Chapter Text
“So, let me get this straight,” Ted Lasso puts his face in his hands for a moment, wondering if he rubs at his forehead long enough, he’ll finally understand what he and Coach Beard have been asked to do in the next two months. He scrubs at his face before he drops his hands back to the desk. “We, as in the Kansas City Chiefs, have to play five National Football League games in London this coming season. We have two months to find a practice field, and still have to play our regular games and do preseason here in America. Did I miss anything?”
“Andy assigned me and you, not the team,” Beard shrugs. “Otherwise, you covered everything important at the moment.”
“The NFL does realise it's a national football league, right? Like, we don’t pretend it’s the World Series like those fellas in Major League Baseball?”
“Well, the winning team does like to call itself a World Champion before telling the cameras they’re going to Disneyland.”
“I suppose it's a good thing we can say we haven't won jack diddly since 1969,” Ted hums as he puts his elbow on the desk and puts his chin in his hands.
Beard wonders if the constant losing streak the team seems to be on each year is getting to his best friend. It's been four years since they were hired and they've been up and down, but they have yet to even make it into the Wild Card round, let alone the AFC Championship Games.
“You think we can win at this thing?” Ted mumbles a little, not lifting his chin from where it sits in the palm of his hand.
Beard’s sarcastic hah says as much as he’s willing to toy with the forces of the universe.
He had come to work excited to start the new season even if it was only preseason and they were bound to lose another AFC matchup. But he liked preseason. Getting to pair the newbies with the vets and letting everyone try and showcase their talent and natural skill for the game. As head coach of the offensive team, he likes when he puts out the no guarantee billet. It’s a zero-sum and everyone starts out with the same number of points. No spot is guaranteed, even the starting quarterback, despite pundits and fan opinion. Sure, he might like his team a whole lot. Respects them for following his code. But if he only gets these boys for a finite time in their careers, he wants to leave them in a better place than when they came to him.
With such a scrappy record, those who stay on the team clearly have something other than winning to work through. Ted likes to believe this place is a pilot project and the players who leave after a spell to another team are better because of coaches like him. Like Beard. Like their fearless leader, Andy Reid.
Ted’s eyes flick to the schedule being displayed on the television screen behind Beard’s desk. At least their schedule has already been augmented for a week of travel and a week of training on either side of their games in London. Sure, they have more weekday games packed into the schedule, but he can prepare the fellas for that. The jetlag thing though, well, that's going to be a learning curve.
“Are any of the teams who have done this before willing to share info with us?” Ted asks, not expecting much.
“The Patriots?”
Ted rolls his eyes.
“Do we at least know the teams we’re gonna have to play in London?”
"Jets, Jags, Bolts, and Bengals."
Ted hums. Not a bad lineup. They've at least won against the teams before. Granted, not in the same seasons. But, he'll take it. He gives Beard an appreciative hum at the use of alliteration.
“And, we’re the home team in London?”
Beard nods solemnly.
“Wait. That’s four games. What’s the fifth?” Ted frowns, making sure he’s got it all square in his head.
“The first is a pre-season matchup with the former home team.”
Ted chuckles and it sounds a lot more manic than he means. But he figures his best friend understands he can only handle so much information today.
“Well, we’ll just make sure our folks are also checking all the game balls.”
“You got it, Coach.”
“London, here we come,” Ted leans back in his chair.
--
Two days after Ted and Beard were told to prepare for the NFL International games, Andy Reid gathers the entire coaching staff and Chiefs players out on the 50-yard line of the practice field before the first training commences, discussing their season and the inclusion of the NFL International games into the lineup. It would be announced to the public in a month, along with their preseason game schedule. But he hands over the stage, so to speak, to Ted.
Ted had recruited Shannon, one of the public relations interns, to help put all the moving pieces together and keep him and Beard on track considering both he and Beard also have to pick out a few walk-ons as recruits for the offence and defence.
“I’ve tasked Shannon with getting with all y’all who don’t have passports which, I guess, is a bunch of you,” Ted scratches at his cheek, his beard scruffy and he thinks it might be time for a closer trim. “I don’t care how good you are, if you don’t have a passport by September, you can’t come to the International games. And, there isn't a guarantee you're going to be solely used for the regular-season games. You know, we're just asking you to fill out some paperwork and you do that every few years for your salaries. So, this is just as important. You pretty much missed the cutoff for the preseason one that’s two days before the season actually starts. So, Shannon’s in charge. If she tells you to do something for your passports, you best do it. Understand?”
