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He says he does not have tea in the house.
All I am left to ponder is: why I am even surprised?
Trent Crimm (the Independent) pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping it would help him get out of this mind fog. 'Tired' was not an accurate description for the state he was in. The absolute state he was in...
I find myself, this morning- Trent looked at the window, thin rays of early sunlight coming through its closed blinds. I find myself, this sunny spring morning, in the private quarters of what some might call 'the enemy'. Others would call him 'wanker', a term he has gotten used to so much that it has grown on him, in his own words. His theory, undoubtedly derived from second-rate motivational management lecture, is that one might as well own a derogatory judgment, might as well roll with it.
"Hey, Trent," a voice addressed him from somewhere in the house. The kitchen, more than likely; a room he had not set foot in yet. Trent imagined a wasteland of empty carbohydrates and fake cheese. He could almost smell the sweetened peanut butter. "I can make us some coffee, if you want?"
"Oh, God, that would be lovely."
Ted Lasso's face, all cheer and merriness, popped through the open bedroom door. "You sound like you're in dire need of it."
"Most likely because I am."
"You don't look it, though. You gotta tell me your skincare routine, man."
Trent shrugged off the compliment. He wasn't sensitive to those as much as other people. Especially not as much as most people involved in the football business.
"I don't have one, really."
"You're kidding!" Ted gave him an admiring look and Trent looked the other way. "Then it's gotta be your diet. What's your secret?"
At a loss, Trent answered with: "Chips and curry?"
Lasso made a face. "I was so hoping you wouldn't say that." He made a bow and a ballerina turn in his pair of colourful high socks, doing an elegant slip on the wooden floor. "We have processed your order, sir. Coming right up!" And with a swoop, he was out of Trent's sight.
Ted- he corrected himself- Lasso radiates modesty, a lack of pretention that has become so rare in the world of professional sports it feels like a breath of fresh air. Or rather, like a splash of cold sparkling water right in the face.
And yet, by some manner of vulgar yankee magic, this lack of pride, of dignity is precisely what makes him dignified. There is nothing you can say to him that he has not already heard. Slinging insults at this, frankly, ridiculous excuse for a Premier League coach is a misguided waste of energy. Energy best conserved as to observe where this story goes next, because there is no telling what will happen around a personality this chaotic.
The dryness of his throat had reached Sahara levels. He reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and emptied it, thankful for his host's hospitality and diligence. He pressed his palms to his eyes. He was lucky there was no headache to speak of. And that his glasses were safe on the nightstand instead of in a hundred pieces somewhere on a sidewalk. But he really, really had to watch out, next time. He was no longer the carefree lad he had been fifteen years ago, back when he could do regular pub crawls, skip his bed altogether and still manage to meet every deadline his editors set for him. In his defense, how could he have predicted the stamina of the American? How he had chugged pint after pint without visible effects? How he had still been standing steady long after midnight? He couldn't have.
"Hey, I would say your 'just got out of bed" look is on point, but you're still in bed," Ted waltzed back into the room, carrying two big mugs.
Lasso has been deemed talentless, without merit, in the absolute sense, Trent's mind, slowly waking up, continued his musings. That assumption is demonstrably false. He has access to a seemingly bottomless pit of small talk, cringe jokes and, worst of all, puns.
"Lemme guess," Ted began, his already strong American accent so powerful in the early hours that it made Trent's toes curl in agony, "you're writing pieces in your head again?"
Wait.
"How... What gave you that idea?"
"You told me. That that's something you just do. Like, all the time."
"I told you that?"
Ted appeared to search his memory and nodded conclusively. "Yeah. You did. We were outside, so it was probably close to three AM. You said that you write articles in your head when you're not typing them." He gave his best Trent imitation, which was frighteningly on the money. His eyebrows low, lips in a slight, sarcastic pout. Complete with that seventies rock star swing in his upper body he had tried so hard to cultivate. Even the accent was flawless, which made Trent wonder why he was still holding on to his roots when he could make his life in London so much easier.
"'It's just the way my mind works, Lasso. I'm an incurable tosser. When I stop whinging about irrelevant shite I forget who I am.' And I said, well, no wonder you're such a great journalist, then, with a mind like yours. Then you said 'oh, bollocks'. And then you kissed me."
I remember that kiss. I remember my words, too; bringing with it the terrifying realisation that I could not have been too drunk. I was there, I was conscious; I instigated it.
