!” you squeal, not moving.

He says your name in the same tone, as condescending as he used to be but sweetened by the kiss he presses against your hair. “C’mon, love,” he encourages, a horrid influence working.

“No,” you insist weakly. “Ted’s waiting for you. The team’s waiting for you.”

“But I’ve been waitin’ for this all day,” he complains pointedly. “Maybe I should trip o’er the ball or somethin’. Make a nice excuse to spend hours here with ya.”

“Jamie Tartt? Not believable.”

He makes a pleased noise, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “You’re right.”

Another minute. Ted’s brown eyes bore into your subconscious.

Painfully, you peel yourself off of Jamie, slotting his thighs between your own. You watch his pupils dilate from above him.

“No,” you start, gently holding his face in your hands in a plea and causing the opposite effect you’d meant to. “No time. Later.”

He grasps your coat tightly.

“I promise. Just go to practice.” You spy the time and scramble off of him. “Now.”

He groans, catching your wrist when you hurry to collect the loose strands of his hair. He holds up a hand, pinky finger outstretched, and stares in question.

You roll your eyes but hook your own through his, a grin making its way to his face. “Y’know these’re binding, right?” he asks pragmatically.

You’d taught him that. The prick. “Yes,” you say exasperatedly, trying to pull him off the couch.

“‘M goin’,” he mutters, letting you. “I’ll see you in half an hour.”

“No you will not,” you gasp. “They’re going to think you have a bladder infection.”

“I’ll make somethin’ up,” he shrugs, looking around. He picks up your keys off your desk and wags them. “Maybe you dropped your keys when you were headin’ in.”

“Jamie,” you warn. “You can’t leave the team so much because, beside the fact that they’ll notice something is up, you actually like being with them and—”

“I like you better. A lot prettier.” He closes his fingers around the keys.

You inch closer slowly, but he’s undeterred and blows you a kiss, leaving your office with only muddy tracks left in his place before you can catch up. “Do not come by in half an hour!”

He listens to you. Kind of.

You see him a few hours later, a cocky glaze on his features, keys clicking against one another. “Hey, doc, I think ya dropped somethin’.”

You snatch them from him. “What a gentleman.”

“Right? Had to fight for it, too. Coach must really like returning keys.”

“How’d you get him to give them up?”

“I jus’ left,” he shrugs.

You gape at him. “What?”

“I told ‘im I found your keys, he said he’d give ‘em to you after practice. I said you might need ‘em now and then I just went inside ‘fore he could call Will over. I should actually be gettin’ back now, our screaming break’s probably over.” He slinks over to you and kisses your forehead, smelling like grass and sweat and lavender detergent.

“What?” you echo.

“I’ll see you later. Can you pick up some food before you get home? Kent don’t really like it when I leave the screamin’. Says it’s most effective on me.”

He smiles at you, waves, and leaves you perplexed.

You put down what he stole from you and notice vibrant pink peeking beneath metal, a green stem’s end through the ring. When you pull it out, you recognize it as one of the flowers that keep growing at the far right edge of the field. You melt into your seat, pouting at the crumpled petals.

“So, what’s the verdict, Doc?” Ted asks when you come out of your room, dipping a finger behind your right glove.

“He’ll be okay. He can play this week’s game as long as he doesn’t put too much pressure on his foot. I told him to ice it periodically for two days and then just make sure it isn’t swelling.”

“No permanent damage, then?”

You laugh. “No permanent damage.”

Sam pushes your door open, leaning on a crutch.

“How you feelin’, champ?” Ted asks.

Sam shrugs. “I’ve been better. At least Doctor Y/n gave me the all clear for this week.” He looks pointedly at you, as if Ted might need confirmation from you.

“Under what conditions?” you pry.

“Rest, ice, compress, and elevate,” he lists off his fingers.

“The most important for you, Mr. Obisanya, being…”

“Not being on it for two days,” he answers, ever the great student.

“I wish all my patients listened as well as you do,” you commend, letting him go with a smile.

Ted watches him go, turning back to you with a cheery expression. “Well, thank you, Doc.”

“It’s what I’m here for.” You toy with your gloves, listening to the team erupt in noise once Sam assumedly gets back.

“And also to bring a smile to all our faces. Not to say that’s a purpose. Just a nice bonus.”

You laugh. “Thank you, Ted. Is there anything else you need from me?”

He shakes his head. “Oh, no, no. Just wanted to ask if you were interested in goin’ out with the team and I tonight.”

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, just the Crown and Anchor. We haven’t officially asked ‘em yet, but one thing that doesn’t change no matter where we are is that athletes always appreciate a good drink with good company.”

“Very true,” you murmur, contemplating. You hadn’t gone out with the boys in a while and you were beginning to miss their antics. You could sit around the house for the evening, or you could spend that same evening a little drunk with your friends. “You know what? Sure. I’d love to.”

“Alrighty then!” Ted cheers, pleasantly genuine in the way no one else is. “I’ll let ‘em know. We’ll see ya later, Doc!”

“You too, Ted!” you call after him, slumping into your chair once you’re alone. Your phone vibrates from the table, lighting up with a picture of Jamie that he’d insisted you set as his profile picture. “Hello?”

“Coach says yer coming with us tonight?”

You stare at your door. “He just left. How could he have possibly already told you that?”

“Team groupchat. He was very insistent about it an' m'honestly not that upset about it anymore.”

You laugh. “I am going. Are you?”

“Course. D’you want me to pick you up?”

“How do we explain that?”

“I’m a gentleman?”

“To this degree? Do you think they’d believe that?”

“I’ll go before. Help ya pick out your clothes, put ‘em on?”