“Yeah, Coach,” a lacklustre response comes from a portion of the team.
“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you,” Ted looks pointedly at his offensive team, knowing he can make them run more drills.
“Yes, Coach,” the team agrees.
“Great,” Ted nods. “Shannon’s put the applications in all of your lockers by now. Get them returned to her by the end of next week, right, Beard-o?”
Ted looks over to Beard who gives him a thumbs up.
“Yep, next week,” Ted confirms.
Andy breaks the team update, and each of the teams heads to their usual sides of the field.
Ted watches as the offensive players huddle together and he is thankful that most of them have passports so he doesn’t have to be too hard on them. The special teams folks seem to be their missing unit and he hopes the universe gives them a tiny break and allows just enough players and substitutes to have their passports. Of course, they know they’re most likely going to lose to the Patriots. Their record against them is dismal to start. Add in a new country and jet lag? He’s just hoping they don’t get beaten too badly. Luckily it’s still that pre-season window so it doesn’t hurt their standings right out of the gate.
“Bird by bird, Coach,” Beard whispers with a slight nudge to Ted’s shoulder.
Ted holds out a fist and Beard does the same, bumping their knuckles together.
The first thing Rebecca Welton does as the newly installed owner of the AFC Richmond Greyhounds is literally rip the floor to ceiling curtains off the rod that extends along the entire wall of windows looking out at the main training pitch of Nelson Road’s training centre.
“Looks fit to be a fucking dungeon,” she whispers to herself as she tugs at the heavy fabric. The threads split as she continues to tug at the fabric on the curtain rod. She huffs, pulling out the scissors from the waistband on her athletic shorts and begins to snip the fabric. She’s done the same thing for each of the two curtain sections before this one. Tug a little on the fabric until she can hear the threads pull, bend the curtain rod ever so slightly, and then finish off with scissors and watch the fabric drop onto the carpeted floor until she finishes each of the windows in this office. She has one more section to go, and although it would be faster to just take the scissors to the fabric, she appreciates she can imagine the curtains are her ex-fiancé’s face. And, so, her process is a bit longer but a lot more satisfying for the anger and hurt that consumes her. As the fourth and final curtain drops to the floor with a heavy thump, a knock on the door sounds out and she turns to find Keeley Jones, AFC Richmond’s newly installed Public Relations Specialist, and her best friend.
“Is that… a carpenter belt?” Rebecca gestures to the thing around Keeley’s hips. It's a horrid tan colour and ridiculously out of place as Keeley’s wardrobe usually consists of bright print or animal print that is always topped off with something pink. Not, well, that. Not to say the shorts overalls are a standard outfit either. But, she can’t say much about that outfit choice considering she’s in a tank top and athletic shorts. Hardly anyone is in the office, considering it's only turned June and they have six more weeks until the Premier League starts.
“Oi, fuck off,” Keeley greets and she steps into the office, nodding at the windows. “I’m here to help get rid of the evil spirits and shit. Love what you’ve done already.”
“Furniture is next,” Rebecca gestures to the tacky black leather and chrome couches, chairs, and chaise. The mahogany monstrosity of a desk. The executive chair that looks like it's a prop from that one Godfather film or The Sopranos television series. “I’ve decided to just ship it to his place and leave it on the grass or drive for all I care. They should be here soon to excavate.”
Keeley laughs out loud and it makes Rebecca grin.
“As much as I love the total transformation happening here, you need to eat if you’re set on changing this entire office today.”
Rebecca frowns. Keeley very well knows this is at least a few weeks' worth of work but she’d like to finish most of it by next week. She’s already purchased a new home near the Richmond Green. She’s purged her closet and knick-knacks of anything Rupert Mannion had purchased for her or preferred on her before moving over her closet and knick-knacks. She’s purchased all new furniture, including a new bed and linens. Although most nights were spent at his home rather than hers throughout their two-year relationship, she couldn’t stand the fact he’d slept with, what seemed like, all of London’s influencer society and sat on her things or slept on her bed the few times they did go to her home. The sole exception to his long list of women he had slept with besides her, is the woman in front of her. At least, she thanks the universe (again), it had all leaked before she said ‘I do.’ She's still not sure if it would have been worse to have caught him. Hearing it first in the press was difficult, but at least she didn't have the same scarring experience she had when she had caught her father in flagrante delicto with the neighbour when she was younger. The sweetest revenge, however, had been her mother and father exercising their rights as majority shareholders of AFC Richmond, to boot him out of his ownership position and installing her. And, the first thing she had done as the new owner, was fire his best friend, George Cartrick, the (now former) manager of the team.
