Chapter Text
Since Trent Crimm became a single dad his mornings were hectic, and the day the Ted Lasso profile landed on his desk was no exception. He made his daughter, Lottie, breakfast and dropped her off at her childminder before grabbing an americano to go from his favourite coffee shop and jumping on the Tube. He passed the time with an audiobook, Red Card: FIFA and the Fall of the Most Powerful Men in Sports. As he listened, his mood oscillated wildly between anger, awe, and jealousy. What he would give to have been the one to break that story. Ken Besinger was a lucky bastard. Half an hour later, Trent rolled into work on a wave of righteous anger and caffeine.
“Good morning, sunshine,” called Oli, his colleague and sometimes mentee. She was a firecracker of a reporter some twenty years his junior who covered entertainment and culture. Her father was Ghanaian and her mother was British, and she had a penchant for piercings and Doc Martens. They met at a mixer for LGBT+ staff at the paper and Oli pursued friendship with Trent doggedly thereafter. He taught her which sources she should avoid at all costs, and they taught him about the concept of using multiple pronouns.
“What do you want?” Trent replied, without any bite.
“To watch your reaction while you check your emails,” Oli replied, perching on the edge of Trent’s desk and swinging her legs.
“Have they sacked Lasso?” Trent mused as he took off his jacket and booted up his laptop. It would hardly be a surprise to him if the American were gone, destined to go down as a mere footnote in AFC Richmond’s long and storied history. Truth be told, he would have been more upset about it happening while he had no signal on the District Line than the fact that it had happened at all.
“Nope,” Oli replied, popping the p for emphasis.
“Then what—” Trent saw the email from his editor at the top of his inbox almost immediately. AFC Richmond were offering Trent the chance to spend the day with Coach Lasso and write a profile on him for The Independent. He’d have exclusive access to training and be able to interview Ted himself as well as the enigmatic Coach Beard and ‘other members of staff’. Rebecca Welton’s name was conspicuously absent. Perhaps Trent would finally be able to answer the question that had been eating away at him since Lasso’s appointment was announced; Why? “Ah.”
Oli snorted. “You look like a shark that’s just smelt blood in the water.”
“I can’t imagine who would have authorised this. Ted needs media training before they let us at him one-on-one.” Not quite as much as he needed lessons on the fundamentals of football, Trent thought to himself, but it was a close thing.
“The rumour is that The Sun got their hands on some pictures that AFC Richmond didn’t want published. According to the showbiz reporters over there it had something to do with Keeley Jones.”
“Tartt’s girlfriend?”
“She’s first and foremost an influencer/model/actress.”
Trent raised an eyebrow at Oli. “So, our mutual corporate overlords agreed that The Sun’s older and more sensible brother would get the profile in exchange for burying the photos?”
“Precisely.”
Trent grinned, imagining Ernie Lounds hearing the rumours and knowing that he’d lost out on the story. Lounds was an absolute prick; the quintessence of football machismo and a racist, homophobic, misogynist to boot. “Well then, all hail our media oligopoly.”
“It has its benefits,” Oli replied, tipping their coffee mug in his direction.
Two days later, Trent walked over to Nelson Road for his day with Ted Lasso. After decades in the stands at the Dog Track as both a supporter and a journalist, it felt surreal to be standing on the pitch. Trent’s father had once harboured aspirations for him to become a football player, but Trent never had such aspirations for himself. His love for the game did not correlate with his ability to play it.
He stood beside Coaches Lasso and Beard and observed what was happening on the pitch. Sam Obisanya scored a goal and it appeared Jamie Tartt was being used as a decoy to occupy the defenders. It was an interesting tactic, although Trent couldn’t imagine how Lasso had got Tartt and his massive, unchecked ego to agree to it. A moment later Ted was on the pitch telling his players to really sell the ruse, along with an energetic and theatrical demonstration of how they should go about exactly that. The man was utterly ridiculous. And sure enough, Jamie Tartt looked none too happy in his role.
“Interesting play, Ted,” Trent remarked. “Did you come up with this?”
