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“You feel it too, right?”
Ted’s pacing, his anxiety starting to rise. It’s not his fault, not this time. Richmond’s doing fine, near the top of the league. There haven’t been any paparazzi stories about the players lately, and he’s pretty sure that no one’s injuries are any worse.
So why is the locker room so anxious?
Beard nods, his eyes fixed on the players as they buzz around each other, that tension singing in the air. “Yup,” he agrees, evenly. “Crockpot of nerves, hormones, and worry.”
“Now that is a stew I wouldn’t ask for seconds of,” Ted guarantees, eyeing the locker room to see if any of them look on the cusp of having a mental breakdown. The tension seems to be in all of them. Even Dani looks stressed, which is basically like asking a golden retriever to do your taxes and then not even helping when he starts whining.
Well, then, there’s only one way to figure this out.
“Hey, y’all, help Beard and me out,” Ted calls out to the guys, rapping his knuckles lightly on the whiteboard to get their attention. “What’s going on?” he asks, searching around the room for the one to crack. “Why’s everyone checking their phones like Beyoncé just dropped new concert tickets.”
Unless…
“No, Coach, we would tell you if she did,” Sam promises.
That’s a relief, seeing as that’s a mistake he only intends to make once. “Okay, it’s not concert tickets, so what’s going on?”
“It’s the list,” Colin says, with a serious expression casting a pall over his face. He didn’t even look this serious when Ted had to put him on second string thanks to his injury. Trouble is, he might as well be speaking Welsh, for all that Ted understands what he’s talking about.
“The list. What list?”
“It’s a stupid fucking list,” Roy growls, throwing his towel into the laundry bin with more force than Ted thought possible with a piece of cotton. Then, he’s stomping off to the showers, so check that box for ‘someone’s got issues’ and then move on.
Ted looks to the others in his absence. “Well? Is Roy right?”
“It’s a ranking,” Dani explains, eyes bright and eager even if his smile looks somewhat strained.
“All right, now I’m getting it,” Ted agrees, gesturing around the room. “It’s a talent ranking? So someone’s listing Richmond’s players in order of skill?”
“It’s not that kind of ranking,” Richard says. “At least, not those kinds of skills.”
Ted waits, patiently, for someone to finally give.
It’s Sam who breaks, approaching with his phone. “See?” he says, scrolling through one of those listicles that Michelle always liked to send him when she saw something she thought he’d like. “It’s a list, from fifteenth to first. Richmond’s Hottest Players. This is last year’s.”
“Well, that’s just exciting!” It’s like a light’s suddenly gone off, flashing neon lights that get Ted excited. He scrolls through last years’ (ooh, some hot takes he disagrees with), searching for the name of who put it together. “Hold up, how come there’s no author? Because, Isaac, I gotta say, I think your honor needs some defending here.”
“Thanks, bruv,” Isaac murmurs, fist to his heart.
“It’s anonymous,” Colin says. “We don’t know who’s writing it. Rumor has it, it changes every year and they ask someone new to do it. We figure it’s someone from the Sun,” he says, as an uproar of groans goes around the room, “or maybe Rebecca pays someone to do it. Someone who doesn’t even know us.”
“If they did, I wouldn’t have been ninth,” Isaac keeps muttering, clearly displeased about his ranking (and rightfully so! Ninth, that’s just insulting, in Ted’s opinion, even if obviously someone has to lose in order for someone else to win).
“Well,” Ted says, handing back Sam’s phone. “That’s exciting,” he repeats his earlier words. “But this isn’t going to distract anyone, right?” He likes a little healthy competition as much as the next coach, but he doesn’t want it interfering with their latest run of wins. “Eyes on the prize, everyone. Right?”
There’s silence in the locker room, which is a shame because that means:
“Prize! Eyes!” Beard barks, startling most of the guys.
“Yes, Coach,” comes the half-hearted echo, before they go back about their business.
Ted’s got to figure out more about this list, but he doubts he’s going to do anything about it right now. He catches Beard’s speculative look as he erases the plays on the board, shrugging his shoulders like this is all plenty normal instead of what seems like objectification of a group of fine young men.