“You’ll see me when I get there.”

“C’mon, love. I want to be the first.”

“You always are!”

“Do you really wanna risk that streak?”

“Yes.” Other voices begin to filter in, still far away but getting closer. “I’ll see you there, Jamie. I love you.”

Jamie pauses, a soft shuffling noise preceding what is clearly Jamie’s palm curving around his phone’s speaker. “I love ya, too,” he whispers. You hang up, leaning into your seat. Your phone zzpts in your hand.

send a picture. Three dots, blinking in and out. please.

Humming, you debate it before: i’ll think about it.

Jamie, of course, is the first to see you.

He looks for you in every creak of the pub door, slyly craning his neck to check for the color of your hair or the burgundy coat you tend to wear on these outings. When he finally catches sight of you, he looks away, satisfied to have been the owner of the first glance.

The others spot you quickly, raising their beers in your direction. Zoereaux puts your drink in your hand, cold bubbles splashing the curve of your thumb.

You thank him, kissing his cheek in greeting as the others crowd you. “Maybe I should be worried you all know my order.”

“Absolutely not,” Ted chimes in from your other side. “Knowledge is love.” He hugs you too. “Glad you could make it, Doc.”

You push yourself onto a seat next to Jan Maas, tipping your glass at him. “You look nice,” he says.

“Thank you,” you respond. “You too.”

“Doc?” Isaac asks.

“You can call me by my name, Isaac.”

He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “Nah. Feels weird now.”

“Alright. What’s up?”

“My sister says thank you for the advice. Her leg’s all better now and she told me to invite you over for dinner.”

“She doesn’t have to do that.”

“She insists.”

“You should just accept,” Colin says. “She makes a good Shepherd’s pie and won’t give up.”

Isaac nods, jutting a finger in his direction.

“Of course, then. Can’t wait.”

The conversation continues, and you indulge a glance at Jamie to find him looking back at you, an inquisitive pull to his brows. Your eyebrows jump, trying to ask a question with only your features.

You pull your phone from your pocket and begin typing out a message for him when the topic somehow heads back to you.

“Hey, d’you end up going on that date?” Bumberbatch asks suddenly.

You blink. Jamie turns to him curiously. “What?”

“With the prick. You know. Coiffed hair, All puffed up.”

“Um.” You try very hard to not look at Jamie, who’s surely staring at you with wide, amused eyes. “Yes. Yes I did.”

“How’d it go?” Isaac urges. Your mouth is open with no certain words to comfort.

“Yeah. How’d the date with the prick go?” Jamie pipes up, sliced brow up. He’s awful. Truly, truly awful and he knows it.

You force a smile at him. “Not as bad as I thought.” The team mumbles in satisfaction but Jamie doesn’t give.

“Not as bad, huh?” Jamie repeats, lips thinning in thought. “I dunno.” He does a little shake of his head and licks his lips, meeting your eyes again. “Maybe it went a little better than that?”

You clear your throat, heat rising to your face though you try desperately to keep it down.

Colin raises a brow. “Why would you say that?”

Jamie shrugs, unfairly unphased. “Just askin’.”

The attention moves off of you. You glare at him.

He smiles and, in the wake of a controversial argument between cartoons, winks at you. Your legs go weak.

You’re supposed to sit with the coaches during matches. Keeley had been upset at first and Rebecca sorry, offering a replacement medical professional for a game if you were so inclined to observe a game from the box seats, but you’d refused. Your place, although precarious with flying balls and the grandest source of stress, is kind to you.

You sit behind Ted during matches. The back of his head is surprisingly comforting in the tensest points of a match, and you find you can catch the preliminary movements of his fingers when you’re nearby.

There isn’t much contorting you have to do to sprint into the field if you’re needed, and the seat itself isn’t too bad when you’re not. Also, you have a great view.

You’re close enough to feel the strength with which the players kick the ball, you’re part of the very exclusive audience to the coaches’ hope, and when he gets close enough, Jamie can hear your cheers for him very clearly.

You’re completely sure he can hear you now, shouting at the top of your lungs up front with the coaches, fists tight enough to shake. He speeds up with renewed energy, the ball a blur between fast legs and fake passes. You grasp Roy’s arm with everything in you and let your eyes move to the timer. Less than fifteen seconds to go and a tie glares in blocky red numbers.

Your fingers spark with something hot, curling tighter around Roy’s wrist when the ball is passed to Jamie.

The time goes by too slowly and the ball flies too fast, a defender slamming to the ground with his hands up as Jamie’s kick sends the ball into the net. The clock ticks for the last time. The arena erupts in sound and a combination of red and blue.

You scream, finally letting go of Roy to drag your hands to your face. Isaac and Dani embrace on the field, most of the others running toward Jamie but Jamie is sprinting toward you.

You realize too late what’s going on, too proud of Jamie, too dizzy on adrenaline and excitement to realize what’s about to happen and why it shouldn’t.

He comes up to you beaming, picking you up easily and spinning you around. You respond immediately, palms against his warm cheeks, lips pressing repeatedly against his forehead and then finally his lips. “You did so good,” you praise, hoping he can hear you even through the overwhelming noise. “I’m so proud of you.”

He grins, finally catching your lips and lowering you to the floor. It takes only two seconds for what happened to settle in. You can see it on his face, the exhilaration contorting into recognition. He finally looks away from you and gulps.

The stadium is still loud, but most of the team is looking at you, caught in differing positions of celebration. Ted stares at the both of you, jaw dropped.

“What do we do?” he whispers to you. “Do you think they’ll believe it if we say it was an accident?”

“No,” you respond just as quietly. “No, I don’t think so.”

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