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A year ago, it would've been easy to laugh at the prospect of seeking meaningful life advice from a Premier League gaffer. Football had never been high on her list of priorities or interests. Of course, the sport was difficult to ignore. The passion, energy, and dedication of those involved in the sport or in the pubs cheering on their club inspired awe. So, when Keely had reached out and asked if she'd be interested in signing on to help with the growing media and marketing responsibilities, it had been a no-brainer. The opportunity to work with such a good friend had been enough of a blessing; forming bonds with everyone at AFC Richmond and being able to look forward to going to work every day. It's been a dream come true.
Richmond's highs and lows had been widely televised, and near impossible to miss in print or online. Coach Ted Lasso, admittedly, seemed too good to be true. How could anyone be so compassionate? So patient?
She'd been done for the moment she met him; Lost for words; Enamoured. The media's perception of him paled in comparison. His ability to see people for who they are, for who they could be, is as comforting as it is disconcerting. His friendship comes without conditions and provides safety from judgement, and the freedom to be one hundred per cent authentic that she fears too many people have taken advantage of.
So now, she takes a deep breath, trying to still her trembling hands as she makes her way through the locker room, exchanging playful ‘ hellos ’ and ‘ how are you ’s with the players.
“I've got a date,” it's the first thing out of her mouth when she enters the coaches’ office. The rubber band ball Ted and Coach Beard had been tossing back and forth falls and bounces across the floor, rolling to a stop by her stilettos.
Roy is the first to break the awkward silence, “and I'm leaving”.
“A date!” Ted’s quick to recover the energy, “who with?”
“That's the problem. I have no idea. I let Keely convince me to try that stupid Bantr app, and now I've got a date and no idea what to wear”.
Saying it out loud made it feel silly. An infinitesimally small concern in the grand scheme of things. But the nerves and fears had been rattling around her head all day, stealing her focus and breath.
Ted once told her that
if you're worried about it, that makes it a real worry. Doesn't it?
She tries to remember that now, pushing her self-induced feelings of embarrassment aside.
“Well, I ain't much of a stylist myself, but I've watched the MET gala red carpets enough times that I'm confident forming ungrounded opinions on fashion,” Ted offers.
“Twenty-Eighteen. Heavenly bodies,” Beard adds.
“Best of the best! Zendaya! Best Joan of Arc since--well, since Joan of Arc probably”.
“I don't think I'm going to the MET--” she takes another deep breath. Ted and Beard don't deserve her snapping at them. Keeping them on topic had always been a welcomed burden of conversation with them, but she's serious now. A date? A blind date? This is huge. This is terrifying.
“It's been a while since I've been on a date, and I don't want to look stupid,”
“Stupid? Not possible,” he seems genuinely shocked, “you've been talking on that app, and he wants to meet you, then what you look like has nothing to do with it. Show up looking like the paper bag princess, and anyone worth knowing would still like you for you”.
Good lord, the man always knows exactly what to say. She tries to ignore the warm relief that fills her chest; suppresses the urge to preen at the compliment. He doesn’t mean anything by it, she’s sure. But the way he looks at her feels like he’s looking into her soul. It’s nearly impossible to deny how special he manages to make her feel.
After more than a year of working with the team, she’s positive she’s half in love with Coach Ted Lasso. The truth is, it’s not the first time the weight of his passing glances, friendly smiles, gentle actions, or kind words have wormed their way into her heart. That was the point of signing up for Bantr; a hopeless attempt at believing that there might be someone out there who could ever come close to stealing her heart the way Ted had without even trying.
“This is ground control to Major Tom. Anybody in there?” Ted’s chuckle at his joke snaps her back to the conversation.
“Sorry—yeah, I was just thinking about a potential outfit!” The excuse seems to placate Ted, but Beard squints in contemplation.
“With all that focus, I’m sure it’ll be great!”
“Thanks, Ted,” she can only hope he’s right.
Sipping her glass of wine at the bar, she waits for her mystery date.
