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"Point of clarification."
Five pairs of eyes looked expectantly at Rebecca.
"Is this really just the 'AFC Richmond Annual Christmas Booze Exchange', going euphemistically under the name of Secret Santa?" she asked. "Because honestly, I could just buy everyone a bottle of Glenlivet and be done."
"I will admit last year very few of the fellas thought outside the box on that one," Ted said, hands wrapped around one knee. "Or the bottle, as the case may be. But this year we've encouraged them to think of something truly personal. Show how well they know each other."
"Which is all well and good for the ones who train together every day," Rebecca said. "But the most I know about half of them is which academy they came through, or whether they're any good on the left."
"But think how meaningful it will be when your recipient realizes you've done your research," Higgins put in, looking painfully earnest.
"By what, stalking their Instagrams?" She turned back to Ted. "If I just asked you . . ."
"Hmm," he said, left hand going to his moustache. "On the one hand that does show ingenuity; on the other, it might be too easy."
"Oh bloody - is this a gift exchange or an escape room?" Rebecca's eyes fell on Roy, who would be easy enough, Beard, who would be impossible for anyone but Ted, and the few players lingering out in the dressing room, before landing back on Higgins. "Can you make sure I get Hughes? I've got a cousin in the Welsh parliament; pretty sure I could get Colin Hughes Day declared in Cardiff or something."
"Much as I would love to see that . . ." Higgins said.
"Wait, can you really -" Ted interrupted.
". . . it's luck of the draw, I'm afraid," Higgins continued. "No exceptions."
Rebecca would have believed him, if he hadn't coughed like a cat with a smoking habit as soon as he'd said it. But no amount of glaring shook loose what he had planned.
"Fine," she said, locking eyes with Roy. "If everyone else is willing."
Ted raised a hand. "All in favor of combining the front office Secret Santa with the players' Secret Santa, in a joint staff/player Secret MegaSanta?"
Rebecca raised her hand along with everyone else.
Before Ted could comment, Roy heaved himself out of his chair, grabbed Rebecca's uplifted hand, and said, "Let's go before they start fucking barking."
"Bark . . .?"
As they were leaving she heard Will the kitman tentatively ask, "Can I stay for the barking?"
Higgins appeared in her office an hour later with a paper sack which he was shaking expectantly. "Got your Christmas fate in my hands," he intoned, holding it out.
"If you expect me to go flying into my past with you, the answer is fucking no." Rebecca reached into the sack, determined not to make a big deal of it. "Do I tell you who I got?"
"No, no, keep it to yourself." He pulled the sack protectively against his chest once she'd withdrawn a slip of paper. "Unless you got yourself. Then put yourself back in the bag."
Rolling her eyes, she unfolded it to see Ted Lasso written in Higgins's spidery hand. Thank Christ, she thought. Ted was easy. She knew what he liked, and better, he'd be pleased with just about anything.
"Not too bad?" Higgins asked.
"I'll figure it out," she said casually, tucking the slip of paper under her tablet. "Not many left to draw?"
"Ted has to go; he was still on the pitch when the boys drew theirs. One or two others." Higgins shook the sack again. "Best be getting on. Wouldn't want to miss anyone!"
Easy, Rebecca thought again as he left. She sat slowly in her desk chair and fidgeted with the corner of the bit of paper that stuck out from under her tablet. Ted liked so many things, and he wore his likes on his sleeve (or more often, on his chest). Kansas City barbecue. The Kansas City Chiefs. Kansas City anything, really.
The very particular genre of American country music best represented by aging silver-haired men in cowboy shirts. And also rappers of the 1980s.
Romantic comedies. Musicals. Cats, the animal and the musical, but not the nightmarish film.
Anything he could share with his son.
Nike trainers.
Getting Ted something "truly personal" couldn't be easier.
Except that every other person in the building knew all those same things about Ted. He really was an open book. Could it be "truly personal" if anyone could have chosen it?
Fuck.
The thing about Ted, Rebecca reasoned, kicking off her shoes and putting her feet up on her desk, was that he only seemed to be an open book. Surely there were things - well, no one else knew he baked her biscuits. There, that was something. She must know other things about him that any random member of the team wouldn't. They were friends. Good friends. She knew him.
. . .
. . .
Baking . . . implements?
Did he actually even like to bake, or did he only do it for her?
Fuck.
