Chapter Text
After the year he’s had, Ted Lasso's birthday party is the last place Trent expected to be on a Thursday evening. He had even received the handwritten invite from Ted himself, which made him seriously wonder if the man had any hobbies outside of appearing as quaint and bafflingly charming as possible.
He had tried his best to make his final article for The Independent something that shifted the focus onto mental health in sports, taking the spotlight off of Ted and his very public exit from the Tottenham match the season prior; though that didn't excuse the personal, vulnerable hell he had dropped right into Ted’s lap, and neither did ratting out Nate, or getting himself fired. No, writing such a public unraveling of a man, particularly one he had come to respect, could not be fixed so easily. Even the book was a kind of intrusion. A perverted kind of apology that was done in self interest, unable to get Ted’s vision or AFC Richmond out of his mind even after an offseason to stew.
Yet after being unofficially on the team’s staff shy of three months, he found himself in the thick of it, which was somewhat surprising. Despite Roy ceremoniously lifting the “No Speaking To That Prick Crimm” ban, Trent still felt himself somewhat of an outsider. That was for the best, he supposed, given his current endeavor. Sometimes the best work comes when you aren't corrupted by the sentimentality of the subject, even if he and the world knew that ship had long since passed.
And now, here he is, arriving at a time he hopes is more fashionably late than burdened with pre-social engagement dread.
He suspects the venue, a bar that was American-to-the-point-of-parody, wasn’t picked by Ted himself. It was honestly astonishing the amount of Americana kitsch that could be in one place. The screens show reruns of American football games from nights before, and there is even an honest to god mechanical bull in one corner of the cozy room. From the looks of it, the party is a surprisingly intimate affair with everyone having some direct connection to the club; this also has the added effect of making Trent stick out like a sore thumb. He curses himself for opting against bringing a book with him.
Trent ultimately decides that his safest bet is to perch at the open bar before anyone has the chance to corner him in conversation. If Trent is going to be interrogated, he might as well be pleasantly buzzed for it. He is barely halfway through his first beer before he hears the man of the hour himself, “Of all the bars, in all the world...”
“I just had to walk into yours, but you did invite me,” Trent can't help but smile at the reference. “Happy birthday, Coach Lasso.”
Ted places his hands in his pockets in a decidedly aw shucks manner. “Glad you could make it Trent, it’s nice to see you out of your element.”
Out of his element included his usual getup sans the tie and opting for a slightly nicer button up shirt. Though by the looks of everyone else, Trent would have been better off in jeans and one of his faded band tee shirts.
“Were you the one to set this up…?” He gestures around at the venue.
“No, no, think it’s some lighthearted ribbing from the players, ya know, with my inescapable cowboy nature,” Ted winks, gesturing at his outfit which is far from cowboy gear, that’s for sure. Ted is in fact decidedly dressed down. Jeans replace his usual khakis and his typical light sweater has been worn without a dress shirt underneath. The effect is that Ted looks surprisingly casual — well, besides the tiara that wouldn’t look out of place on his daughter, outside of the fact it was indeed sized for an adult.
“I can tell by your regal attire just how American you are.”
“Yeah I think there were some mixed messages on that one,” Ted chuckles.
Trent nods at that. It was good to know everything was all in good fun, not that he is surprised. Raising his glass, he says, “Well, don’t let me keep you from -”
“- Oh!” Ted suddenly grabs Trent’s beer and studies it before Trent can finish. “You’re drinking tonight? Hope you didn’t bring that nice car of yours here, though I’m sure someone could bring you home if need be.”
Trent blinks at the continuation before settling back into his stool. “I walked actually, this monstrosity is surprisingly close to my flat.”
“Now if you would just learn how to ride a bike, with or without the help of a certain mustachioed friend of yours, you could get here even faster,” says Ted. “Though I guess that’s still a vehicle, so in this particular case I’m glad you didn’t bike here either.”