“Come on,” Keeley gestures to the door with her head. “Let’s eat lunch in the stands. I got us each a salad and a chip butty.”
“I love you,” Rebecca whispers. “Well, as long as you got a brown gravy chip butty for me.”
“Babe, I remember you detest mayonnaise. That one is mine if you find it first.”
“Let me at least wash my hands,” Rebecca gestures to the doorway behind her where there’s a washroom.
After allowing Rebecca to wipe the grime away from her hands, Keeley holds out her hand and Rebecca takes it, letting Keeley’s smaller frame tug her out of the office and around the not-so-secret passageway to the stadium seating right outside her office.
Rebecca closes her eyes as she feels the heat of the summer day wash over her as she leans back into the uncomfortable seat. It might be slightly humid, but it's welcome as the office is still in its transition phase where it's too hot and too cold within the same hour as the facilities team adjusts from the wild spring they've had over to summer.
“There’s this new American Bistro-type place between my house and here. And one of their salads is from a posh restaurant in Hollywood. It's a Cobb salad. Anyway, it's pretty but I told them no tomatoes for you.”
Keeley hands over the tomato-less Cobb salad and the chip butty with bg written on the wrapping, a bright grin on her face.
Rebecca admired the salad. Appreciating the neat rows of crispy bacon, grilled chicken breast, boiled eggs, avocado, chives, and cheese on top of the bed of crisp-looking greens. She’s pretty sure she had this last year at some garden party in Los Angeles when the team had done their Premier League tour in a few cities in the States.
“I had the new kits rushed,” Keeley lets her know between Rebecca finishing the Cobb salad and starting in on the chip butty. Keeley digs in her bag and pulls out the iPad with two fingers.
“Jesus, Mary Poppins,” Rebecca points out as she looks over at Keeley’s magical bag that seems to hold all her things and not weigh down her lithe frame.
“I am a bit Mary Poppins,” Keeley nods. “God, that’s delightful. I'm going to add that to my resume. Not that I'm moving anywhere when my best friend just hired me.”
Rebecca shakes her head, chuckling as she takes the iPad from Keeley’s hand and swipes at the screen.
“Roy’s birthday,” Keeley nods her chin to the passcode. “Don’t tell me you don’t know it because I know he’s your favourite former player.”
“I do love Roy,” Rebecca agrees as she inputs his birthday and the lock screen transforms. She wouldn’t have asked him to be her interim manager if she hadn’t respected the former Greyhound. Plus, she just needed a circle of people she trusted around her.
“But not more than me,” Keeley confirms.
Rebecca hums her agreement.
“Mail app. Should be the RICH AFC KITS subject line. All caps is the one you're going to want to click on.”
“Oh, wow,” Rebecca whispers as she pulls up the email and finds the design for the home and away kits. The dual colours of Richmond red and Richmond blue for home. The dual colours of Greyhound Goldenrod and Greyhound Grey for the away kit. “They’re lovely, Keeley. I don’t know how you did it in a matter of weeks but I am forever grateful.”
“Mary Poppins,” Keeley winks.
By the time they finish lunch, all the furniture, lighting, and accessories of Rupert’s dungeon of an office had been cleared away. And, her heart had felt all the much lighter. Like a weight had been lifted she hadn’t even known was dragging it down to boil with the anger and hurt.
“You’ve got this, babe.” Keeley hugs her around the waist. “And, if there’s ever a moment you don’t, you know where to find me. Okay?”
Rebecca nods.
“Have I told you how much I love you today?” Rebecca asks as she looks down at Keeley.
“You have, but it never gets old coming from you.”
“I love you.”
“Love you, too, babe. If I could reach those lips, I would kiss them.”
