Work Text:
A spot of jealousy is healthy for the soul.
If not healthy for the soul, then healthy for a career in journalism. Trent is of the opinion that a little envy is great food for one’s ambition. It pushes a writer to perfect their craft, hunt for harder-hitting stories, seek out new opportunities, scoop the hottest news tickets.
All professional, of course. That is what his jealousy is—strictly professional.
Trent scopes the Richmond press room, his old haunt, and feels a bit green around the ears. The Greyhounds have just come off the pitch after netting their third win of the season, no mean feat for a club freshly returned to the Premier League. Trent himself had enjoyed the match from the owner’s box; he and Rebecca Welton were discussing his book proposal.
The book is cause enough for Trent to dispense with this ridiculous nostalgia for post-match debriefs. Rebecca has agreed to give him full access to the club, within Coach Lasso’s own personal boundaries, and the only reason he’s lingering in the corridors of Nelson Road is for a building pass from Mr. Higgins. The summit of his career is in sight, yet here he is pining for old times at the base camp.
“How do you feel the combined talents of Jamie Tartt and Dani Rojas have influenced your team’s early success this season?” Lloyd asks, a soft question. Trent would have asked Ted if he had any concerns the presence of two rising stars in the sport would lead to conflict down the line. Conflict of a jealous sort.
“When you’ve got George Clooney and Brad Pitt on your team, you know you’ve got a recipe for the popcorn flick of the summer,” Ted answers cheerfully. “Then you add Matt Damon to the mix, Bernie Mac, Elliot Gould, Don Cheadle doing an accent I know y’all weren’t particular fans of…well, Andy Garcia and his casino don’t stand a chance.”
“Sorry, Matt Damon is supposed to be…?”
But Ted has moved on to a different question, leaving the rest of the room scrambling to make sense of his convoluted metaphor. Of course, Trent knows Sam Obisanya is Matt Damon, the young ringer brought into the heist as the final addition. And though Ted would never say it outright, Trent suspects Andy Garcia is Rebecca Welton’s former lesser half and the casino his newly-acquired club.
It’s a good brain exercise, untangling a Ted Lassoism. Trent will have ample opportunities in the coming weeks to keep his mind sharp with how much time he will be spending observing the man at work.
No reason to feel such a melodramatic pang when Ted calls on the Independent’s newest reporter covering Richmond. A transplant coming off a start in Cardiff, Meredith Lewis is a crack shot with her questions and Trent was delighted to hand the ropes off to her.
His delight decidedly sours when Meredith introduces herself and Ted joins her in saying, “The Independent.”
Then, Ted flits his eyes to the door and catches Trent in the act of spying. Trent straightens, feeling very much like a cornered schoolboy somewhere he ought not be, but Ted only deepens his smile, giving him an acknowledging nod.
Trent nods in return and resolves to go find Mr. Higgins—how long does it take to arrange a temporary building pass? He leaves the last of his journalistic jealousy at the door.
If only it were so simple.
Trent arrives early to the club on Monday morning, his first day shadowing Coach Lasso. Though, he supposes his real first day had been the lead-up to his first profile of Ted, just a few weeks into his tenure as manager. This book project of his, wherever it may lead him, has been a long time coming.
It turns out he is not the only early arrival. Ted, Trent expected; the man is always an espresso shot away from acting as the borough’s personal cock crow. Sarah, press room old guard of The Guardian, is who he never would have anticipated, but perhaps his shock is a sign his journalistic senses are already rusting. A comment slithered from the mouth of Rupert Mannion was circling the Premier League Twitter spheres last night, one plenty disparaging of Richmond’s current management. Sarah must have arrived ahead of the pack in hopes of obtaining an exclusive comment.
That hypothesis does not explain why Sarah is giggling over a flatbread biscuit. Trent cannot say he has seen unflappable, serene Sarah giggle in the ten years he has known her. The woman had been the lucky recipient of playful flirtations from Beckham himself and she had not lit up as she is lighting up now. Drastically out of character for Ted Lasso to slip hallucinogens in a sweet treat, but it seems the only logical explanation.
Trent climbs out of his car—keys pocketed and not locked in, thank you—and, while approaching, watches Ted magically conjure a napkin from thin air for Sarah to dab the crumbs from her mouth. She takes the napkin as if it’s a favor from a fair prince and something in Trent’s stomach curdles. Has to be the thought of having a microdose of pure sugar before noon.