Trent rolls his eyes in a playful suggestion of Not this again, unable to suppress the smile that has crept onto his face. “You know that less than 50% of England has access to bicycles? In fact, I bet you at least one other person here doesn't know how to ride a bike.”
Ted leans back in mock surprise with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Now Mr. Crimm, would you actually make an honest to God bet on that?”
Trent thinks about it for a moment. He has never been one to back down from a challenge, particularly from Ted… outside of the one time at that Indian restaurant, but that feels like eons ago. A lot has changed since then. “Depends — what did you have in mind, Coach Lasso?”
A genuine grin spreads across Ted’s face at the question. “How about this, we each find three people at this here shindig and ask them about their bi-hicular skills. If any one of them don’t know how to ride a bike, I lose — and how many times do I have to tell you to call me Ted?”
“And what happens if you lose?” Trent replies, interest definitely piqued.
“I’ll default to your keen judgment.” But even as he says it, Ted is clearly looking past him at something across the room. Trent turns his head to see the coach’s gaze settled on the mechanical bull in the corner, surprisingly untouched as of yet considering the levels of sheer foolishness contained by your average drunk footballer. The man knew how to ask for things without actually asking for them, that’s for sure.
“How about whoever loses has to try out that ghastly contraption.”
“Now that is something I'd like to see.” Ted says, holding out his hand.
Trent grabs it and gives it a good firm shake. “As would I.”
As simply as that, the game begins. Ted takes the lead and pulls Trent along behind him as they mingle with the crowd. Ted starts his selection out strong by asking Rebecca, who eyes Trent suspiciously until Ted explains the whole arrangement to her. It turns out that Rebecca has been an avid bike rider from a young age, unsurprising considering her posh upbringing.
“Really Mr. Crimm, no-one taught you to ride a bike?” She arches an eyebrow at him dubiously. “Well, you had me fooled with your whole…” She trails off, gesturing vaguely around her head.
“… vibe?” he offers dryly.
“Vibe!” Rebecca agrees, punctuating the word with a snap of her fingers. “Yes, exactly!”
“That’s what I said!” Ted exclaims. The two of them trade a few stories back and forth before Ted looks over to study Trent’s face. Apparently whatever he sees is enough to leave Rebecca to her previous conversation and drag Trent back into the crowd.
Next on Ted’s list is Higgins, who explains that with five sons it’s a necessity, if only so he can pass it on to the boys in an attempt to get them out of the house. “Though I confess, it might have been easier on the wallet if I hadn’t,” he adds ruefully. “Bike related accidents, damage and injuries, and all that.”
Finally, Ted turns to his best friend and fellow head coach. In as few words as possible (Ted helpfully fills in the gaps), Beard explains how back in college he and Ted rode a bike in tandem to their morning classes every day, switching off between who actually piloted the thing and who stood on its pegs. The whole arrangement lasted for a semester and a half before a crash totaled the poor rust bucket and bruised a rib or two.
“That one was cheating,” Trent complains, finishing his second beer. “You already knew about that.”
Ted has the audacity to chuckle as he holds up his hands in a guilty as charged motion. “You never said I couldn't already know the answer. Plus, I'm just so dang curious to see how your hair is gonna look when getting all twirled around.” Ted laughs and Trent can’t help but laugh a bit with him.
Then it is his turn, and Trent tries his damndest to turn the tides. He figures that based on the statistics, the younger generation might have less experience. Unfortunately, luck is not on his side.
He starts with Tartt, but it turns out the team taught Jamie how to ride a bike after their away game against Manchester City. He had made some off-handed comment about his dad never teaching him shit (including all things bike related) and the team took it upon themselves to teach him the skill together. Apparently, Sam was the one to suggest the whole thing, citing a chat he had with Ted about Sam’s own father. As Jamie recounts the story, a look of pride envelopes Ted’s face. It is nice watching Ted in this environment, seeing the camaraderie he has cultivated amongst his players in real time.