“Didn’t read about this one in the handbook,” Ted jokes.
“There’s a handbook?” Beard asks, with some of the world’s best mock-ignorance. Truly, he’s a talent, that one.
Ted shakes his head, nodding to the door. “Go on, start them off. I’ll be out there in a minute.”
Anonymous hottest countdown lists. Well, it’s not the strangest thing he’s had to deal with in his locker room, but Ted suspects the next few weeks are going to be challenging. Best to stock up on some compliments now before the bruised egos start rolling in, because he’s not about to let a little healthy competition ruin the progress they’ve been making.
Luckily, Ted’s a compliment machine. He’s got this. Anonymous list-maker doesn’t stand a chance.
Normally, Rebecca’s office is a sanctuary of peace and quiet in the morning -- it’s a peace that Ted crashes into and completely destroys. He’s intruded so many times with biscuits that he knows he’s practically invited now, even if Rebecca still insists that she doesn’t have the time.
This morning, someone else beat him to the punch. Not only that, but the door’s closed, and as much as Ted normally feels fine just barging in, Rebecca having non-Higgins company gives him pause. He hovers outside the door, ear pressed to it, as he tries to figure out who else would be here so early.
Not just that, but who’d be here so early and would be giggling with Rebecca.
“Stop,” Rebecca gasps. “Stop, you’ll make me pull a muscle.”
“You know it’s true though, yeah?”
Ah, Keeley, then. Ted raps his knuckles on the door, entering without bothering to wait now that he knows who’s in there. “Boss!” he greets Rebecca cheerfully. “Keeley,” he adds, watching as Keeley frantically yanks a bunch of papers into her arms, hugging them protectively close to her chest like a baby.
Ted waits a beat, staring at the both of them, but no explanations come.
“...okay, then,” he says sunnily, going with it. “Keeley, if I’d have known you were going to be here, I would’ve doubled up the biscuit batch,” he says apologetically, placing Rebecca’s pink box of biscuits on the desk.
The completely clean desk, with only Rebecca’s half-opened laptop resting on top of it.
Okay, then, indeed.
“You’d tell me if I did something that got you two mad at me, right?” he checks, seeing as this is all very clandestine and strange and usually is the kind of behavior that happens when there’s some very hot gossip going around that someone doesn’t want Ted to hear.
“It’s fine, Ted, really, you’re okay,” Keeley vows earnestly. “It’s just a bit of girl talk.”
“Absolutely,” Rebecca latches on quickly. “You know. Time of month and all.”
He sees Keeley mouth ‘time of month’ incredulously at Rebecca, which gives Ted all he needs to know. It’s absolutely not that kind of girl talk, but it still might be girl talk of a sort, and what really matters is that it’s none of Ted’s business.
Call him a rube, but he doesn’t mind acting like an idiot to spare everyone’s feelings. He knows exactly what they’re expecting out of him, so Ted does his best to deliver with an understanding nod (but no wincing, he will not wince, he is an ally and a staunch defender of women and their right to complain about their body’s tiny monthly alarm system burning down the place).
“Well, if y’all need me to dip those biscuits in chocolate tomorrow, you let me know,” he insists, taking a few steps back.
He doesn’t turn around, not yet.
“And if you happen to want to tell me what it is you’re whispering about, you know where to find me,” he can’t help adding, because curiosity didn’t just kill the cat, it’s slowly digging its nails into Ted and he knows it’ll be next to impossible to let it go.
Rebecca is hiding a smile, but Keeley’s sunnily waving at him. “Goodbye, Ted,” she says, poking Rebecca’s shoulder. “Go on, open it! We’ve only got a little time left before…”
Ted is going to give them the benefit of the doubt. If there’s something they don’t want to tell him, then it’s got to be for a good reason.
Besides, he’s not too concerned. If there’s one thing Ted’s good at, it’s wearing people down when they don’t even realize he’s inching layer by layer closer to the juicy center of whatever it is they’re hiding.