“Trent Crimm!” Ted trumpets immediately upon seeing him. He shoots him a single finger gun. “Independent.”
“Ted Lasso,” Trent responds smoothly. “Is there a byname I should use for you?”
Ted ponders the question. He has a nice thinking face, Trent observes, one deeply thoughtful and appreciative of the opportunity to work a stubborn problem over. If this is a strange thing to notice about an acquaintance, Trent has the excuse of needing such descriptions for his book.
“Well, it wouldn’t be Ted Lasso, the quick-thinker, that’s for sure,” Ted says, self-effacing as ever. “Mind if I get back to you on that?”
“I’m here all week,” Trent reminds him, leaving off an additional, and then some.
Ted returns to Sarah, napkin folded neatly in a small square to trash. She is regarding Trent with a keen interest Trent hates on principle. No writer likes to be treated as though they are a story.
“It has been awful nice talking with you, Sarah,” Ted says, his chipper smile returning.
“And you, Ted,” Sarah replies. “Thank you for the biscuit and the statement.”
“And thank you for helping me workshop some ways to jazz up ‘no comment.’” Ted confides to Trent in a loud whisper, “Probably for the best she persuaded me off ‘comment not found.’”
Trent gives an amused huff. “Probably.”
“A good day to you both!” Sarah says in parting, another giggly, girlish sort of look on her face Trent last saw in Year 9. The expression suggests a secret, one capable of traveling a schoolyard faster than a case of the common cold and straight-forward enough to fit within the confines of a note written on a scrap of lined-paper: do you like me? check yes or no.
Trent is determined to think nothing of it.
He doggedly continues not to think about it at dinner three nights later. While Beard had been the one to float Trent the invitation to his and Ted’s standing Thursday dinner date at The Crown and Anchor, he begged off joining them at the last minute. Trouble, of which he valiantly pretended was not trouble, with his partner was his excuse. There was a history there Trent had no business prying into, but the worried crease in Ted’s brow as he watched Beard go had him on the verge of asking.
Trent has found himself in unwilling possession of a list including a great many things he wishes to ask Ted that fall far outside the purview of his book; the list keeps growing exponentially as he sits across from Ted, studying him in a closeup over their second dinner shared. To start, why he thinks the Crown’s burger is passable, let alone a good dish to recommend. Caught up in the compliments Ted pays to the chef—what a word to use at a pub—Trent had ordered the same. He’s sure he’ll live to regret it.
Deep into their dinner, in the midst of a conversation on Colson Whitehead’s latest, a fresh pint arrives at the table. Neither of them had ordered it.
“From the boys,” Mae says in fond irritation. Over her shoulder, Trent sees the pub lads in their usual stools; he believes one to be Baz, Jeremey another, perhaps Peter or Paul for the last. They are—how should he best put this tactfully—very active commenters on The Independent’s Richmond coverage. The day Trent does not see one of their user handles in his Twitter mentions will surely be a harbinger of apocalypse.
Their commentary had been especially colorful when Ted Lasso arrived on the scene. Trent is fairly certain the smaller one of the lot, Baz, received a two-week ban from commenting on The Independent website because of his excessive vitriol against Ted. Hardly seem the type to send the American manager of their club a round, even despite Richmond’s recent successes.
Ted tips an invisible cap to the boys in thanks and raises the pint to take a sip.
“You’re actually going to drink that?” Trent asks, eyebrows arched.
Ted bobs his head, glass at his lips. “Yes, sir.”
Trent’s stomach flips something awful. The burger really was a misguided order.
“You’re not at all concerned they spit in it?”
After a hearty sip, a touch of foam ending up his mustache that he wipes away, Ted says, “A couple of years ago, maybe, but those fellas and I have come a long way. They just want the best for their team, so that has always put us on the same side. Sure feels nice proving yourself, though, doesn’t it?”
Trent remembers, no matter how he attempted to hide it, how nervous he had been starting out in sports journalism. Afraid to step on the toes of giants. Even more fearful to poke the bear that is a rabidly-devoted fanbase. In all honesty, he hit his stride in Richmond, same as Ted.
He smiles at the memory and at his dinner companion. “It does.”
Going by the faces of the lads at the bar, doing a poor job of watching them with discretion, Trent will argue Ted has more than proved himself. Trent has seen adored managers before, but in a field where losses are treated with the gravity of a close relative’s death but wins are often felt as only incremental steps to a grander prize, love is a fickle thing. Trent won’t go so far as to say the expressions of Baz, Jeremey, and Paul are adoring yet, though, in a rather strange way, they may be something more. There’s a respect here that seems to go beyond football.