Touching as it is, the story has led to a dead end when it comes to the Richmond players. The likelihood is that the rest would need at least some experience in order to teach their teammate, which makes it too risky to keep taking that route. He finally settles on Richmond’s former PR director after his clear indecision prompts Ted to make the suggestion.
“Hold on, is this some kind of secret interview technique for the book?” Keeley asks with the mock intensity she uses when trying to get a rise out of people. “Ya gonna write about Richmond’s seedy bike riding underbelly? ‘Rowdy Roughriders Wreak Retribution for Richmond’s Rugged Roads.’” Her hands printing the headline in the air.
“Ooooh, Keeley Jones at it again with her clever and captivating consonance!” Ted chirps. “But no, nothing to worry about. There will be no new chapters written today, Tina Fey.”
“You have my word that this is all completely off the record,” Trent says solemnly. Which was mostly true, though he did fully intend to follow up with Jamie and Sam sometime in the near future.
“You see, me and our friend Trent here have a bet regarding bikes and folks’ ability to ride one.”
“Ted seems to think I was raised by wolves or something.”
“Oh, is that so!” Keeley gushes. “Well, as long as we are off the record, I’m mad about bikes, great way to stay in shape. Though I prefer mine to be one of those stationary machines with a screen so I can have fit people cheer me on.”
“Well, there you have it Trent, only one more chance to avoid your fate.”
Trent is about to go find Will, who according to Ted doesn't even know what a CD is, when Roy interjects.
“I'll save you the time, Crimm, I know how to ride a bike too.”
Ted lets out a slow whistle at the admission, his smile wide enough to fill the room, and it was all directed at Trent. “Well, won't you look at that…”
“Hold on a second— that doesn't count! I didn’t ask Roy anything!”
“Yeah, you didn’t need to, like I said it saves us all from your questioning,” Roy deadpans.
“No one said either of us had to ask. Only that out of six people, at least one of them wouldn't know how to ride a bike.”
“Ted, that’s hardly fair —”
Keeley is already crossing her arms, complete with an exaggerated pout that would put reality TV stars to shame. “Are you really going to argue with the man? On his birthday of all days? You see the big crown, yeah?” Trent shoots her an exasperated look; she shoots back with a mischievous smile that reads, Gotcha; the woman would make a damn effective reporter if she ever wanted to be one. Thank God she never did, he doesn't know if he would have been able to keep up.
At Keeley’s words, Ted gives Trent a hardy pat on the back that practically screams, Good job, sport. “It’s okay, Trent! You tried, and hey, look at it this way, you’ll learn something today!”
Trent puts his glass down and sighs in defeat. Much to his dismay, he’s a man of his word. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”
—
The ring is a spacious and padded affair with the bull itself in the center. A small gaggle of people have followed them over, mostly made up of those who would love to watch Trent fall on his ass in a humiliating manner. Which despite the rapport he is slowly cultivating with the team, still happens to be most of the Richmond staff.
“Alright, up you go!” Ted calls as Trent reluctantly climbs on. He has all but settled himself as best he can, ready for his inevitable, humiliating public demise at the hands of this chimera of machine and cowhide, when —
“Wait!” Ted shouts, vaulting himself over the barrier.
“Coach Lasso, what are you -”
Before Trent can finish, Ted’s hands are tugging the glasses off Trent’s own face, his warm fingers brushing against Trent's temples. “Your glasses— it would be a mighty shame for them to break.”
“Ah, yes, quite,” Trent says smartly, hoping to God his face remains unaffected by the blush he can feel creeping down the back of his neck. “Wouldn't want to improve the already high chances of poking out my eye.”
“Can’t have that, now can we?” says Ted, folding the glasses and putting them in his breast pocket. “The world would be worse off without those sharp eyes of yours in them.” It was so beyond frustrating that Ted was able to just say things like that.
“You ready now, Trent?” Ted grins.
All Trent can do in response is give a weak thumbs up and prepare for the worst.
Turns out he didn't prepare all too well. The actual ride was a blur. The damn thing sprang to life and jerked around violently — one second he's on the thrashing machine, and the next he’s sprawled out flat on his back with Ted hovering over him, only barely repressing his glee.