“Oi, fuck off,” Rebecca laughs out loud. A bright, light, airy laugh and she feels almost human again.
Keeley winks, setting off to gather the curtain fabric and letting Rebecca have a moment to herself.
--
Rebecca Welton tossed another tabloid into the bin beside her desk, looking out the wall of windows to the empty training pitch. The team wouldn’t be back for training until the end of July, so she had a few weeks to get her feet under her as she transitioned into her role as the owner of AFC Richmond.
At least, she had most of her office together. The paint colour on the wall is a softer version of the Greyhound Grey offsets the Bronze Mist coloured sectional with the Primrose Pink pillows. She installed gauzy curtains near her desk, allowing some shading if needed, but the windows had all been re-tinted to allow for a modicum of privacy while still allowing her to see out the window and watch the boys train if she wanted. Her favourite piece, however, is the desk. Custom made for her taller frame, the glass top allowed her to command the entire room behind her white high-back chair if she needed it, without compromising the minimalist decor or taking up the room like the old mahogany monstrosity that had been in here previously.
She was still waiting on her artwork and the little knick-knacks. But, for the most part, the space was hers and she loved it.
“Ms Welton,” Leslie Higgins taps the doorframe of her office and greets her with a timid sort of tone and she closes her eyes for a brief moment. That tone has never inspired confidence the news he brings is good.
“Yes, Higgins?”
“We have a, uh, request,” Higgins taps his fingers on his notebook as he steps into her office.
Rebecca merely looks at him.
“It’s a bit strange,” he prefaces.
“What is it, Higgins? I haven’t got all day for you to get to the point.”
She has to review the budget and schedule and she’s sure her mother has already booked herself lunches as some sort of gesture to show her support for Rebecca as the paps continue to hound her for a comment on Rupert and the flavour of the day or week.
“Well, there is a Coach Theodore Lasso and a Coach Beard and they’ve asked for a meeting with you.”
“I already have an interim gaffer,” she points out. Higgins had created Roy Kent’s contract to allow him to be the gaffer for three years. They had signed and filed it with the Union of European Football Associations and the English Premier League last week along with all their new transfers.
“Coach Lasso and Coach Beard are from the National Football League.”
Rebecca visibly frowns.
“In the States?” She asks with a heavy dose of scepticism.
“Precisely.”
“What could the National Football League in America possibly want from an English Premier League team?” Rebecca frowns. Americans and their sense of entitlement is something she’ll never understand.
“Our stadium and training pitches,” Higgins visibly winces as he waits for the reaction.
“What the fuck?”
Higgins counted to ten internally before he told her about the rest of the brief email. How the American coaches wanted to have a video conference and discuss the logistics and see if Nelson Road would be the right fit for them.
A video conference the next week allows Rebecca Welton to meet the American football coaches after Higgins was able to coordinate her schedule and the time difference between the two coaches in Kansas City. The video goes from black to a bright red that drowns Ted Lasso out so only a shadowy figure could be seen.
“Hiya. Sorry, hold on, I think I can turn that thing off,” Ted Lasso greets her and looks off the camera. “Beard-o, is there any way to turn that logo stuff off? That can’t be what the media sees when we do this after games, right?”
Logically, she knew there would be an accent when she asked Higgins where they were from. But, for some reason, she thought that accents like that existed only for film and television audiences and the actors and actresses were playing up the pronunciations.
A few seconds later, the LED screen behind Ted goes black and she can see more than just an outline of a person.
Huh. Not really the corn-farmer-cowboy she had secretly been picturing in her mind despite Keeley's brows raising in surprise when she had looked him up after Rebecca had relayed the news to her after Higgins had given her the information he had been given by this man now on her laptop.
She’s not sure why Keeley kept his staff photo a secret from her. Rebecca supposes she could have looked up either coach between the time Higgins told her of the request and now, but she had other things on her mind. Like having a stadium-wide and training centre-wide exorcism to rid this place of Rupert Mannion’s presence when her new office had been mostly completed to her own tastes. She might not be able to remove his owner’s photo from the owner’s gallery, but she can indulge Keeley as the younger woman buys bundles of dried sage and bottles of champagne as they drink and light the bundles only to run around the five training pitches and the stadium pitch quoting Lady Macbeth.
