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If Rebecca was expecting anything useful at all from Rupert fucking Mannion, mere weeks before ownership of AFC Richmond transfers to her, it was not that he manages to sign on Jamie Tartt as a loanee for the season.
Rupert had hated Jamie Tartt for as long as he’d been a name in the Premier League. The first time Rebecca heard him say that name, she was reminded of when she first new a little Mancunian boy, with dreams of Premier League. Rebecca was thirty-four and heartbroken over Rupert’s refusal to have children. Rupert was fifty-six and still buying her expensive jewellery each time he insulted her (that wouldn’t stop until she was thirty-seven, and according to him, no longer young).
She had gone out, to the park near the hotel in Manchester. Richmond were playing City later that evening, and Rebecca needed some time alone to clear her head before facing Rupert and his friends and the girls they would bring with them but who ultimately ended up hanging off of Rupert’s every word and charming smile. About half an hour previously, she had seen the secondary school children make their way through, some milling for five or ten minutes before heading to the shops or heading home. All except one.
He had brought a football with him, and ever since he had arrived, was shooting penalties against the wall of an old building with a painted-on goalpost. When his friends were around, he got them to point out specific spots that he’d hit with terrifying accuracy. He can’t be more than twelve or thirteen, but he’s more accurate with his shots than most lads years older than him.
He does miss, once. It bounces off the wall and directly over to the bench Rebecca was sat at. He chases after it, face flushed red with exertion.
“Sorry! ‘M sorry, didn’t meat to hit you!” He calls, eyebrows furrowed with worry. Oh, he’s adorable.
She picks up the ball from where it landed at her feet. “You didn’t hit me, no need to apologise. There you go, go on. Do you think you could score from here?”
The boy grins when she hands back the ball, before turning to face the wall, staring at the makeshift goal with determination. “I think so.”
Rebecca grins back. “Oh, well, I know so. Go on, prove us both right, will you?”
He sets up the ball in front of him, takes three steps back, and squints towards the goal. When he rushes forward and boots it towards the wall, and it hits the top right corner with brilliant accuracy, he jumps up and cheers, while Rebecca watches, clapping and laughing. “Well done!”
He jogs over to grab his ball, puts it down on the grass, and kicks it again, this time into the opposite top-left corner. Rebecca keeps cheering him on, pointing out new spots for him to try.
He only misses once. The ball bounces off the wall slightly above the ‘crossbar’, and the poor boy freezes.
Rebecca’s seen this before, with football players: younger lads, usually, who’s parents act like they’re cheering them on but in truth do nothing but tear down brilliantly talented players for mistakes or flukes on the pitch.
“Sweetheart, that’s okay! Now you’ve done it once, you know what not to do, so you’ll get it right this time. I know you will.” She tries to encorage, collecting the ball herself and handing it back over. He sniffles, and wipes at his eyes, but when he runs up and takes the kick, he hits the goal dead on, and the blinding grin is back plastered on his face.
Unfortunately, their victory doesn’t last long. The ball bounces off in the wrong direction, and rolls into the road. Some delivery truck driving far too fast ends up bursting it. The poor boy bursts into silent tears with it, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and hicupping with the effort to swallow down his sobs.
“’M not- ‘m not a crybaby. I swear. I dunno- dunno why-”
“That’s alright. Sometimes people just need to cry. You know, I schedule time into my day to cry, sometimes, because that’s how life works when you’re an adult. Everything’s a bit shit, you have a good cry about it, then everything’s a bit less shit.” Maybe twelve year olds don’t really need to hear the lamentations of a thirty-something woman, but crying is crying, and it makes him laugh.
“Really?”
“Oh, yeah. Best part of my day, sometimes.”
He giggles again, wetly and muffled behind his hands.
“I’m sorry about you’re ball sweetheart.”
“’S okay. Not you’re fault, really, innit?” He shrugs, wiping the wetness of his face. “Might just have to wait a while ‘fore we can buy a new one. Or I can nick one from school, but I didn’t say that.”
Rebecca laughs again. “Tell you what, can you buy them nearby?”
Surprisingly, he scowls up at her, mumbling angrily. “Don’t need your charity.”
“I know you don’t need it but. Well, you’ll be doing me a favour, you see? I need to be somewhere I don’t particularly want to be, but if I can pick my husband something up on the way, then I can be late and it’ll all be fine!”
The boy seems to contemplate that for a moment, brows screwed up in consideration again, before he nods. “There’s a Sports Direct ‘bout five minutes that way. Want me to show you?”
“That would be helpful, yes, but I feel I must warn you against letting strange adults follow you places just because they offered to buy you something.”
He shrugs again, smiling, before sticking out his hand in an approximation of a handshake. “’M Jamie. Jamie Tartt.”
Rebecca smiles, and takes it. “I’m Rebecca Mannion. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jamie.”
AS Jamie said it would, the walk to the nearest Sport’s Direct only takes five minutes or less, and Rebecca lets Jamie run wild in the Football section, telling him, “Find you’re favourite!” and handing him a twenty pound note. Which is probably a little too much to spend on a twelve-year-old’s football, but Rebecca has too much money on her anyway.
She ends up picking up a new Richmond scarf for herself and Rupert. She pushes Jamie towards the till, and he pays for himself with a beaming smile, while she buys her scarfs with the cashier beside him, who takes a look between the two and mouths cute.
“Your a Richmond fan?”
“Well- I’ll tell you a bit of a secret, Jamie.” He leans closer eagerly as they wait to cross the road. “I don’t really keep up with football that much, but my husband does, and he loves Richmond, so I pretend to keep him happy.”
Jamie nods solemnly, before proclaiming, “City are gonna win today.”
“Oh yeah? You watching the game?”
“Dad got tickets, but he’s taking his mates, so me ‘n my Mummy ‘n my Simon are gonna watch it at home.”
“Well, I hope you enjoy then!” Rebecca smiles, and ruffles Jamie’s hair fondly, making his eyebrows scowl but his face smile. “Now I really need to go, and if you want to make it home for the beginning of the match, so should you!”
Neither City nor Richmond win that day, they draw two-all. Rebecca hopes Jamie wasn’t too disappointed with that score.
Later that season, Jamie doesn’t burn a pair of football boots from his Mum. He brings out a well-worn and ripped and oh so loved football from Sports Direct. Tells the story with a smile, and says: the first thing I ever bought on my own, and it wasn’t my money, and y’know boss, you were the first person other than my Mummy who told me that it’s okay to make mistakes.
Rebecca doesn’t call Man City. She drinks with the boys and warms up by the fire and says it wasn’t my money, it was Rupert’s. Jamie drinks to that, smirking, saying, fuck him. I’d gladly steal more, if you’d like?