Beyond football, dangerous territory to tread indeed.
Ted is looking at him with a lightness in his eyes, a kind of gentle attention Trent feels the pub lads wouldn’t hasten to kill over. Have it, Trent would say. They wouldn’t know what they were in for. However gentle the attention is, it spikes the temperature of a person’s body to a dangerous degree.
Trent clears his throat. “I was hoping to talk about your win at Everton in the 2019-2020 season.”
A flare of something—indefinable, to Trent’s frustration—shoots across Ted’s face. If Trent did not know better, he’d say Ted is disappointed to have the conversation revert back to football. But he gives an agreeable nod and says, “Let’s do it, Lleyton Hewitt. Australian tennis great, won the US Open in 2001, hell of a defenseman at the baseline.”
Trent’s eyes flash upwards to the ceiling. “I do know who Lleyton Hewitt is.”
“Just keeping you on your toes, Trent Crimm,” Ted says, and the flare appears again, the second appearance of a shooting star in so many seconds.
Trent wishes he understood it. Foolish of him, arrogant too, to have thought he had a full read on Ted Lasso.
Spotted in the corridors of Nelson Road: Marcus waving down Ted for a final question after the briefing has finished. Ted points out he has an eyelash stuck to his cheek. Marcus attempts to brush it away, to no avail, until Ted kindly steps in and catches it himself.
He presents it to Marcus on the pad of his thumb. “Now you’ve gotta make a wish. Them’s the rules.”
Of all the absurd things to have Marcus, a man of consummate professionalism, grinning like a mad fool and blowing his own eyelash off Ted Lasso’s thumb.
“What did you wish for?” Ted asks, to follow it up immediately with, “No, don’t tell me, ‘else—”
“It won’t come true,” Marcus finishes, tossing in a wink.
Cheeks burning, a flush of embarrassment truly, Trent averts his eyes and notices he had been pressing his pen down so hard on his paper, he ripped a hole through it.
And outside Nelson Road, by the practice pitch, as the team is loading onto the bus for a trip to Liverpool: Greg, not holding up Ted to ask him a final question about the match-up, but to pass along the recipe to his cranberry-apple bread that Ted previously requested. He is downright bashful under Ted’s exalting praise.
“I just hope I can do it justice, Greg,” Ted says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Really, thanks for this.”
Greg nods at Trent in passing as he scurries out of the car park, his cheeks and nose rosy. Does the man have everyone in the press room under a spell or is it the press room that has Ted under theirs? A mutual hexing, perhaps. Trent wants no part in it, the slight ache in his chest a symptom of some different affliction.
Much more perceptive than people credit him—and people do credit him for it plenty—Ted clocks Trent’s bewilderment. Rather than calling him out on it, Ted simply smiles and waves the recipe card. “Don’t worry: I always bake enough to share.”
Thankfully, Ted has to climb onto the bus, late enough already. He misses how Trent’s cheeks redden, not unlike Greg’s.
From the chill, naturally.
With how much time he spends in Ted’s company nowadays, it was bound to happen eventually.
Trent assumed the minor event would occur at a pub. In the park by Ted’s flat, perhaps. But as it turns out, a primary school is the setting where Trent has to witness Ted getting hit on.
Ted Lasso is not an unattractive person. Trent, as a gay man with two eyes, can appreciate his appeal. Once, there was a time facial hair did nothing for him, but Trent cannot imagine a clean-shaven Lasso. It sends a shiver down his spine to consider it in any capacity. Ted without his mustache would be the same as The Beatles with them: a crime against humanity.
Though Trent cannot call what this mum is doing now criminal, she is flirting rather shamelessly. She is evidently a chaperone for the school’s sports day, but Trent is not seeing any measure of chaperoning occurring unless it is Ted who needs it.
(Recalling how their previous sports day had ended with Ted bloodied, Trent thinks a chaperone for him is not a terrible idea. But as the man’s personal shadow for the next few months, would he not be the most obvious choice? Trent does not muse on any of this aloud, of course. Professionalism, as it were.)
“That really is a terrific color,” the mum is saying of Ted’s jumper, her hand smoothing slowly down his upper arm.
Trent stifles a guffaw.