“There, better? Sorry about these technical difficulties. Usually, that looks better on the media shows. Let’s try this again. Hey, I’m Ted Lasso. Thanks for meeting with me. Hopefully, it’s not too early or late for you there in Richmond?”
“Morning, Coach Lasso. What can I do for you? Or, what can AFC Richmond do for you?”
It's currently six o’clock in the morning and she’s going to have to talk to Higgins about proper times to schedule calls, even for the Americans. It doesn’t help that the champagne had gone to her head last night after realising all she had that day was a packet of crisps and a small salad. She doesn't miss his eyebrow raising. Whether it's her accent or her slight curtness, she doesn't know.
“Straight shooter, I like it. I guess where to start. Coach Beard and I have been tasked with coordinating the Chiefs’ NFL International games. I sent some information to a, uh, Leslie Higgins so just let me know if I’m repeating something you’ve already read or talked with them about. Don’t want to waste your time.”
Rebecca nods.
“The NFL Commissioner picked the Chiefs as the home team for this year's NFL International Games. I guess we play at something called Wembley for five games but each team gets to pick their own practice stadium. Sorry, I’m not really clued into football there, but my buddy, Coach Beard, is and he’s looking at me like I should be more informed so I’m going to read more. He kinda gave me a look as if I just glazed over something really profound and I’m guessing that stadium is important for you all there in England? London? Both? Anyway, these five games. We’re shopping around and I was hoping to get some of your time so Coach Beard and I could get your thoughts and, if you’re amenable, meet with us in person next. See if we can work something out.”
“I’ll be honest with you, Coach Lasso,” Rebecca starts.
“Feel free to call me Ted.”
Rebecca nods.
"I won't disrupt my team for your team. They've already gone through plenty in the offseason without... this."
She watches as Ted Lasso furrows his brow but he nods.
"Yeah, no worries. And, Ms Welton, rest assured, Coach Beard and I don't want that for your team either. We respect the need to be a cohesive unit and we don't wanna be a disruptive force," Ted assures.
"You can call me Rebecca. Ms Welton's my father," she hums. Watches as he mutes his line to laugh out loud and she bites her lip to stop her from smiling too big.
"Oh, wow," he says coming back on the line. "If that was a joke, I love it. If not, I'd love to unpack that with you."
She only hums and he puts his elbow on the desk of wherever he is, his chin in his hand as he continues to listen to her ask questions.
“Do you know the dates of when you’d have to be in London? Or do you have any contract language for my solicitors to review or what your, what was it, a commissioner, drafted?” She winds down.
She doesn’t want to put out her own team for an American football team when there are empty training pitches throughout England. But there’s probably some fine print language that says it has to be some sort of Premier League or Championship League pitch. Entitled Americans, she scoffs internally.
“Yeah, uh, Beard can send those over to you and the Leslie Higgins person we were talking to before. Anyone else we should send information to?”
“No, we can forward it internally to the appropriate staff until we know more. I’d rather not have my staff be preparing something that hasn’t been agreed upon formally.”
“You would, of course, be compensated for the use of the fields and anything else, or so the paperwork tells me. Sorry, Beard and I are the only ones without families so they’ve charged us with the details about a week and a half ago so we’re still trying to get our footing.”
“I’d be fine with a meeting if you’re coming here to review the stadiums in person, Coach Lasso. You can work it out with Higgins. He has access to my schedule.”
“Well, thank you. You’ve been mighty kind and apologies for the early call. Next time, we’ll do closer to lunch or something so you don’t have to start your day lookin’ at this face.”
That gets a slight smile out of her and she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t want to encourage his unique brand of humour that's so odd yet slightly complementary to her own.
“Nice to meet you,” Ted waves with a grin that shows a few of his teeth.
“Pleasure,” Rebecca nods before lifting her fingers towards the trackpad and ends the video call with one hand and her desk phone hangs up automatically.
She takes a deep breath in and releases it before standing and walking to the wall of windows.
The groundskeepers are out, monitoring the lawns of each of the training pitches and the stadium for the Premier League inspection of the grass to make sure the blend meets their standard.
She knows the answer she'll give him. That little smile at the end was so genuine when he looked so frazzled. She could almost relate. And, her buoyed heart can’t help but reach out and find a sort of comfort in that she’s not alone in being overwhelmed by the year ahead.