Work Text:
“Oi Jamie, Daz,” one of the lads calls through the door to his shared room, “c’mon bruv, they’ve called a meeting.”
Jamie looks at his roommate, Daz or whatever the fuck his name is, and he shrugs. Well then, better fucking see what the producers have cooked up this time. It’s only been a few weeks, this stint on Lust Conquers All , and he’s getting fucking sick of it already.
It’s one of those stupid quizzes, all personal questions to get everyone riled up, Jamie discovers once he settles down in the shared common room. Jamie’s not in the fucking mood for it. Last night his advances were struck down, and he needs an in with one of the girls soon, before the next eviction. He’d been planning on what to do next, whether the jacuzzi angle would work, when his planning session had been rudely interrupted by the group meet.
“Alright, first question,” one of the girls says, bright eyed and giggly. “Who’s cheated on their partner before?”
A few hands go up. Jamie’s one of them. A misunderstanding at the time, but he's not going to let anyone else figure that one out. He still feels a bit bad about it, truth be told, but it was best for the pair of them to finish up anyway.
A few cheers, a few boos from the gathered contestants. Two blokes fistbump.
“Next question, let’s start with Jamie on this one.” She sends him a wink. “Have you ever slept with a coworker?”
Laughter bubbles up from Jamie’s lips before he can stop it. All eyes turn to him. “I’d be in a spot of bother if I fucked one of my ‘coworkers’,” Jamie feigns, “considering the gorillas I usually play with.”
It’s not an answer though. Not real, not honest. Just a show and a smile. What is he supposed to tell them, the truth? That he has slept with a coworker, at least once before. That they fucked, or didn’t fuck fuck, but fucked? That they were technically colleagues the first time, but not the second? And the third time that barely counts but still kind of counts because Jamie can’t stop thinking about it?
Well there lies the issue, he thinks to himself. How the fuck is he supposed to classify whatever the fuck happened with him and Roy? Cause he sure as shit won’t call it sleeping together. There was no sleeping, no fucking beds. Just him and Roy, hands and mouths and filthy fucking words that make him shiver whenever he thinks about those moments too long. It’s not exactly what he’d call sleeping together, even if it would count where the producers are concerned.
What would happen if he told them the truth? Told them that a senior player at one of his clubs approached him in the showers, sucked him off, then proceeded to have a wank in the shower next to him. And that he turned to the same fucking player, weeks later, sucked him off in his fucking kitchen, then proceeded to give eachother a handy to finish up. And then once Jamie had crushed their dreams of playing football, they had the hottest phone sex Jamie’s had in… well, in forever. How the fuck is he supposed to say that? He’s Jamie fucking Tartt for Christ’s sake.
Still, might be worth saying it for the hell of it. He wonders if Roy will ever hear it, wonders what he might think of Jamie’s answer. He’d be pissed, surely. He’d have to be. Jamie wonders if Roy’d be pissed enough to take it out on Jamie, maybe in a way they’d both like. He snorts softly. Fuck, as if Roy would ever lower himself to watching trash like this. This shit’s for teenage girls and housewives who aren’t getting it good enough from their husbands, not Roy fucking Kent. Like Roy would give a shit what Jamie was doing, or who he was doing. Like Roy Kent would fucking actually care.
“So you’ve never… you know… with anyone on your team? Not like in the showers or anything?” One of the girls asks, a glimmer in her eyes.
“Have you seen the lads on my last team?” he asks, “as if.” He scoffs, shakes his head, waits for the laughter to trickle in.
It’s not technically a lie. He never slept with any of his Man City teammates. Never wanted to. Roy Kent’s got him sick in the head, got him after only one bloke. Fucker.
“Would you?” asks one of the blokes beside him.
“What, sleep with one of the Manchester City boys? Fuck off mate.”
“Any of them. Footy boys, your thing?”
Jamie licks his lips, throws on his signature smirk. “Let’s just say my thing is anyone who’s as good as me, and no one in the Premier League right now is as good as me.”
That gets him a laugh, a few coy smiles from those who think they’re in Jamie’s league. A few of them might be right.
They move onto someone else, and Jamie practically sighs in relief. He loves attention, makes it half of his performance on the field, but he’s glad the spotlight is off him for at least now. No pressure to fuck things up, say something he didn’t mean to. On the field, it’s different. He almost always knows how to act. There’s a plan, there’s him, and there’s his skill. No stupid questions. Everyone’s watching, watching him, but they don’t give a fuck about what comes out of his mouth. In the middle of a match, he could say he wants to shag the Queen of England, and maybe only Piers would kick up a stink about it.
What would it mean if people found out about what happened with him and Roy? Or him and any bloke, they don’t have to name names. Would it even matter?
It would matter to his dad, that’s for sure. Fuck, his dad wouldn’t like that one bit. But fuck his dad. That’s the whole fucking point of fucking off from Manchester and coming on this fucking show.
Would it matter to Roy? Maybe. Didn’t seem like anything could matter to him too much. Jamie’s heard the stories, read the Buzzfeed articles. Roy Kent’s got shit taste in women. What does that say about his taste in men? At least Jamie hasn’t stolen Roy’s watch? But then again, Jamie did fuck up Roy’s knee, no matter what Roy says, no matter how many people tell him otherwise. He didn’t steal Roy’s watch, but he stole Roy’s career, the final nail in the coffin of it anyway.
It’s a bit fucked up then, that Roy forgave him. Wonders what it says about him that he needed Roy’s forgiveness that bad. Wonders what it says about Roy that Roy forgave him for it. That Roy watched him, talked him through another fucking breakdown and then talked him through a fucking earth-shattering orgasm, best he’s had in a while, at least by himself, through the fucking phone.
He’s not allowed his phone, not allowed to contact anyone in the outside world while on this stupid show. At least that’s what his contract said. He wonders if Roy’s messaged him, tried to phone him. Wonders if Roy fucking cares that Jamie left Manchester, left football behind for a stint on telly. Wonders if he gives a toss at all.
His dad’s probably called. Probably filled up his whole message bank. Ever since he came back into Jamie’s life, he’s not taken too kindly to being ignored. The black eye his dad gave him the other week can attest to that. And that’s ignoring the whole “leaving Manchester City, coming on a reality TV show without asking permission first” thing. He’s fucking in for it when he goes home.
“Sorry, what was that?”
They laugh. “I said, have you ever kissed anyone of the same gender as you?”
Heat rushes to his cheeks, thinking about that night in Roy’s kitchen, caught between a stone countertop and the hard planes of Roy’s body. Pretty fit for a geriatric. Remembers the collision, hard and fast and needy, mouths on each other like they needed to be there. Fuck, he was aching for it, didn’t think Roy would even dream of kissing him. He probably doesn’t, but he did, in that moment. Roy kissed him. He kissed Roy. And then Roy shoved him to his knees and made him suck his cock.
Fuck, if he’s not careful he’ll be hard in his pants before the next break. “Once or twice,” he answers with a grin. ”But I don’t kiss and tell.” He flicks out his tongue for good measure. He catches a bloke or two watching the movement.
Maybe he doesn’t need to win one of the girls this week. Maybe he just needs one of the lads. He wonders what Roy would think of that.
FIN