By the time she got home that night and poured herself a glass of wine, Rebecca had considered, and discarded, tickets to see the NFL games in London (he'd probably invite her along, and fuck no), a Tom Ford suit (he'd love it, but might think she was trying to make him over), an attempt to have Nike design a Coach Lasso shoe (he'd love that too, but any of the players could have thought of that), and tickets to a panto (again - she'd end up having to accompany him). At the back of her mind she was reserving the idea of somehow booking him a baking class with Mary Berry, because that was a fucking good idea, but would probably be difficult to arrange. And still didn't really feel personal enough.
Keeley didn't work for Richmond anymore; she wasn't in the Secret Santa. She could tell Keeley who she had, surely.
"I need help," she said down the phone as soon as Keeley had answered. "With my Secret Santa."
"You haven't got Roy, have you?" Keeley asked. "Because that would be cheating."
"No, I've got Ted."
"Oh. Ted's easy."
"I know," Rebecca moaned. "So easy that literally anyone could get him a perfectly good gift. So how do I get him a great one?"
Keeley huffed out a breath, and then there was silence for a while before she said, "Fuck."
"Yes."
"You could fly his son over?"
"The reason his son isn't coming over is it's his turn to play Angel Gabriel in the Sunday school pageant. He's been shouting 'be not afraid!' for weeks, apparently."
"Okay." Keeley was quiet for another long while. "You . . . could . . . um . . . football . . ." she said very slowly.
"Football . . ."
"Fuck, I don't know. I was hoping something would come to me mid-sentence."
Rebecca sighed and took a long drink of her wine.
"Fly him to Kansas, then. Give him the week off."
"We play Man United on Boxing Day," Rebecca reminded her. "He'd never take me up on it."
"Why not, it's not like you're going to win anyway."
"Oh, very nice."
"Well." Keeley groaned. "I don't know. Get yourself something filthy from Kiki de Montparnasse and stick a bow on yourself."
What Rebecca wanted to say was have you had a stroke, but something was caught in her throat. By the time she'd swallowed around it, she was able to say calmly, "Not exactly something I can give him at the office Christmas party, is it?"
"It's a thought!"
"It is not."
"You're thinking it now, though, aren't you?"
She was, and the mental image was making her face burn. "Any ideas that don't involve me sexually harassing my employees? What would you tell me to get if I had Roy?"
"Stieg Larsson box set," Keeley said immediately. "Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and all, he's mad for that shit."
"Ted isn't."
"I didn't say he was."
Rebecca dropped her forehead into her hand. "I'm utterly fucked."
"You really might be, babe."
Two weeks later, Rebecca was perched on a bench in the dressing room watching the boys escort Isaac, velour Santa suit and all, up onto his Christmas throne. The Beach Boys were singing "Little Saint Nick," tinsel dangled from every available surface, and she had to admit it was warmer than her undecorated (save for one wreath on the front door, and a bowl of shiny ornaments resting on the kitchen counter) house.
It just never seemed worthwhile, for just her.
Ted's "truly personal" gambit did not at first seem to have paid off, unless Maas and Cockburn and Canterbury all had more personal relationships with Johnny Walker than she was aware of. But then Bumbercatch presented Higgins with a hand-knitted scarf and a matching tiny sweater for his new cat and everyone almost cried and laughed at the same time; and then Dani Rojas gave Jamie Tartt a watch with something inscribed on the back that Jamie refused to read aloud but which did make him cry; and after that everyone was laughing and shouting and passing cups of eggnog while they commented on the gifts. Something very heavy in the shape of a dragon that looked as if a blacksmith had made it, for Colin Hughes. A very old-looking book of French poetry for Richard, along with a bottle of cognac. A PlayStation, presented by Jamie to a wide-eyed Will.
A Stieg Larsson box set for Roy. ("You fucker, you cheated!" Rebecca shouted at Higgins, making Will laugh so hard that he fell off his bench.)
And then it was Rebecca's turn. Swallowing hard, she retrieved the large basket she'd left in the corner and ceremoniously crossed the room to deposit it in Ted's lap.
"Wait, really?" he said, blinking up at her. "Because - oh well, never mind. Getting ahead of myself. Let's see . . ."
Rebecca stood awkwardly knotting her fingers together while he untied the bow at the top and separated the paper.
"What is it, gaffer?" someone yelled.
"This is . . ." His hands delicately sorted through the items. "It's a, uh, well it's a Christmas in a box, is what it is. Got some holiday essentials here - hot chocolate, chocolate orange, some of my favorite snacks . . . and a fruitcake . . ." His mouth twisted exactly as Rebecca had known it would, and Isaac chimed in right on cue.