It transpired that the kit man, Nate ‘Check Last Name Before Sending’, had suggested the idea. It must have been naivety that caused Ted to admit this to Trent rather than take the credit for himself. Trent spun his glasses in his hand while he considered this. If Trent wanted to be charitable, he could suppose that using Nate’s knowledge hinted at the leadership style Ted hoped to bring to Richmond during his tenure. Trusting those beneath him and accepting that they knew more about football than him could have its benefits.
Trent pencilled these thoughts in shorthand in his notebook and observed the rest of training. While Ted was off talking to his players, Trent tried to talk to Coach Beard. To his disappointment, his usual tactic of leaving long pauses in the hope of the other person filling them didn’t work on Beard. The man was even more comfortable with silence than Trent. What little information Trent extracted from Beard he’d already learned from prior research.
Ted jogged over toward them as the players filed back to the changing rooms. “I gotta go take a shower real quick, but you make yourself at home Trent Crimm from The Independent. Coach, why don’t you take our guest to our office and let him have a look around?”
Beard nodded while Trent was temporarily stunned into silence. The journalist knew his professional reputation, in fact he had actively cultivated it throughout his career and now wore it like armour. Vicious. Ruthless. Rapacious. He was a predator, and, instead of cowering, his prey was willingly offering himself up on a silver platter.
“Lead the way,” Trent said, slipping his notebook back into the breast pocket of his corduroy jacket.
Trent followed Beard through the changing rooms and into the office that he shared with Ted. Few of the players acknowledged him. If he had to guess, Trent would have said they’d been instructed to act as if it were just an ordinary day during the football season and to ignore his presence as much as possible. The notable exception was Roy Kent who was sitting, shirtless, in front of his locker. He gave Trent a look that could have curdled milk, which probably had something to do with Trent’s write up of the Crystal Palace match.
'If nothing else, Kent should get on well with AFC Richmond’s new manager. He was as slow as the cook on the Kansas City style of barbecue Lasso is so fond of.’
Beard sat down, rested his feet on his desk, and opened the book he was reading. It was a book about football tactics that Trent didn’t recognise, but it was clearly heavily read. Trent wrote down the title, mostly for something to do with his hands.
“Do you mind?” Trent asked, gesturing toward the bookcase.
“Coach said to make yourself at home,” Beard replied with a shrug.
Feeling like a pig in muck to have such unfettered access to the inner workings of AFC Richmond and the mind of its manager, Trent rifled through the books and files. There was nothing particularly noteworthy or unexpected there. No story waiting to be sniffed out.
Perhaps that was why Ted had invited him to have free reign of his office in the first place. He knew that he was too new to have left a paper trail. The only thing that gave Trent pause was a piece of paper on Ted’s desk next to an abandoned mug of cold, milky coffee which had a few words scribbled on it.
Jamie = molasses
Jamie = yeast
Sam = salt(?)
Defense = water
Note to self: Feed starter / bake bread
Beard put down his book and started working on his computer while Trent made a second pass at the bookcase, crouching to inspect the bottom shelf. A moment later, they were interrupted by Ted. Trent jumped to his feet.
“Hey Trent, do you know who you remind me of right now?” Ted said as he walked into the office, his hands fiddling with his belt as he dressed himself after his shower.
“No, what?”
“One of them robot vacuums. Just kinda wandering around looking for dirt.”
The word robot caused a dull ache in Trent’s chest. It was a word he had heard used to describe himself before, most recently by his ex-husband. ‘You’re a robot without an off switch.’
“Roomba!” said Beard, pulling Trent back to the room.
“That’s the one,” Ted replied with a smile which lit up his whole face. Although, Ted seemed incapable of any other kind of smile.
Trent didn’t respond. Instead, he clung to the familiarity of his profession and asked Ted another probing question. Jamie Tartt told him that the team had a party in the locker room after their defeat to Crystal Palace, and it had been bothering Trent ever since, so he asked Ted about it. The answer bothered Trent even more.
