Jamie had been on your case for weeks—“Come to the match, come to the match, it’s against fuckin’ Arsenal, come on, it’s a big one!” You finally gave in, took a break from work, and found yourself standing in the belly of the stadium, post-match chaos echoing through the halls.

You were older than him by a good few years, practically raised him half the time when your dad couldn’t be arsed. So yeah, you’d earned your peace and quiet. But Jamie? Still a loud, flashy little shit—good heart underneath it all, sure—but exhausting.

You peeked your head into the locker room, knocking on the doorframe. “Oi. Anyone seen Jamie? He’s got like, three missed calls from me.”

And that’s when Roy saw you.

He looked up mid-sentence, towel slung around his shoulders, mid eye-roll at something Jamie was saying. And then—bam—you.

You weren’t flashy. Weren’t trying too hard. Had this calm, deadpan way of standing there like you owned the fucking room, but weren’t desperate to be noticed. You didn’t squeal his name, didn’t push your way through—just waited.

And Roy? He did a proper double take. Not because you were fit—though, yeah, you were—but because you were nothing like Jamie. It was like someone took his DNA, stripped all the arrogance out of it, added common sense, a better filter, and a spine, and made you.

You caught his stare, raised a brow. “You alright, mate? You look like you saw a ghost.”

He blinked. “You’re Tartt’s sister?”

You sighed. “Unfortunately.”

Roy cracked a smile before he could stop it. Fuck. You were a Tartt, but the good kind. The kind that might actually shut Jamie up with a single look.

And yeah… he was already thinking about not being such a dickhead around you. Maybe even asking your name.