There had been several moments of doubt and hesitation. Messages to cancel the date had been typed out, only to be deleted once more. In the end, Keely and Rebecca’s tough love and unbridled encouragement won out. Outfits had been sampled and then abandoned, and tears had been shed until finally, she settled on a classic little black dress: cute, classy, elegant, it had the potential to be sexy. The dress has been a godsend; the last thing left hanging in her closet. She has to admit; she looks fantastic. It's been a while since she’s had an excuse to get dolled up, and the time she’d spent fussing over her hair and makeup had paid off. In the moments of reprieve from her nerves, she dares to let herself be hopeful.
My paper bag is at the dry cleaners, but I think everything will be alright. Thank you for your help today.
She shoots the text off without much thought. Her date is now nearly an hour late, but she stays hopeful.
That’s the spirit! Rom-communism for the win!
His response earns a smirk from her, and she’s quick to ‘heart’ it before checking bantr. Surely, if this date of hers were running late, he would’ve messaged. Right?
When another hour passes, and her messages to LondonBoi107 remain unanswered, it’s time to call it quits. She orders another glass of wine, downs it, and then nurses her third.
Prick stood me up. Let's get drunk?
Keely had told her to text if she needed anything, and she can only hope that her friend is still up.
I’m sorry to hear that .
The text arrives…from Ted? Shit. Texting and drinking never was a good combo.
I’m so sorry! I meant to text Keely. I’m sorry to bother you .
The universe doesn’t give her time to gather her thoughts or compose herself, three dots blinking on her screen as he instantly types his response.
Hey, never a bother. I’m not Keely, but if you still want company I’ve got time for a drink .
Her heart races at his response. He’s just a good friend; she knows that.
She brainstorms an array of responses, weighing the pros and cons of each message, chewing nervously on her cheek until the metallic tang of blood nips at her tongue. Finally, she settles on a simple:
Crown & Anchor.
The crowd in the pub dissipates as closing time creeps closer. The regulars entertain themselves by making five-pound wagers on their rounds of darts and disputing their scores. But, for the most part, the typically busy pub is quiet. Mae offers a compassionate smile, and she does her best to return it. No clinking of glasses or jovial conversation to drown out her thoughts. She stares at her glass, tracing the stem with her finger. What a sorry sight she must be. Just as she takes the last sip of her drink, a fresh glass is set in front of her, followed by a pint. And Ted is taking the seat next to her, his soft brown eyes taking her in.
“Hi,” is all she manages.
“Hey,” he smiles, “How’re you holding up?”
She shrugs, “Mae? How do we think I’m doing?”
Mae laughs, pulling another pint for another customer, directing her response to Ted, “I’m out of wine”.
“Thanks, Mae!” she lets herself laugh. Ted laughs too, but the corners of his eyes don’t crinkle.
The chuckle is polite. For show. A poor attempt at hiding his concern. But he drinks his beer, all the same, allowing room for casual conversation to pass between them.
“I was hoping he’d show up,” she admits sadly after a while, “I waited three hours for him-- it’s embarrassing, really. I’m sat here all dressed up and alone”.
Ted considers his words, “Maybe something came up?”
She shakes her head, “I don’t think so. He should've messaged if that was the case anyway. I guess-- it just sucks thinking you’re not enough. I thought things might be different this time. Letting someone get to know me, for me. But-- sorry, I’m being such a downer”.
His hand covers hers where it rests on the counter, “You’re more than enough. And he, wherever he may be, is the only one who needs to be feeling sorry. Poor sucker missed the opportunity to meet one of the coolest people I've ever met”.
He doesn’t move his hand away right and she allows herself to settle into the comfort the warmth of both his big-hearted words, and the physical support he offers without question, so effortlessly provide. She briefly considers how easy it would be to turn her hand over, to slot her fingers between his own, and hold his hand properly. She often imagines how much simpler things would be if she could ever find the confidence to just ask him out for a drink--as a proper date, or just tell him point blank that she likes him--as more than a friend. Instead, her eyes well up as the feeling of abandonment settles back in, the shame of accidentally texting Ted and dragging him out here, and the guilt of making eyes at him while he just tries to be a shoulder to lean on sits heavy in her chest.