“Well, Trent, I’ve never really concerned myself with wins and loses.”
“Now that’s a quote I’ll probably use,” Trent replied dryly, scribbling in his notebook for emphasis. Instead of writing the quote down, even in shorthand, he just wrote ‘What?’. He knew he’d remember the quote verbatim. It was an admirable philosophy, and would be fine at the amateur level where they hand out participation trophies. However, in the Premier League where both the future of the club and the careers of the manager and players alike hinged on winning, it was idealistic at best.
Before Ted could answer, Beard reminded him that it was nearly time for him to leave. To go where, Trent didn’t know, but it became clear when Ted invited him to tag along to an outreach event at a local primary school. It was an obvious ploy, straight from an introductory course on Public Relations, and Trent told Ted as much.
“Oh, what a coincidence,” he said sarcastically. “The day of our interview you just happen to be visiting a local school.”
“Well, that’s the funny thing about coincidences ain’t it?” Ted replied, straightening his jumper and shirt collar. “Sometimes they just happen.”
Ted was looking at him with such an earnest expression on his face that Trent couldn’t help but believe him and so when Ted left his office, Trent followed.
Ted, Trent, and Roy decided to walk to Richmond Primary School together as it was only fifteen minutes away from Nelson Road. Richmond could sometimes feel like a small town all of its own within London, and the fact that Trent would be able to walk home when the outreach event was finished only reinforced that in his mind.
“I sure am glad we’re wanderin’ around Richmond like this,” Ted said, clutching the straps of his backpack as they walked down the tree-line street. “I haven’t had the chance to explore all that much since I got here.”
“I suppose it is quite beautiful,” Trent smiled despite himself, seeing the place he’d known since childhood through someone else’s eyes. “Let me know if you’d like any recommendations for things to do. If I can’t be of help, my colleague on the culture desk certainly can.”
“I appreciate you, Trent Crimm.”
“Fuuuuuck me,” said Roy from behind them. He had never been one for small talk. “I’ll meet you both there.”
And with that, which was quite possibly the most words Roy had ever said in Trent’s presence, Richmond’s Captain was all but jogging away from them in the direction of the school.
“Roy!” Ted yelled after him. “I don't know how to get where we're goin' don't—Oh would ya look at that. He’s already ‘round the corner.”
“If only he could find that speed during your matches,” Trent deadpanned.
“Aw, come on Trent. Roy may not be that fast anymore, but he’s full of conviction and he tells the truth, even when it’s difficult. I believe it was you who called him a commanding presence on the pitch with untapped leadership potential and, well, I for one am inclined to agree with you.”
“The comment about Roy Kent’s untapped leadership potential was intended as a dig at you,” Trent replied impassively.
“Oh, I know,” Ted replied, his brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “I didn’t take it personally. You were meaner about my predecessor, Mr. Cartrick. Called him a one-trick pony and everythin’.”
“Yes, well, that wasn’t my best writing,” Trent admitted. “That headline was low-hanging fruit, but I can’t honestly say that he didn’t deserve it. You’ve read my articles?”
“All the ones I could get my hands on. Struggled a bit with the stuff you wrote for your colleg— sorry, university paper. I wanted to know what I was up against.”
“Mhm.”
Not for the first time that day, Trent found himself utterly perplexed by the man standing beside him. Whether his behaviour was sincere or merely an affectation, it had the same effect. It was compelling and disarming in equal measure and Trent couldn’t help but want to know more about him.
“I hope you know where we’re goin’, Trent Crimm, because I sure as heck don’t. If you’re relyin’ on me to lead the way, we’re ‘bouta become a show with one of the most disappointin' endings in the history of television.”
Parsing the non sequitur took Trent a moment. “Lost?”
“Got it in one.” Ted clicked his fingers and pointed at Trent. “It still stings a bit when I think about it.”
“I know the way. I went to Richmond Primary School myself, many years ago.”
“So you’re Richmond born n’ raised?”
“You could say I grew up in the shadow of Nelson Road.”