He’ll get to it -- eventually. And if not, well, then life’s full of all kinds of amazing unsolved mysteries. Bermuda Triangle, alien abductions, some very confusing Best Picture wins, and plenty more atop that to keep you scratching your head. If this happens to be one of them, then it’ll be in damn good standing.
Ted’s got a case of the Mondays and an email with a link to the brand new online list entitled Richmond’s Hottest Players.
The website has announced that they’ll be doing a countdown, updating daily for the next fifteen days at the same time every morning. It’s nearly enough to get him over the disappointment that the weekend’s over, even if it also brings a wave of dread with it.
They’re in the thick of this storm, now.
Beard’s scribbling out the first scrimmage formation when the rest of the room checks the list. The noise clatters to a soft hush, then to a complete stop.
Damn. Ted wishes he had a pin, because if ever there’s a time to try that one out, it’d be now.
He knows he could keep trying to get the guys focused on scrimmage and lineups, but seeing as they’re all staring at their phones like someone’s just told them that Rolos have been banned, Ted figures he might as well join the crowd. “Well?” he coaxes. “Don’t leave me in the dark, who’s number fifteen?”
“Nate.”
Nate perks up from where he’s scribbling on his clipboard. “I’m right here,” he says, giving Ted a confused look. “Wait, am I supposed to look it up?”
“No,” Colin says, voice strangled. “It’s Nate.”
The team looks confused and a little put-out, but he understands. It’s a little like biting into something red thinking it’s cherry and getting strawberry.
Two great tastes, but definitely unexpected when you’re thinking it’ll be one and you get the other.
Beard leans over and shows Ted the list. There it is. Number fifteen on Richmond’s Hottest. Nate the Great.
“I don’t understand, how’s Nate on the list?” Colin continues, not sounding aggressive so much as very confused.
“Well,” Ted says, even if he doesn’t exactly understand it either, but he’s aiming to prevent one of his coaches from suddenly becoming the least popular man in the zip code (postal code? He should ask Beard about that later). “The way I see it, everyone here is a part of the team. Beard, me, Nate, even Higgins and Rebecca,” he says.
“Rebecca deserves to be on there more than Nate,” Colin mutters.
Ted gives Nate an apologetic smile because, “Well, now, I don’t know anyone who’d disagree with that, but that doesn’t take away from this victory. You made the list, Nate!”
“I made the list,” Nate echoes, looking stunned.
“Looks like whoever’s doing the list this year took a much more inclusive look at what qualifies as part of the team and agrees with my way of thinking,” Ted says warmly, trying to guide the other players to appreciating this instead of it turning into a thing. “Hey, Beard, you think I’m gonna get on the list, too?”
Beard raises a brow. “Ten years ago, maybe.”
Hand over his heart, he winces like he’s on a stage performing for a jeering audience. “You hear that? That’s the sound of my heart breaking in two. He’s right, though,” Ted continues, catching a few smiles around the room as tensions start to ease, “My modelling days are long over.”
No one’s snapping at Nate, which means that the situation has been effectively de-escalated. Easy peasy.
He can absolutely do this for another fourteen days, because it’s all just a bit of fun, right?
Four days later, Ted’s changed his mind.
This is no longer the fun lighthearted countdown that he thought it was and it’s definitely not helping the team bond, what with most of them either arguing their placement or the placement of their fellow teammates. No one’s going home laughing and eating the ‘We’re All Attractive’ cookies that Ted baked, no one’s wearing a tiara and making best friends. Instead of being the kind of innocent fun he’d been hoping for, Ted’s staring at a cracked window that definitely isn’t going to get covered by their insurance policy.
“Isaac, huh,” he sighs, watching Colin and Richard talk him down.
“He’s upset about his place on the list,” Beard confirms.
Ted loads up the list on his phone. He whistles when the graphic loads. “Didn’t crack the top ten, I saw.” It might not be fun, but Ted still needs to see the joy in everything, otherwise how the hell do you laugh off the splintered glass on the ground. Trouble is, he’s struggling to find the joke in this one. “Rebecca said we’d run through our budget for Isaac incidents for the month, didn’t she?”
“Yup.”
“Think we can dip into our Roy ones?”
“Nope.”