“Richmond blue, proud to wear it,” Ted says easily, his eyes not on the woman’s trailing hand but on the schoolyard where a good deal of Richmond blue is on display. “I’m sure your son is proud to wear it, too. That’s him over there, right?” He nods his head at a young boy kicking the dirt twice around a ball before landing a solid bunt. “He’s got strong feet. Might be a future Greyhound in the making.”
The woman melts under Ted’s compliments. “Football really is his favorite thing in the world,” she says, her tone no longer suggestive but simply delighted to be talking about her son. “He’s been so happy that the team is doing well.”
“He’s exactly the kind of kid we’re doing it all for,” Ted says, smiling warmly, “and you can quote me on that.”
He glances around the woman’s back, throwing a wink Trent’s way. Trent mimes writing down the quote, on a notepad sporting plenty of room. Distracted as he was by this woman’s attempts to coax Ted into bed, Trent forgot he was supposed to be jotting down notes.
“It was great meeting you.” Ted holds out his hand for the woman to shake. She does, beaming in gratitude for the simple pleasure of Ted’s company for even a short while, and Trent watches in wonder as she walks away, having been rejected but not at all put out by it.
“I have never seen such an amicable rejection,” Trent comments, a terrible slip. So much for professionalism.
The smile Ted slides his way punches the air out of his lungs. “Well, I’m guessing that’s because no one who’s had the pleasure would reject Trent Crimm, Independent.”
Trent opens his mouth. Nothing comes out of it.
Oh. Well.
This may be a problem.
“Ah, so you’ve realized you’re in love with him then.”
Sarah had the decency to buy him a scotch before she struck him with something so devastating.
“I am hardly in love with him,” Trent objects, as tonelessly as he’s capable in such a sorry mood. The pub they’ve decamped to reflects his dourness well, empty save for a handful of grouchy regulars also drowning their pitiful sorrows in pints full of ale. He wonders if any of them have shot their professional objectivity to hell.
“I say this as a friend who has already forgiven you,” Sarah says, laying her hand gently on his wrist, “but you had looked like you were going to feed me to a pack of lions for having a casual conversation with him in a car park.”
“My methods of murder wouldn’t be so melodramatic,” he protests after a sip of scotch, needing to calm his nerves at having been so seen. “And, in my defense, you were giggling over him like a schoolgirl.”
Sarah gives him a bland look. “My wife of seven years wouldn’t have cared so much.”
Of course, Trent has had many dinners with Sarah and her wife in the past, some before his divorce and a majority after. His jealousy hadn’t stemmed from a belief Sarah was interested in Ted romantically, but from the different shades of her that Ted brought out. Shades he brings out in everyone—that’s what attracts people to him, like moths not merely to a flame but a bonfire. It is a quality Trent loves in Ted, not in the least because Ted brings out emotional colors in him that Trent thought dimmed to gray a long time ago, but he knows it means Ted is a man whose attention will always be in high demand.
Wanting more than his share is what’s been driving Trent half mad.
“Is there any hope for me?” Trent asks. Hope to recover from the wonderful and horrific malady of falling head over heels for the subject of what he has begun to consider his life’s work. Thinking again of the conflict of interest sees Trent polishing off what remains of his scotch.
“You’re joking,” Sarah says with a dubious little laugh. Taking in his morose face, her smile drops. “No, really, you are joking, right?”
Trent shakes his head. If she believes he’s behaving like a histrionic prat, he’d rather she just come out and say it.
With an exhausted sigh, Sarah signals to the bartender for a second round. “For the love of God, please talk to that man,” she says, sounding thoroughly exhausted, “but only after we’ve sobered up.”
A sobering thing it was, to discover he's in—something, and with Ted Lasso.
The revelation—or more accurately, if one were to quote Sarah, Trent shedding his denial of the fact—brings new perspective to every interaction he has with the man. Where before Trent would not have hesitated to point out Ted had a spot of chocolate by his mouth, from a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie courtesy of Bumbercatch’s mum, he pauses now, wrapped up in the thought of how sweet his lips would taste. It’s Beard who makes Ted aware, on top of noticing Trent’s lingering stare. Mortifying, to say the least.
Even more mortifying is the jealousy. Trent had hoped finally acknowledging his envy is not strictly professional would make it easier to control and, ultimately, conquer. Clearly, spending too much time with Ted has caused him to forget his English adages: it is the hope that kills.