“Are you speakin’ literally or metaphorically?”
“A bit of both,” Trent said, shutting off the line of questioning before it truly began. He wasn’t ready to delve into his childhood with Ted Lasso of all people. “Can I ask you a question?”
“That’s what you’re here for, ain’t it?”
Trent dipped his head in acknowledgement. “I saw the notebook on your desk. What does it mean? Why is Jamie Tartt yeast, but not molasses?”
Ted let out a laugh. “You saw that, huh? Well I’ve been tryin’ to come up with an analogy for the offside rule after our little tête-à-Ted there the other week, but I haven’t been able to stick the landin’ just yet. Perhaps I oughta move out of the bakin’ arena entirely and try somethin’ else.”
The previous week, after the Crystal Palace match, Trent had baited Ted in the post-match press conference by asking him to explain the offside rule. Unflappable as ever, he’d replied with a reference to a decision by the US Supreme Court. Apparently, much like recognising pornography, you knew that a player was offside when you saw it.
“I have a follow up question,” Trent replied.
“Now I’d have thought the ‘Note to self: bake bread’ would have been obvious, especially to an award winnin’ journalist such as yourself. I bought sourdough starter with me from Kansas, and occasionally it needs feedin’. I gotta leave myself reminders else I’ll forget and then I’ll be plumb outta bread.”
Trent forgot his follow up question.
“Thank you for remindin’ me. Do you want some sourdough from the batch I’m gonna make this weekend?”
“No thank you, Ted.”
“You sure? It’s a Lasso specialty. You dough not want to miss out.”
“Aren’t you playing Brentford on Saturday?”
“That’s how you pronounce it?” Ted said with genuine surprise. “What happened to half of those letters? I’ve been makin’ a fool of myself all week. Anyway, to answer your question, we do have a game this weekend but I like to bake after. And before. And technically, one time at Wichita State, durin’. I find it relaxin’.”
Trent bit back the urge to tell Ted that it was called a match when you were talking about proper football.
“How exactly do you bake during a college football game?”
“I timed myself out before a game, and I didn’t want all that kneadin’ to go to waste, so I left my loaf in the oven for my wife to take out when it was done. You ever made bread before, Trent?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
“Quality ingredients are important but they can’t make up for a lack of patience, technique, and practise. You feel me?”
“And is that what you think you have at AFC Richmond, Ted? Quality ingredients?”
“We certainly do,” Ted replied, standing to his full height, proud. “Some of the best players in the league. They just need a little help comin’ together.”
“What about technique? You can’t deny your…” Trent searched for an appropriate word. “Inexperience.”
“No, I can’t, and I never have. That’s what I have Beard and young Nate the Great for. A good coach listens to people who know more than him and then gives ‘em credit for what they taught him. A good coach knows that he don’t know everythin’.”
“Are you a good coach, Ted?”
“I sure hope so.”
As the pair continued walking, nearing their destination, Trent listened to Ted talk about bread and tried to pan the stream of consciousness for nuggets of conversational gold. There were things in there buried amongst the pop culture references and anecdotes, things he could use. Yes, the gaffer still lacked a solid understanding of the offside rule and entrusted the kit man with fundamental tactical decisions. However, after less than a month in the job, Ted was already a staunch defender of his team. He not only recognised his own faults, but freely admitted to them on the record. In doing so, he’d managed to defang Trent’s attack and left the journalist feeling off kilter.
Trent knew how to deal with Premier League gaffers. He didn’t know how to deal with Ted Lasso.
When Trent and Ted arrived at Richmond Primary School they found Roy waiting in reception for them. They all signed for their visitor passes and the receptionist escorted them to the assembly hall where the headmaster was ready to introduce Ted. It was exactly as Trent remembered it, the wooden benches that doubled as gymnastics equipment probably hadn’t been replaced since he had last sat on them in the 1980s. The wood was cold and unyielding beneath him. He sat amongst the children waiting for Ted’s speech and felt no more out of place than he had when he was a pupil there. It was within those very walls that Trent began to form the carapace around himself that had become so thick and inflexible.
