The locker room was louder than usual, music thumping, boots clattering, jokes flying. You were half-tuned out, focused on packing up your things when you heard it—voices from the visiting team echoing down the hallway. Laughter. Names. Yours.

"That Richmond player—what’s their deal? More attitude than talent."

"Thought they were someone, all media-trained and full of it. Just a mascot with boots on."

You froze, jaw tight. You hadn’t even played today. Just another target.

Before you could move, the sound of shouting erupted down the corridor. Jamie’s voice, unmistakably pissed.

“The fuck did you just say?”

There was a scuffle. Someone yelling “Oy, break it up!” Metal clattered. By the time Roy and a security guard got there, Jamie’s lip was split, and the other player looked like he'd seen a ghost.

Roy was livid—face storm-dark, voice low and lethal. “Benched. One match. No arguments.”

Jamie didn’t protest. Didn’t even look at Roy. His eyes flicked to you, then away.

You didn’t see him again until hours later, when you heard a knock at your door. You opened it, and there he was—hands in his pockets, hoodie over his head, bruised and quiet.

“Hey.”

Your arms crossed. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“They were talking about you.”

“I don’t need a fight club bodyguard, Jamie.”

He gave a tired laugh. “I know. You’re stronger than me in most ways.”

Silence stretched.

“I just… I don’t like it. The way they talked about you. I wanted to shut them up. Even if it was stupid.”

You stared at him, the anger bleeding out of your chest, replaced by something heavier. Something warmer.

“You’re an idiot,” you said, finally.

“Yeah,” he smiled faintly. “But I’m your idiot, right?”