I will have to see myself in a different light. I will have to come to terms with the fact that I have snogged the laughing stock of the British isles, and enjoyed it.
"Very much so," Trent mouthed without sound, reliving what had happened the night before. It had been dark, overcast and gloomy, and the streets had been deserted. There were no witnesses to his moment of weakness, his desperate display of desperate affection. That counted for something, at least.
"I admire your literary talents, of course," Ted sat down on the bed next to him, "heck, I sometimes buy the Independent just to read your commentary. And I think you should just go for it and write that novel you've been meaning to write. But I have to say I am constantly worried that you're reviewing me when you whisper things. You know? Not that that's necessarily a bad thing. I value your opinion. But I'm... well, it makes me insecure. A little bit."
Trent raised his eyebrows. "Oh, does it?"
"I pride myself on not paying attention to "the haters"," Ted gestured, adding quotation marks. "It's different when it's somebody I do care about."
Even now, when he has barely slept, unwashed, in a faded ugly t-shirt and a faded ugly pair of shorts, topped off by silly socks that would kill James Dean's sex appeal in a heartbeat, he is - for lack of a better word- adorable. As lovely as a sugary cereal mascot from the States. As diabetic coma -inducingly cute as a squirrel in a Disney film. I cannot pretend that he does nothing to me when he does everything to me. I should know better, maybe. But I am glad that I do not.
"Whew. You're doing it now, ain't you?"
"Reviewing you?" Trent paused, taking in the sight of Lasso, uncomfortable and unable to hide it. "Why, yes. I certainly am."
"Yikes."
"That is one way to put it."
"Go ahead, then. Hit me." Ted raised his hands in the air, miming a surrender. "I believe it's healthy to face our fears. Give me your best. Or worst. Depends on who you are in this situation."
"Hm." Trent smiled, up for the challenge. "How about this? 'The only saving grace of Lasso's performance was that it was mercifully short'."
"Hey, now, wait a minute."
"If only 'a minute' was close to the truth." Ignoring Ted's protests he continued: "I often hear that while Americans are utterly incapable of anything resembling class, or culture, or civilisation, at the very least they can deliver spectacle. Mindless entertainment, devoid of deeper implications or nourishment in any way. With Lasso, however, I am sad to say that he is not a spectacular kind of bloke. Scoring on the field is well-nigh impossible for him. Who would have guessed that he would give even less of an impression off the field?"
"Holy smokes, Trent."
"In those relentlessly dull and soul-crushingly uneventful moments I spent in bed with this unfortunate-looking muppet caricature-" he tried to cover his face as Ted smacked him on his head with one of the bigger pillows- "...I turned my rapidly fading attention to his ceiling, hoping to find some sort of stimulation in the uneven finish of the white paint."
"I thought the Independent was a quality newspaper," Ted said, hitting Trent on the side of his face. "We got enough fake news as it is, don't you agree?"
Trent picked up a pillow to block Ted's attack. "Seeing that he's all 'howdy' and 'heya' on a good day, against my better judgement I was hoping that he would bring some cowboy bravado to our tragic parody of a wrestling session. But alas, nothing of the sort. And so, I was left with a rather unforgettable show of impotence-"
"Bull's eye!" Ted yelled triumphantly as he threw his pillow and it hit Trent right in the face. "Oh, I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"Of course you didn't."
Trent hooked his arm around Ted's waist, wanting him to get closer. Ted wanted it, too.
I can dance around it all I want. The truth is simple: I cannot keep my hands off of him. I can't stop myself- I'm like Maradona in the world cup quarter final. And the same could be said for him. Look at him- does he stare at anyone else the way he stares at you?
"In conclusion: it was dreadful. One out of five stars."
"You big, fat liar."
"Ask me to describe Ted Lasso in four words and I will answer: the inverse of charisma."
"You are way too good at this," Ted said, slowly running his fingers through Trent's hair.
Trent bowed his head with a grin. "Thank you."
"We shouldn't forget our coffee."
"No," Trent said, knowing full well that they would definitely forget their coffee because there was no way this intimate position (Lasso on his knees, Trent's legs between them; Trent's forehead leaning against his heart and his hands touching his back, underneath his shirt) wouldn't lead to anything more. He was just waiting for Ted to seal the deal.
"Can I kiss you?"
"If you insist."
"I insist."
"Well," sighed Trent, "alright then."
Friday, the 22nd of Januari, 2021
18:11