Mae calls out for last call, and Ted turns to her with a raised eyebrow pointing to her glass, “Did you want another? It’s on me”.
“No, thank you. I don’t think I should”.
He nods, “Just the bill, please Mae”.
As patient and understanding as he is, Ted doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer when it comes to the matter of settling bills. He insists on paying for her drinks, even the ones she downed while waiting. She gives in, insisting that next time they go out she owes him. He entertains the notion, but she’s sure they’ll rehash this argument then as well.
She accepts his offer to walk her home, teetering along beside him, tipsy, and nervous on the cobblestone walk ways in her heels.
“How do you feel about ice cream, Ted?”
“I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream. One of life’s greatest joys”.
“Turn left. We’re getting ice cream”.
“You won’t hear me complaining--oh! What’s your favourite flavour?”
The pure, bona fide joy that the prospect brings him leaves her smiling so big her cheeks hurt.
“How am I supposed to pick a single flavour? It’d have to be a fight to the death to pick”.
“Could be fun, Game of Cones,” Ted grins.
“What’s your favourite then?”
“Oh, I couldn’t ever pick just one,” Ted says seriously, before cracking up, “when I was a kid, there was this ice cream parlor that opened up in town-- real fancy place. Nineteen fifties style, checkerboard floors, and milkshakes with cherries on top-- and that summer I made it my goal to try every flavour combination possible. Mint chip and strawberry was a terrible mistake. But, chocolate and bordeaux cherry was a life changing experience”.
“Well then, I guess I know what I’m getting this evening”.
Conversation has always been easy between them, never had their been awkward lulls or desperate attempts at finding common ground. Instead, from day one they’d formed a natural affinity and understanding of eachother’s humour. The back and forth came without difficulty, and made deeper and more serious conversations uncomplicated for the most part. Banter-- it had always been a good foundation for friendship.
She spares a glance in his direction as they walk and talk, both of them enjoying their ice cream treats. Her eyes drift to his lips while he speaks, and she makes no real effort to look elsewhere. She’s caught herself doing the same thing in the past, but it’s alost impossible not to. How can one man be so good, so kind, so handsome? He’s the total package, and the moustache is pretty cute to boot.
It’s too short of a walk to her place, their ice cream barely finished by the time they reach her door.
“Thank you, Ted,” she mutters with a bashful look down at her shoes.
“Ain’t nothing to thank me for”.
“Tonight was terrible, it was pretty dark there for a minute. But, you really made it so much better. I mean it, thank you”.
He shrugs, his hands shoved in the pockets of his khakis.
There’s a beat of silence before she speaks again, reaching out without hesitation to wipe a smudge of vanilla ice cream off his cheek.
“Sorry-- you had some ice cream…” her sentence trails off, her hand still hovering between them.
He inhales deeply, “Listen, I feel like a real monopoly man capitalizing on this moment, but I’m really glad that guy didn’t show up”.
His words catch her off guard. Oh.
Oh
. No, he can’t mean…right? All this time she’s thought she was alone infatuated without a hope in hell. Oh.
When she doesn’t respond, Ted continues, “You look gorgeous tonight, you always do actually. I hope you don’t mind my saying so. I’m darn fool for not saying anything sooner--”
“You’re pretty good looking yourself Lasso,” she teases in an attempt to shake off her nerves before saying, “truth is I only signed up for Bantr because I was scared you’d never like me the way that I like you”.
“I’m absolutely terrified, but I’ve got to believe that things will work out in the end, because I really want to kiss you right now”.
“Ted Lasso, you can have a kiss from me anytime you like,” she confesses, letting herself lean in. He does the same.
Rom-communisim for the win most definitely.