nothing is burning here, my father would laugh

After that, it’s muscle memory: force his limbs to remember their routine motions, thrust an arm out to accept the bundle of fabric, strip off his kit for his Richmond zip-up and trackkies, tuck away his boots, slide on his trainers, don’t bother to shower, would rather do it at home when he can stay under the water long enough to pretend that he’s drowning. Try not to think about don’t speak to me like that. Try not to think about you can have that one for free. Try not to think about a room full of strained, stunned faces, and no one saying a thing, just watching and watching; Then fire pulsing through Roy Kent’s hands and lighting up his skin.

In the aftermath of the FA cup semifinal against Man City, Jamie Tartt burns.