“Now Trent, if I didn’t know any better I’d say a bike isn’t the only thing you don’t know how to ride,” Ted teases, extending his arm to help Trent up.
“Okay, I've done it, now can I -”
“No can do, Mister Magoo! You were barely on that thing for five seconds! For all I know you fell right off on purpose!”
Ted’s grin is positively shit-eating and Trent opens his mouth to argue with him, when he sees Keeley pointing and exaggeratingly mouthing the words “Birthday Boy.” Trent sighs, how this ridiculous man got him so wrapped around his finger remains a mystery.
“Actually,” Ted continues, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation being had, “I know for a fact you didn't fall off on purpose. What happened right here is what we in the business call an ‘amateur move.’”
“Let me guess, this isn’t your first rodeo?” Trent grunts as he struggles to mount the bull again.
“Yes sir-ree! And as it is your first — now second — rodeo, let me give you some advice: here -” Ted’s sturdy hand suddenly presses into Trent’s back, urging him forward. “- First rule of the rodeo: keep your center of gravity near the head. When this bad boy bucks, it’s your job to not get flung unceremoniously onto the floor like a bolder from some old-timey catapult.”
“If you were observant, you would know I already failed that step,” Trent tries and mostly fails to sneer.
“Oh no, I saw that fumble of yours pretty darn clearly,” Ted retorts. “Part of that is you were hunched over stiff as a board, ya gotta get comfortable with shifting those hips of yours.” He says this while casually making a motion Trent does his best not to absorb.
“Second rule of the rodeo: keep one arm out.” Ted moves and grabs Trent’s left hand, working his thumb into Trent’s palm and coaxing his once-white knuckled fingers to uncurl from the rope. With a gentle tug, he extends Trent’s arm out to the side. “It might seem counterintuitive as you got your whole body screaming at you to hold on for dear life, something about innate self-preservation instincts, but let me tell — you those cirque-du-soleil folks really got it figured out balance-wise. Just keep this arm out like so, and you’ll start to steady yourself.”
“Rule number three of the grand mechanical rodeo -” And now Ted’s hand is on his thigh. “- You need to squeeze your thighs tight, tight as you can. Because when that bull is bucking, it’s all the grip you are gonna get.” And the bastard actually pats Trent’s thigh as he says it. Trent is now acutely aware he’s either had too many, or far too few drinks for this, desperately hoping anyone watching will attribute the color in his cheeks to a combination of embarrassment and alcohol. “Now ya got all of that? Or are ya gonna need some repeat instruction?”
“No, I think I heard it loud and clear,” Trent lies.
“Great,” Ted grins, patting Trent's thigh one last time. Then he’s gone, hopping over the ring’s wall once again. Trent shoots him a smile he hopes doesn't look too odd and a Let's get this over with thumbs up.
The bull starts back up with a mechanical whine and Trent is genuinely surprised that he can already feel the difference. The machine’s movements don’t feel so intense and unexpected this time. On the bull’s first buck he wasn't dethroned and neither was he on the second. Then the thing whips around. It takes all his concentration and the little thigh strength he can muster to stop himself from losing his balance. Warmth blossoms in his chest as his tenacity is rewarded with cheers from one Ted Lasso.
He still doesn't last long. The bull jerks in an attempt to buck again and Trent feels his legs rip free from their place, his body not far behind; it earns him a spot on the padded floor with an unceremonious thud. He can only hear Ted’s laughter above the few other scattered onlookers, but more surprising is his own fumbled laughter bursting from his chest. He supposes he feels the way his daughter must when she slips in a puddle of fresh mud and can’t help but laugh. Ted’s already there helping him up, both of them a giggling mess.
“23 seconds! Not too shabby for your first time!”
“Second time actually -” he's barely able to say through the laughter.
A few whoops and many more jeers follow him as he staggers upright, falling heavily into Ted’s side for support. He can’t help but take the mockery in stride as they lean into each other, making their way to the ring’s fence.