When the Headmaster spoke, he introduced Ted as Ed Lasso and one of the children called him a wanker. Trent couldn’t help but smile to himself, but the American was unfazed. Trent knew that he had faced similar reactions, including the nickname, everywhere he went in the community since arriving in Richmond. After some brief remarks Ted yielded the floor to Roy Kent who proceeded to call school a waste of time and then swear in front of the children. If the visit were staged for the article, Trent thought to himself, it had been a disaster.
On the playground the children responded well to Roy Kent. Lottie was not yet three years old, but Trent knew from experience that kids generally loved the chance to run around and get out some of their excess energy. Roy took the kids through some drills, including headers, which were cut short when a child sent the ball flying straight toward Ted’s face, resulting in a bloody nose. Still the man stayed at the school, talking to the children and even signing footballs for them, late into the afternoon. It was hard for Trent to imagine the erstwhile Richmond manager George Cartrick attending a community outreach event like this at all, let alone bleeding his way through it with a smile on his face.
Trent was typing up some notes on his phone and eavesdropping on Ted’s conversation with Roy when something else caught his attention. Ted had gifted his captain a copy of A Wrinkle in Time. It was a book Trent had read himself as a child, and one that he was planning to read with Lottie when she was a bit older. It wasn’t an obvious choice for an adult football team captain, but the messages the story contained about leadership at least made Ted’s choice understandable. Gifting a book with messages Ted clearly hoped Roy would internalise (he said as much) was a subtle approach which, given what Trent knew about Roy, was incisive. Kent would respond better to something he could figure out by himself than anything more heavy-handed and direct from Lasso.
Trent was considering the difference between inherent skill and acquired knowledge vis-à-vis leadership when Ted interrupted his thoughts to ask if he was hungry. Quite why Ted would willingly subject himself to further scrutiny and more time in his company when both were only marginally less painful than getting hit square in the face by a football, Trent didn’t know. Perhaps the wayward American was lonely by himself, in a strange city half a world away from home, and just wanted some company.
Trent agreed to dinner and scribbled Kansas - Wayward Son in his notebook while he thought of it.
Ted surprised Trent, yet again, by suggesting a restaurant. Being new to the city, Trent expected that he’d ask for his advice. His choice was a run of the mill curry house in Richmond that, according to a cursory Google search, had a bog standard menu but fairly good reviews. Apparently, Ted already knew the owner. It was within walking distance of the school, but there was also a bus route that went straight past it.
“We’d be quicker walking at this time of day,” Trent said when Ted slowed down as they approached the bus stop. London buses during the rush hour were a circle of Hell that Dante Alighieri had not foreseen when he wrote La Divina Comedia.
“One of these days I’ll get to ride one of y’all’s double decker buses.”
“There are many things I’d do for a story, Ted—”
“But you won’t do that?” Ted interrupted.
“Precisely,” Trent replied, tight lipped.
“What’s the wildest thing you’ve ever done for a story, Trent?”
He considered the question for a moment and came up with several anecdotes he could use in response. All of them top-shelf dinner party material from when he was young, reckless, and desperate to make a name for himself. But none of the stories cast Trent a particularly favourable light and, besides, he wasn’t the one being interviewed.
“Well, I once sat through an entire afternoon of primary school football,” Trent replied finally, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile.
“Did you at least get an interestin’ story outta it?”
“That remains to be seen.”
Inside, the restaurant was as expected. Nothing for the pretentious dickheads covering food and wine for The Independent to write about, but perfectly good for a casual dinner with a source. Besides, if Ted felt comfortable there he’d be more likely to let his guard down. Not that he hadn’t been remarkably unguarded all day, but something told Trent that he’d not yet plumbed the depths of Ted Lasso.
It transpired that Ted didn’t actually know the owner at all. Rather, Ted had been in the man’s taxi at some point and considered his advertisement an invitation. Lasso, it seemed, was the type to make friends wherever he went. In fact he introduced Trent himself to the young man, Ollie, as his friend. Trent had to bite his tongue to avoid saying something he might later come to regret about the strictly transactional and professional nature of their relationship.