In much the same way Beard and Ted have a standing Thursday dinner date, he and Ted now have a tradition of meeting for coffee on Tuesday mornings. Trent thought he was doing Ted a favor, introducing him to Trent’s personal favorite cafe and bakery. No man deserves to survive on the likes of Pret a Manger coffee.
Their first visit—as colleagues and nothing more, though Ted does insist on paying for both their orders—sees Ted effusively praising the barista for his Americano. Admittedly, Trent understands the impulse. It’s not a drink most people in London care to make well.
Only after Ted’s second sip—“I’m telling you, Michael, this thing is stronger than Conor McGregor’s left hook. Wow”—does Trent notice the barista’s blush. He gives Ted a complimentary croissant that Ted insists on sharing with Trent on their walk to Nelson Road.
On the next Tuesday, Michael, bold as the coffee he brews, writes his number on Ted’s coffee cup. Outwardly, Trent accepts his own decaf Earl Grey with a flat nod and not a word. Inwardly, he seethes.
Ted doesn’t mention the number and Trent feels it would be horribly awkward to bring it up himself. Beard breaks the ice for them when they arrive in the manager’s office, clocking the scrawled digits immediately.
“Not-so-secret admirer?” he asks. His eyes flit briefly to Trent, a look he pointedly ignores in favor of sipping from his cooling tea.
Ted turns the cup in his hand and appears to notice Michael’s number for the first time. Funny given how many times Trent himself stole glances at it over their short walk. Though, he supposes Ted had been distracted by his own discussion of Wong Kar Wai’s nineties romantic masterpieces.
“Huh, would you look at that?” Ted marvels before setting the cup down on his desk. “Must be from the young barista who works at Trent’s favorite coffee place. Kind of reminds me of the guy I dated back in college. You remember him?”
“Blond James McAvoy?”
Ted snaps his fingers. “That’s the one.”
Beard and Ted continue their college reminiscing as if they haven’t just knocked Trent’s world further off its axis. Part of Trent’s plan to get over his embarrassing crush was constantly reminding himself Ted would never reciprocate his feelings. The discovery that Ted is not as straight as Trent once believed certainly does not mean Ted is interested in him or would be in the future, but it removes the brick wall of a hurdle Trent thought he had run smack into.
Just his luck he should leave the office in the daze and run headlong into Sarah, on her way to the press room.
“You haven’t talked to him,” she observes, doing away with any formal greeting. “Why is it that the smartest men are always the most hopeless in love?”
Trent guesses he could spend a year in the British Library and not have an answer for her.
The height of Trent’s hopelessness comes on an ordinary Thursday at the end of November. Ordinary for every person born outside of the United States (and almost doubly so for Zoreaux, whose native Canada celebrates their holiday of thanks on a Monday in October), but not so ordinary for the Americans of AFC Richmond.
Ted and Beard organize a Thanksgiving potluck on the practice field, extending invitations to everyone at Nelson Road and their families. Two large folding tables were set up in the center of the grass to hold the food, buffet-style, but an additional two tables had to be fetched. The smell is heavenly, carried across the length of the field by a cool but comfortable autumnal breeze.
Trent has positioned himself on the outskirts of the feast, his stomach full with servings of Sam’s jollof rice, made in the kitchen of his booming restaurant, and Colin’s famous mac and cheese. His notepad is tucked away inside his jacket. He’s written enough, and anyway, he can’t tear his eyes away from Ted.
Paul Reynolds’s daughter is perched on Ted’s shoulders. He has one hand cupped over his eyes while she has her hands buried in his hair, steering him with the strands. It is obvious to everyone but the giggling pack of children chasing after a stumbling Ted that he is peeking through the slots in his fingers, making sure he, the giant, is not trampling any little giant slayers underfoot.
Trent is not the only one caught up in the circus. Nearly everyone at the party is cheering on the chaos. Tom O’Brien’s son is tugging at his father’s sleeve, begging to be put on his shoulders so that they may do battle with Ted and the little Reynolds’ girl. Roy Kent’s niece is requesting the same from her uncle. Meanwhile, Rebecca Welton is by the dessert table, chatting amicably with Mrs. Higgins and watching the antics of her club’s manager with a joyous smile on her face, endlessly affectionate. Trent has been around Richmond long enough to remember the years of Mannion’s reign, how stiff and rehearsed his wife always seemed at press events. It is something worth celebrating to see her so relaxed and at home amongst her team.