“Right, right,” Ted says, frowning as he remembers the incident involving the trophy case after a reporter referred to Roy’s knees as ‘crumbling’. You put a man on injury leave for a few weeks and he gets so sensitive. “...I’ll cash in a favor, bring her an extra serving of biscuits, see if I can’t sweet talk an insurance adjuster.”
That solves the window.
As for Isaac? “Coach,” Ted says, nodding to Isaac. “Buy him a new pen, would you? Something with one of those bobbing heads, that ought to take some of the sting out of placing eleventh hottest.”
Beard vanishes and that afternoon, Isaac’s mood has tempered with the arrival of a brand new pen.
The crisis is averted.
Days later, after number five gets announced (Sam), the mood changes. Instead of wondering who’s going to be next, the room’s started obsessing about who’s behind the list. “Coach,” Colin asks, completely serious. “Is it you writing the list?”
Ted’s in the middle of scribbling out a play, looking over his shoulder to see if that’s a joke, but apparently, it is not. “Now, I know I like a good ranking the same as everyone else. How else are you spending a slow weekend if you’re not ranking Daniel Day-Lewis’ masterful collection, but I can assure you that I have better things to do with my time. Getting this team back to the premier league, for one!”
There’s a bunch of grumblings around the locker room, which isn’t exactly the level of enthusiasm Ted’s gunning for, but they’re also not prying and asking him any other questions.
Four more days, he tells himself, and they’ll go back to fussing about some other social media phenomenon that Ted doesn’t understand.
He closes the door of the office, but even here, he’s not safe from accusations.
“You’re sure it’s not you?” Beard asks, once he’s closed the door. “Nate got on the list and you have to admit, Sam’s higher up than most people would’ve expected. You were the one saying he needed a pick-me-up,” he points out.
That does sound like Ted. “Unless I’ve taken up sleep-writing, it’s not me. You?” he checks, because it’s the kind of left-field thing that Beard might undertake.
Beard shakes his head. “Sam would’ve been third,” he says flatly. “That smile,” he adds, without intonation.
That smile, indeed.
Ted’s got his suspicions, but he’s also not the type of man who sells out his friends. Besides, they’ve only got four more days of this and if past hubbub is anything to go off, actual player awards will quickly erase any hurt feelings when they come out by refocusing the team on the truly important merits.
“Four more days,” Ted says, staring out into the locker room as he watches a room full of grown men preen and check their reflections like a copy of Teen Vogue’s got them all sensitive about their acne and how it won’t make that cute boy like them. “You know what? They’ll bitch about it, but next time we’re on the road, book facials and pedicures for the whole lot,” he says, gesturing with his fingers.
“Self care is team care,” Beard agrees evenly, jotting the note down.
It definitely won’t solve it, but at least Ted feels like he’s doing something.
With equal dread and anticipation, Ted survives the next few days, until D-Day is upon them -- Decision Day. He would’ve thought that drafts and actual player awards would be more important than this, but maybe this is one of those European things he’s getting an education about.
“One more day, Coach,” Beard encourages, clapping him on the shoulder as Ted stares down the locker room.
He checks his watch, knowing that within moments, it’ll be a flurry of activity where everyone’s on their phones and Ted won’t be able to get anyone’s attention. One more day, a little more teasing, and then hopefully they’ll all move on to the next potential ego-bruising analysis.
“Hold up!” Zoreaux calls. “It’s loading, number one is posting!”
The chaos of the locker room fades into stunned silence as a whole team refreshes their devices to see who’s mainlining the top of the list.
“No fucking way,” Colin murmurs.
Ted should know better. He should practice restraint and self-control, but damn it, he’s just as curious as the rest of them.
“Nate,” he hisses, “Turn that towards me.” Nate, numbly, nods and shifts the screen of his phone so Ted can see who’s at the top of the Richmond’s Hotter Player list at numero uno.
The locker room is quiet. There’s none of the usual insults flying around, and none of the questioning that comes with the assigned placement.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ted sees Roy’s face soften.
He can see the exact moment Roy figures it out -- and Ted’s just pleased that he’d managed to get it right after all. This might be a short-lived victory in everyone’s memory, but still, if anyone deserves a little boost after the last year, it’s Roy Kent.