"Oi, you gotta have a fruitcake, bruv!"
"Yeah, you're in England now!" Cockburn chimed in.
"It tastes like fire and joy, but also death," Dani said cheerfully, patting Ted on the shoulder.
"Well - we'll revisit that later," Ted said, still peering into the box in a bit of an apparent daze. "There's a blanket - ooh, a weighted blanket. Are these - slippers? Some holiday films . . ." He picked up the first two, The Holiday and While You Were Sleeping. "Even better - holiday rom coms!"
The boys cheered.
"And they're on DVD, which is perfect, because I am old," Ted added.
"Never trust digital," Coach Beard intoned, with an approving nod at Rebecca.
Ted had sifted his way past the (small) bottle of Glenlivet and found Rebecca's note, which he unfolded and read silently to himself, his face very still. "Well," he said. "Well now. Boss, I think all of this sounds like about the best Christmas I could possibly imagine. Thank you." After a pause, he set the basket on the floor and rose to wrap his arms around Rebecca in a loose embrace. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Ted," she murmured back, still mentally trying to decipher the look on his face.
The boys cheered, again.
"All right," Isaac declared from his throne. "Ms. Welton. Let your Secret Santa reveal him or herself."
There was a moment of quiet, and then Ted, his eyes darting left and right, reached under the bench and pulled out a box.
The boys cheered, again; this time with clapping and hooting.
"What are the odds," Higgins said, much too loudly.
"Boss," Ted said. "I - well - well, go ahead, you'll see."
Rebecca let herself have half a moment to give him a quizzical look before she untied the ribbon on the box and lifted the lid.
It looked complicated, so a moment later she set it down on one of the stacked benches that made up Isaac's throne so she could gingerly peel away the tissue paper with both hands. There was something sparkly and lovely on top that after a moment revealed itself to be a star, for the top of a Christmas tree; and there were strings of lights and a box of ornaments that matched the ones sitting in her kitchen, and another box with characters from The Nutcracker in porcelain and tulle. Her fingertip stroked a tutu as she dug deeper and found two champagne glasses with her monogram beautifully cut into them, a beaded garland draped around the stems. And a note, which she unfolded slowly.
Rebecca,
Someone who gives so much Christmas away deserves to have a little Christmas given back to her. Consider this my IOU for a trip to pick out a tree and some help decorating it, and if you're game, maybe something to put in those glasses and a Christmas movie night. I'll make you a Holiday Inn fan yet?
Rebecca looked up, warmth spreading through her and probably turning her face red, and said, "Not a chance, Ted Lasso." Before he could look properly hurt she added, "You'll have to bring over While You Were Sleeping."
He grinned, slowly, and said, "Done and doner."
She returned her eyes to the rest of the note.
I guess what I'm saying is, I'll make the season as bright as you'll let me.
Ted.
Folding the note again, Rebecca tucked it into the box and then went and pulled Ted up from his bench into a much tighter hug. "Great minds," she said.
"What are the odds." He turned his head and kissed her cheek. "Merry Christmas again, boss."
"You know, I think it will be," she replied.
Later, when they'd hastily bought a tree that Charlie Brown would have chosen if he'd had taller ceilings (not that she could expect perfection on Christmas Eve), draped it with decorations that resembled ten-year-old Rebecca's Platonic ideal of a Christmas tree, poured Glenlivet into her new champagne glasses because fuck it, and ordered a takeaway, Ted took his keys and wallet out of his trouser pockets to make himself more comfortable on the sofa. While he navigated through the DVD menu for While You Were Sleeping, Rebecca's eyes fell on a bright green piece of paper sticking out of the wallet. She didn't need to snoop to know what it was; she had it memorized.
Dear Ted,
It's the time of year when we all need some comforts, so this basket contains a few of those; but I suppose the most personal thing any of us can give is ourselves. So if you'd like to spend some of Christmas with me - at home that is, after we've played at being elves - I'd love to spend it with you. Because I suppose I, like Bill Nighy, would rather be with my manager than at Elton's party.
Love (actually),
Rebecca
*You're much handsomer than Bill Nighy's manager. In case you were wondering.
It was a fine line, maybe too fine; maybe he hadn't gotten even the slightest hint that she might mean . . . but anyway, did she mean . . . ? Maybe she didn't even know.
But he put his arm around her shoulders as Sandra Bullock jumped onto the subway tracks to rescue Peter Gallagher from the train, so maybe he did.