“I’m next!” Collin calls out, already halfway into the ring himself after shoving his half-drunk beer into Issac’s chest.
“No fair, I already called dibs!” Dani shouts, swinging his leg over.
Ted has to let go of Trent to run interference, leaving Trent feeling unsteady in more ways than one. “Now, now, easy fellas! The birthday king decrees that everyone who wants a turn is gonna get a turn.”
It’s amazing to watch the way Ted switches so easily from one task to the next, but the sudden lack of attention has left him feeling the same way he felt when he walked into the bar: alone. Shouts start to blur together and Trent decides to let Ted sort this one out. He heads back to the bar, empty now that everyone is interested in the makeshift rodeo.
He isn’t there alone for long. Surprisingly, it’s Richmond’s newest coach who slides in next to him. Given the glares Coach Beard had thrown his way during their brief encounter, Trent would have sworn he would be the one to give him whatever talk this will undoubtedly be. Though from Trent’s understanding, Beard might just be that intense to everyone in the locker room. It’s not as if Roy likes him any better, though he wonders if anyone in this bar but Ted actually does.
Trent is mulling over whether talking to Roy would do more to hurt or heal whatever image the coach has made of him when Roy takes the choice out of his hands. “You’re a colossal prick, Trent.”
“I know, I thought we already had this conversation.” He thinks back to those showers in the Chelsea locker room, the well-buried fear that seeped out of old scars within him, the almost-certainty that he was about to be screamed at by a football coach for not the first time in his life.
Roy, thankfully, is quick to snap him out of the memory. “We have had that conversation already, but now we’re having this fucking conversation, which is a completely different fucking conversation, because this fucking conversation isn’t about me.”
“So why, then, are we having it now and not in the clubhouse tomorrow?” Where there are doors that can be locked and shades that can be drawn?
“Because for the first time since you got here, Ted hasn’t been attached to your fucking hip like he’s the world's most cuddly, ineffective guard dog.”
The image of Ted following him like a lost puppy makes Trent inexplicably fond in a way he does not wish to dwell on at the moment. “…Are you saying he’s been trying to protect me the whole night?” He might not be a journalist anymore, but old habits die hard.
“The whole night? He's been protecting you since your little bombshell in May! Actually he’s been protecting you since you asked him — on bloody National Telly — if he was a fucking joke. The only reason your head hasn’t yet been personally handed to Ted on a silver fucking platter is because it would make his face screw up in a way that would make us all very sad. For fuck’s sake, the only reason you’re even here right now is because he insisted on it. You really think anyone else wants you putting their drunken mistakes into that book of yours for the world to judge?”
Trent wants to ask more, feels the itch in him to poke, but that was the most likely way to get the conversation to end.
After a beat, Roy continues with exasperation, “I have to admit, it takes guts to do what you did. Getting fired from a job like that, all for -” He gestures with his pint towards the bull ring. “- that fucking muppet.” Trent can see, and more hear, Ted whooping and cheerleading for Beard, who is actually killing it on the bull from what little he can tell.
“Muppet? And here I thought you liked Coach Lasso.”
“Of course I fucking do,” Roy sneers, gesturing again in the direction of the ring. “We all do. But you can’t deny that whatever is happening over there wouldn't be out of place in Jim Henson’s nightmares.”
Trent does not argue the point as Ted jumps into the ring to help a clearly dizzy Beard off of the contraption, the whole of AFC Richmond cheering when he holds his arms up in celebration.
They just sit there, watching for a bit, neither one able to keep their eyes off Ted. Curiosity eventually gets the better of him though, as it always does. “Not to sound ungrateful,” Trent begins slowly, “but why are you telling me any of this?”
“You are here because of that man right there, a man who hasn’t left your side all night. And I want you to take a second to fucking appreciate what you have, you daft twat.” The sentence hangs there in the silence between them. Trent, usually so quick-witted with a word, feels like all of the English language has left him. He finds he is unable to fully wrap his head around the conversation, and he is not sure he even wants to.
