#football facts and medical facts were treated with a fair bit of carefree ignorance

[thetarttfuldickhead]

what if, one match while jamie's being a prick, winding up the opposing team like only he can, one of the guys on the opposite team takes their frustrations with him too far and takes a swing at him, making contact with his face before anyone can stop him. jamie goes down, and some of the richmond boys are pulling the other guy away while some stay behind to check on him. I'd imagine jamie would get taken off the pitch to get checked out, since it's a hit to the head. what do you think roy's and keeley's reactions would be?

When it happens, it happens quickly.

It's the third game of the season, and Jamie’s in rare form. Has been ever since training resumed after the summer break, really, somehow bringing his very best great teammate game and his prince prick of all pricks game to every match. Once he’d needed a signal; these days he just knows when it’s time to pass the ball and when it’s time to bear down on the goal like fucking Nemesis.

Like something’s settled in him, slid into place.

It’s fucking gorgerous to watch, Roy thinks, nodding approvingly as Jamie slides the ball back to Sam with a deft twist of his ankle.

Unsurprisingly, today’s opponents do not agree. It’s an even game, 2-2 with only ten minutes left to go, and when United takes the ball off of Bumbercatch and initiates their own attack (fortunately ending in the ball going over the sidelines and a thrown-in for Richmond) that’s when Jamie decides it’s time to kick things up a notch and go full prick. Roy watches him jog up to United’s Westerly (whom he has been more or less been running circles around the entire match) and mutter something to him, grinning in that way that used to drive Roy up the fucking wall (still does on occasion), and Westerly—

—fucking swings at him, and before Roy can fully process what is happening Jamie’s down on the grass and players from all over the pitch is running over to hold Westerly back and hold Isaac back as he charges at Westerly and the sound of the whistle is shrill over the roars from the stands and there’s the red card and Sam and Dani are both kneeling by Jamie’s side as the rest of the two teams are either getting all up in each others faces or trying to pull each other away and Jamie is not getting up and—

Roy doesn’t realize that he’s moving before a firm hand on his arm holds him back. “Can’t go on the pitch, Coach,” Beard cautions. “Medic will check on him.”

Truthfully, Roy isn’t fully sure if he was moving to check on Jamie or to punch Westerly in the balls, but Beard’s calm voice cut through the red mist somewhat. He takes a deep breath, calling on the exercises Dr. Fieldstone has had him practising for the better part of the summer. They don’t help much, perhaps, but they do help.

The medical staff is already making their way over to Jamie and thank fucking God he’s rolling over on his back and seems to try to sit up only Sam’s holding him down. Looks like there’s blood on his face but if he’s moving then he’s not fucking dead, is he, or paralyzed and Roy doesn’t need to throw his career away to run over there and break Westerly’s fucking neck even though he can already imagine how fucking satisfying the sound of it snapping would be and—

Roy closes his eyes. Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. Hold.

Football is a contact sport. Getting knocked down is all part of the game. Emotions run high during a match, all that adrenaline, and fuck knows Roy’s been fouled more times than he can count. He knows, too, that Jamie can take a hit as well as anyone – but that wasn’t just rough play gone a little too far, that was a deliberate fucking punch to the face and this isn’t fucking ice hockey, is it, that shit is not fucking on.

Even so, Roy’s surprised to realize how angry he is. After all, he’s punched Jamie in the face himself, and that wasn’t even half a year ago.

That was different, somehow. For one, Jamie didn’t need to be led of the pitch and sat down on the grass just a couple of meters away from Roy as Nate tells Roberts to get warm and is it really déjà vu if you know for a fact just what the situation reminds you off?

His phone buzzes. He pulls it out, mostly for a distraction while the medical staff try to stop the nosebleed and check Jamie for concussion.

A text from Keeley. Is he okay???

Before he has time to even begin typing an answer, she’s calling him, and he can’t not answer, can he? Not when he understands how worried she must be, stuck far above it all in the VIP box.

“Hey.”

“Is he all right?” She sounds breathless, tense.

He wonders if that ought to make him jealous. It doesn’t; if anything, it feels good that they’re in this together, just like it had back in Manchester when they conspired (badly) to bring Jamie out of his funk.

“I don’t know. I mean, he’s not fucking dead.” It comes out harsh, but he trusts that Keeley knows him well enough to know why.

“Are they not telling you what’s going on? You’re the fucking coach!” Harsh, but he knows Keeley well enough to know why.

“Have to let the medical staff do their job first. They’re still checking him out, can’t fucking crowd them.”

Jamie’s still sitting up, at least, and while he looks a little dazed he seems responsive enough to the medics’ questions. One of them glances over their shoulder at Roy, which Roy takes as an invitation to move over.

“Hang on,” he mutters into the phone before turning to the medic. “Well?”

“The nose isn’t broken,” she tells him. “We can’t rule out concussion yet, though, so he’s not going back out there. Besides, he’s still bleeding.”

Jamie looks like he maybe wants to argue but thinks better of it. Roy doesn’t know if that has anything to do with the quelling look he gives the younger man. I’m fine with him playing hurt, he’d told Ted not long ago, but Beard had had a point then, hadn’t he? And Dr. Fieldstone, too, when she’s gently but persistenly questioned how well pushing himself to just keep going through any and all pain had actually worked out for him.

“Yeah, okay,” Roy says, acknowledging the medic’s verdict with a jerk of his head. He glances over at Nate, who nods and motions for Roberts to go on.

Then Roy turns back to Jamie, only to find Jamie looking up at him, his face and shirt a mess of blood and dirty smudges.

“How are you feeling?” Roy asks. “Keeley wants to know too,” he adds, holding up his phone to demonstrate.

Jamie smiles a little at that, and Roy feels something in his chest loosen. “I’ll be fine, Coach, Keeley,” Jamie assures him – them. His voice is almost completely steady.

Roy nods sharply. “Yeah, you will.” He reaches down to squeeze Jamie’s shoulder, once. “Great playing out there today. It’s no wonder that fucking arsehole punched you, because there’s no other way he could ever have put a fucking stop to you, yeah?”

He’s rewarded with another smile, slightly bigger this time, and then the medical staff move to take Jamie away and Roy is walking back to the other coaches, speaking into his phone: “He’ll be all right. Might have a concussion, though.”

Keeley lets out a long sigh, almost like a sob. Roy can hear her tell Rebecca that Jamie’s going to be fine, and then she’s back in his ear, fear giving way to both fury and relief: “I’m still taking my stiletto heel to that fucking wanker Westerly if I ever get the chance. Do you think we should go to his place after the game, or should we bring him to mine? Jamie, I mean, not the wanker.” When Roy doesn’t immediately answer, she adds, “We have to watch over him, right? Make sure he doesn’t fall asleep or play video games or something?”

“Don’t think you actually have to do that,” Roy says, but before she can protest, he adds: “But yeah, of course we’ll fucking watch over him.”

Of course they fucking would.