It would be no good if Ted decided to ice him out. Although, truth be told, Trent wasn’t sure Ted had it in him to give anybody the cold shoulder.
When it was time to order, Trent was prepared to ask for his usual; a chicken tikka masala. (A boring choice, but one that is on the menu at every curry house in England and therefore a good bellwether of quality.) But Ted interrupted him to order for them both. He asked for whatever the chef recommended and instructed Ollie to have them make the food as spicy as they’d make it for their own family. It was an unwise choice, and Trent told him as much.
When it arrived the food was, predictably, far too hot for either of their palettes. Although, to his credit, Ted held his own despite clearly suffering. Trent had never been to Kansas, but they must have some spicy food over there. Conversely, Trent could barely swallow more than a mouthful. In the end, Trent scraped the food from his plate onto Ted’s. The American insisted that Ollie would be embarrassed in front of the chef, his father-in-law, if they didn’t finish all their food. Such was Ted’s conviction in this belief that he was prepared to make a martyr of his intestines for the cause.
“If you love Kansas so much, why did you…” Trent floundered, his tongue still burning. “Why did you leave to coach a sport you can barely...you know anything about? Was it just the money?”
As conversational gambits went, it was weak, but in his defence none of Trent’s journalism seminars involved anything that could be measured with Scoville units.
“Wait, I’m supposed to be gettin’ paid?”
“Ted,” Trent replied firmly, already accustomed to Ted’s tendency to deflect difficult questions with humour. “What you’re doing is irresponsible. This club actually means something to this town.”
Ted went completely serious. “I know that. I do.”
The journalist nodded to encourage him to keep talking.
“Trent, what do you love?”
That almost made Trent choke on his water. The answers were, in order; his daughter, good whiskey, and (if he were completely honest with himself) his ex-husband. But he couldn’t say any of that to Ted, it was too familiar. There were certain things the subjects of his work would never know about, and for good reason.
“Is it writing?” Ted offered when Trent was unresponsive.
“Yes.” It was as good an answer as any. Trent had loved writing, once. Sometimes he still did. He certainly loved the craft of writing more than he loved his particular profession and everything that went with it.
“Well, good, ‘cause you’re darn good at it.”
“Thank you.”
“You're welcome,” Ted replied. “Me? I love coachin’. Now, I'm gonna say this again just so you didn't think it was a mistake the first time I said it. For me, success is not about the wins and losses. It's about helpin’ these young fellas be the best versions of themselves on and off the field. And it ain't always easy, Trent, but neither is growing up without someone believin’ in you.”
(Didn’t Trent know it?)
“Let me ask you this,” Ted concluded. “Is my tongue still in my mouth? 'Cause I am about to hallucinate from all the heat here.”
Trent glanced at his watch. Shit. His parents would be expecting him to be home soon and, although they always assured Trent that spending time with their granddaughter was no hardship, Trent knew he should save Paul and Mary Crimm from Lottie’s glittery torment.
“I should go,” said Trent, wondering whether to tell Ted about Lottie while he put his notebook back in his jacket. “Deadlines and all.”
“Hey, gotta do the work. I’ll say this though…I really enjoyed getting to spend this time with you, Trent.”
Trent turned to face Ted, searching his face for any sign of forced politeness. He was infuriatingly sincere. “You actually mean that, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
With a thank you to Ted for both the dinner and the day they’d spent together, Trent walked out of the restaurant with his jacket pulled over his shoulder. He sent a text to his mother to let him know that he was on his way home and walked through Richmond, enjoying the unseasonably mild evening and mentally drafting his profile on Ted. It wasn’t until he was almost back at his house that he realised he hadn’t left cash to pay for his half of the meal, or picked up a receipt so he could submit an expenses claim.