Eventually, Ted needs a break, but only after his arm is twisted left, right, and left again for more rides after his much-deserved rest. Trent expects him to join Rebecca and the Higgins couple, but after acquiring two plates of dessert, Ted charts a course for the outside of the party. A course for him.
“Didn’t see you got any dessert yet,” Ted says upon his arrival, presenting him with a slice of pumpkin pie.
Trent is not normally one for sweets, especially on a full stomach and when the dessert in question is made from the smushed guts of an orange vegetable, but as of yet, he has not been able to deny anything Ted offers him. He accepts the plate and takes a small bite, then immediately has to restrain himself from shoveling the whole slice into his mouth.
Ted is watching him and Trent does not think he has seen him look so pleased. This pie has to be one of Ted’s many contributions to the potluck, his first and foremost contribution, of course, being the potluck itself.
“Sure is nice, isn’t it?” Ted remarks, gazing out at the field where a game of Capture the Flag is underway, Jamie and Isaac taking up the mantles of team captains. “Thanksgiving is far from the perfect holiday, lord knows, but it is nice to have a day dedicated to coming together with the people you care about and just being thankful you have them.”
“And the bounties of food doesn’t hurt,” Trent observes.
“No, it does not,” Ted agrees, raising a forkful of pie like a toast. No sooner has he put the bite to his lips is a voice summoning him.
“Oi! Coach!” shouts Jamie, waving his arm to capture Ted’s attention. “You’re on my team.” Said as though Ted had submitted himself to the draft. It would be well within Ted’s rights to decline, but everyone on the pitch is looking at him, Jamie’s team especially eager to have the Coach Lasso among their ranks, and Ted would never let them down. Even the threat of one disappointed face would have been enough to secure his participation.
To Trent, Ted says, “Well, victory beckons. Do you mind?”
Ted holds out his plate to him and Trent takes it from him, shaking his head in wonder. “I have to say, I am worried, Ted.”
A concerned crease forms between Ted’s brows. “Worried about what?”
“That this book I intend to write is becoming a love letter,” Trent confesses, and comes dangerously close to confessing a great deal more.
“You know, when you think about it, aren’t all books love letters?” Ted posits. “I’ve never read one without a dedication.”
Ted leaves humming a song Trent recognizes well: “Dedicated to the One I Love” by The Mamas & The Papas. Trent once thought he knew who he’d have on his book’s dedication page: his parents, for believing in his dreams as steadfastly as he did, and his daughter, better than any dream. Now, he wonders if he has to add a third dedication. To Ted Lasso, for being a dream always worth believing in.
In the end, it’s fitting that a spot of jealousy would be what does them in.
Had Trent not liked Mae so much, he would've been worried at how much time he found himself spending in The Crown & Anchor over the last few months. In that time, he has discovered the crock of French Onion soup is far more agreeable than the burger and that there is nothing quite so bizarrely arousing as Ted Lasso playing a round of darts.
He has not yet learned how to confess his feelings. It hadn’t been nearly this difficult with his ex-husband; they had met over drinks at a local club and their feelings were not so much confessed in words as they were swapped in spit outside the club’s back exit. Younger days. Not ones Trent particularly misses, but he wishes he had his past self’s confidence to work with.
What he really wishes is for Ted to look across the table, into his eyes, and work it out for himself. Trent is sure Sarah has not been the only person to see it, how plainly his feelings are written across his face. If Ted could guess how Trent is pining over him and let him down gently, as he had with the flirtatious mum, Trent might be able to survive the rest of his time at Nelson Road.
“You’ve been pretty quiet tonight,” Ted observes. “Sorry, was I going on too long about Amy Adams’s filmography? It’s just that the woman really should have two Oscars by now. For Arrival and The Master.”
Trent smiles lightly. “I would say for Arrival and Enchanted.”
“I stand corrected: three Oscars.” Ted beams and Trent has to suppress a deep sigh of longing. The things he would do to have that smile with him on every rainy day.
Before Trent can say or do something inadvisable, Mae arrives at the table with a glass of red wine. The glass already in front of Trent is down to its last sip, but Trent hadn’t ordered another. He thought the night had, unfortunately, been nearing its end.
Mae clears the finished glass and tells him, “From the man in the sports coat, three seats down.” She tosses Trent a wink before she goes.
The man at the bar is looking in the direction of their table and Trent recognizes him—Tom, something or other. They have mutual friends through a non-profit Tom does pro bono legal consulting for and they have gone on a couple of casual dates in the past. Nothing more than a drink or two to appease said mutual friends who fret over how single they both are, but Trent remembers Tom to be intelligent, well-mannered, and kind, especially for a barrister.