Good for him, thinks Ted, and gives Roy an encouraging nod. It’s all subjective and in the eye of the beholder, but seeing as Roy and Ted know who that beholder is, he doesn’t think that lessens this victory one bit.
Roy leaves the locker room and as soon as he does, everyone just moves on. They’re talking about plays, films they’re planning to see, and griping about their aches and muscle pains. It’s all so damn normal, but it’s also the most welcome thing for Ted, whose shoulders have finally released all that tension.
“Onward,” he murmurs to himself, grateful to have survived that harrowing experience.
Roy comes home. Well, he goes to Keeley’s place, but honestly, it’s his home because that’s where she is. He sets his bag in the front closet, calling out for her to see if she’s there.
“Yeah! I’m in here!”
Here turns out to be the living room, where she’s in the middle of the yoga poses that Roy had shown her last week. He bends down to press a kiss to her forehead, sitting across from her, cross-legged, and encouraging her to continue.
She does, while Roy sits in silence, watching her.
Eventually, Keeley looks unnerved by the fact that Roy hasn’t started telling her about his day. He waits it out. It takes another minute or so, but then, a flicker. She tries to hide it behind hair and downward dogs, but Roy sees the worry and the guilt flicker across her face.
Gotcha, he thinks.
“I just have to know,” he says. “Why do it anonymously?”
She blows a few strands of hair off her face aggressively, crawling towards him before settling into a vajrasana pose with her calves against her heels. “What, do you actually think I’d get a moment’s peace if I put my name on that list? The website thought I’d have fun doing it and when they reached out, Rebecca agreed that it’d be good for the rankings to come from in house this year.” That innocent look of hers has melted away, mainly because she can clearly see that Roy’s not mad. She grins at him, leaning in to peck his lips with a short kiss. “Does everyone know?”
He shakes his head. “Unless they figured it out, I didn’t tell them.”
“How’d you know?”
Roy scoffs, giving her a look of disbelief. “Seriously?”
She nods, earnest and eager and a little confused, like it isn’t completely obvious.
“You put me at number one.”
“Yeah, but you’re sexy,” she growls at him, tugging on his collar with her finger to pull him in for a kiss.
“Yeah, I know I’m not exactly shit to look at, but I’m definitely not better looking than Zoreaux.”
“You’ve noticed how hot he is?”
“Who hasn’t? Have you seen Zoreaux?”
“Uh, yeah, it’s why he’s number two, babe.”
“And he’s pissed about it,” Roy says, with a delighted grin, “even if he’s trying to be all polite Canadian about that shit.”
“You’re not mad, are you?”
Roy doesn’t know how that can even be her question. His girlfriend just gave him a totally biased and undeserved spot at the top of a hottest players list. Sure, he’s a respectable number seven, but he knows that he doesn’t belong anywhere at the top. “I got to see Colin’s brain nearly break trying to puzzle it out,” Roy says. “Honestly, you could’ve saved this for my birthday and not bought me anything else.”
That does the trick. Keeley practically bounces in for a kiss, whispering, “Thanks, babe,” before heading off to the little office space she keeps.
“Lasso suspects you, you know!” he calls after her.
“Wouldn’t expect anything less!”
What the hell is she doing?
“You’re not doing this every year, are you?” he asks warily, ducking in to see that Keeley’s turned the little office space into a small Roy Kent shrine and dead in the middle is a printed out copy of today’s announcement. “Christ,” he groans, “take that down.”
“No,” Keeley says with mischievous defiance, leaning in to press a kiss to Roy’s printed self. “I think he’s hot. I even staked my anonymous reputation on it.”
“Well, if you’re gonna kiss a Roy Kent, come over here and at least kiss one with real lips,” is Roy’s aggressive, teasing reply, beckoning Keeley over.
This is exactly what she wanted, Roy thinks, as she grabs him by the hips and yanks him forward. Newly number one and Richmond’s hottest player (according to his girlfriend, which is honestly the only opinion that matters), he really can’t be bothered to mind.