Trent unlocked his green front door and crept into the narrow, high-ceilinged hallway of his home, quiet in case his daughter was asleep. However, as he was hanging up his jacket he heard the rumble of tiny footsteps running toward him. His daughter appeared, wearing her pyjamas and with her hair brushed back into a ponytail, followed by his mother.
“Daddy!” Lottie shouted excitedly.
Trent was glad he hadn’t missed bedtime. He always tried his best to be the one to put Lottie to sleep when she stayed at his house. She liked him to read her bedtime stories because he ‘did the voices’. Marcus, his ex, said she once screamed at the top of her lungs and refused to go to sleep because Trent wasn’t there.
“Hello my love,” Trent said warmly, picking her up and holding her in his arms. “Did you behave for Nanny and Grandad?”
“I was good,” she replied sleepily, cuddling into Trent. Good, in Lottie speak, could mean anything from eating all her vegetables to using her toys as a paintbrush and tomato ketchup as paint, so Trent looked at his mother for confirmation.
“She was an angel,” she confirmed. “We did have a minor baked beans related incident, so I gave her a bath and put some clean pyjamas on. Her clothes are in the washing machine now.”
“Thank you for looking after her.”
“It’s never any trouble.”
“I know, but thank you all the same.”
Mary looked at Trent and Lottie for a moment, smiling fondly at them. “We’ll go and let you get her settled.”
“Is Dad here?”
“He wouldn’t miss it,” Mary replied. She then called for her husband. “Paul! Time for us to go!”
Trent’s father appeared from the living room a moment later. He stood in the hallway and gave his son a small, flat smile. He looked so much like Trent, albeit with defined wrinkles and more grey in his hair. Since Lottie came into his life, Paul Crimm had softened compared to the severe man Trent remembered, but there was still a barrier between them.
“Evening. How was your day with Coach Lasso?”
“It was interesting,” Trent replied honestly. “There’s certainly no shortage of material for my article.”
“Is there any point writing it, knowing he’ll be out on his ear before long?”
“Mhm.”
Trent wanted to rise to the bait. He wanted to launch into yet another tirade justifying both his career and his other major life decisions. By this point, he had that particular speech memorised. After their day together, Trent also wanted to correct his father and say that he thought Ted Lasso would at least see out the season. However, the best thing to do was to stop the conversation in its tracks and say nothing.
Sure enough, Paul and Mary Crimm took their cue to leave. Trent’s job and marital status meant Lottie was never away from her grandparents for long, so they promised they’d see her again soon and kissed her on the forehead before they left. Trent gave a little wave with his spare hand and locked the door behind them.
“Right munchkin. I think it’s bedtime,” Trent said softly, putting Lottie down on the floor.
“With a story?”
“Of course.”
Trent followed Lottie as she made her way upstairs slowly. They took it in turns to brush Lottie’s teeth, something Trent had started doing recently to help her learn how. He’d tried getting her to practise on her favourite stuffed animal, an elephant called Ant, but she’d started asking why she didn’t have tusks of her own. Once they were done in the bathroom, Trent put her in bed.
“Sneetches?”
“I can read you The Sneetches if you’d like me too.”
“Sneetches!”
Lottie squealed with delight and wriggled down in her bed. She’d been going through a Dr Seuss phase, and The Sneetches was one of her favourites. Trent read her the whole story and most of the second story in the book, The Zax, before she fell asleep. He finished the story in a soft, low voice before pulling her blanket over her and tucking her into bed.
With Lottie settled and asleep in the orange glow of her nightlight, Trent went to his office and opened up his laptop. An article had been taking shape in his head since Ted admitted to using the AFC Richmond kit man for tactical advice. Trent had scribbled notes about Ted’s subtle yet powerful leadership style and his ego, or lack thereof and every time Ted told him the truth or withstood open derision with a smile on his face, he’d underlined those notes for emphasis.
With a deep breath, Trent started to write.
After spending the day with Ted Lasso I remain baffled by his appointment.
He swiftly deleted that sentence.
Whatever you think about Ted Lasso as a football coach, I assure you, the truth is harder to swallow…