They nod at each other amiably and Trent thinks he’ll have to return the favor the next time their outer friend circle meets. He doesn’t notice the funny look on Ted’s face until after he has taken a sip of the wine.
“That was nice of him,” Ted says in a tone trying too hard at breezy. His smile is tight, too.
“He’s a friend of some friends,” Trent explains, not the whole truth but close enough to it.
Some of the tension floods out of Ted’s smile. “That is nice of him then,” he says, repeating himself and, in doing so, suggesting he had not found the gesture very nice before it was put into further context. “Because I was thinkin’ that might be another weird English thing I didn’t know about, sending someone a drink while they’re on a date. You know, for something like luck or—”
“But this isn’t a date,” Trent says slowly, cutting through Ted’s oddly nervous noise.
“Oh, well—yeah, ‘course I know that, but I could see someone from the outside thinking…” Ted chooses the worst moment to trail off and almost has Trent shouting, thinking what, as if it were not obvious.
Someone on the outside peering in may think they’re a couple.
Another piece slides into place: Ted had been jealous at the prospect of another man hitting on Trent when it appears they are on a date.
Heartbeat pounding in his ears, Trent sets the glass of wine aside, prepared to handle everything that’s to follow with care. “Ted,” he begins, not quite believing what he is about to ask. “Do you want this to be a date?”
“I was hoping, maybe someday, it could be,” Ted says with a small, almost forgiving shrug. “But I didn’t want anything I was feeling to get in the way of this book you’re writing. Thought the writer and the writee might make strange bedfellows.”
“I’ve heard stranger,” Trent replies, as he attempts to square with the fact not only does Ted want him, but that he may have been willing to wait for as nebulous a time as someday to get a date with him. “Though, I do have to question The Crown & Anchor as a suitable first date spot.”
From behind the bar, Mae, the shameless eavesdropper, scowls at him.
“Hey now, this wouldn’t be our first date,” Ted objects but with a widening smile. “We’ve had coffees, other dinners…”
“All at this pub,” Trent says smoothly, finding his footing. Ted has never made it hard to, for all he catches Trent by surprise time and time again. “And most with Beard in attendance.”
“Gotta have your best wing man,” Ted says, “but I see your point. A different restaurant might be in order.” His face softens and the joking air dissipates as he quietly adds, “For someday.”
Never let it be said Trent Crimm is an impatient man, but in this, someday will simply not cut it.
“I’ve heard there is a very popular, rather extraordinary Nigerian restaurant that opened in the neighborhood recently. Nearly impossible to get a table,” he says, “unless you happen to know the owner.”
Ted picks up his cue, a twinkle in his eyes and in the dimple of his smile. “I think we just might be in luck,” he says. “How does Saturday night sound?”
Trent had made plans for dinner with Sarah and her wife on Saturday, but something tells him that she will be thrilled to have him cancel. “It’s a date.”
Not very long after, they split the bill and Trent enjoys a final sip of what he is tempted to call the greatest drink of his life. As he and Ted are leaving, Trent stops next to Tom at the bar and tells him, sans context, “Remind me that I owe you a bottle of wine and perhaps a fruit basket. Have a good evening.”
Outside, night has fallen and Richmond is pleasantly quiet and sleepy. Trent knows that Ted has an early training scheduled for tomorrow morning, so there will be no nightcap at one of their respective flats. Still, Trent has to give into his desire to do this: guide Ted by the elbow to the alleyway and press him back against the brick wall of the pub, kissing him with what’s left of his younger self’s spontaneity and recklessness.
“Trent Crimm,” Ted whispers against his lips when Trent pulls away, his voice sounding awe-struck, and breathless, and thoroughly kissed. “Independent.”
“Ted Lasso,” Trent whispers back, smiling at the feeling of Ted’s fingers running through his hair. “The Romantic.”
His eyes are aglow with affection and Trent is not quite sure how he will survive their date Saturday, to have Ted’s attention entirely to himself and know it’s a kind of attention no else gets. He has a great deal to figure out now, but he left his long-time position at The Independent without his world ending. He just kissed Ted Lasso without the sky falling on their heads. Maybe he’ll have to rethink his book, but he’s running off with one hell of a consolation prize.
Trent departs for the night with a reconfirmation of their date, a final kiss from Ted, and feeling like he is the envy of the town.