Trent is startled out of his thoughts by Roy downing the rest of his beer and setting the empty glass down with a resounding thud. “Just so you know, bicycles are fucking deathtraps and I’ve never touched one of those bloody things in my life. You owe me one, Crimm.” Before Trent has the chance to question just what that means, Roy is already pushing off the bar and slipping right next to Keeley’s side, leaving Trent to nurse his drink.
Roy was right. Ted had invited Trent here, and up until this moment spent the whole night at Trent’s side. And for what? To make sure he didn’t run off somewhere? Or that he wouldn’t corner a player when they were drunk? If so, then why invite Trent here in the first place? He isn’t even officially part of the Richmond staff. He really had taken up Ted’s whole evening over a stupid bet he made out of boldness and misplaced pride. And now Ted is off doing his thing with the rest of the team and he’s happy, bright. He’s in his element now.
Alright, Trent has definitely had too much to drink if he’s getting all sorry for himself. Well, the only thing he can do now is leave them all to it and no longer act as the weight around Ted’s ankle. He sighs, reaching for his wallet to leave a few pounds for the staff, when he realizes Ted still had his glasses. There goes his plan of a quiet exit.
“Trent!” Ted shouts excitedly as Trent approaches the ring, the rest of the team excitedly cheering for Will the kitman as he holds on for dear life. “I’ve been waiting for you to get back here! I was worried there for a second you were going to give us the old Irish goodbye. Y’know, the whole lone wolf thing you had going on only suits you in the ‘captivating vibes’ department.”
The fact that Ted had figured out his plan long before he did himself should not hurt as much as it does. “Actually, I was thinking of heading -”
“Oh, right! You’re here for your glasses, aren't you?” Ted is making an odd unreadable expression now. “Here’s your glasses, and since I did you such a favor, I’m going to cash in mine.”
As he speaks, he takes off his sash and crown, dropping the cheap accouterments into Trents arms and eyeing the bull.
“Ted, you won the bet and it’s your birthday. You don’t need to go injuring yourself on that hellish contraption -”
“Hey Beard!” Ted interrupts, calling to his stoic partner in crime. “Do you remember what we did every Thursday night our last two years at Wichita state?”
“Double whisky shots then hit the bull bay-bay!” Beard responds with the remarkable enthusiasm only Ted seems able to coax out of him.
“I bet this fella right here doesn't have half the kick of old Harry No Horns.”
“It’s definitely caused less electrical fires.”
“You have got to be kidding me,” Trent grins, more fond than exasperated. He almost misses when Ted made him exasperated, because the fondness he feels is somehow worse.
“You are looking at the 1996 Wichita State mechanical bull riding champion, would have gone to regionals too if I hadn’t dislocated my shoulder in that bike crash.”
“Well done, Ted.” Trent couldn't help but stare. “You never cease to amaze me.”
Something indecipherable crosses Ted’s face as he smiles back. “Here's to hoping I can amaze you one more time tonight.”
If Trent had the time to speculate, he would come to the conclusion that Ted Lasso is successful at a lot of things by the sheer volume of activities he is willing to fling himself at without a care in the world for his own dignity. It is by far one of Ted’s most admirable traits; the man does not fear to look weak or foolish, he does not care if others sneer so long as what he did worked. Whatever this is, it is not that. Ted is actually good at this.
The bull bucks, dives, and spins and Ted just effortlessly takes it like it is nothing. Shifting his weight, moving his hips back and forth, thighs braced against the bull’s fur, laughing and hollering the whole time. On one particular spin, Ted catches Trent’s eye — the man has the audacity to tip an imaginary cowboy hat at him and wink. That is also the moment the bull’s programming decides it is the right time to buck again. Ted's body jerks upwards. His face changes to one of unexpected surprise, then intense concentration as his balancing hand flies down to instinctively grab onto the handhold. The bull bucks a second time and Trent’s gaze focuses on Ted's face as the man seems to let out a startled gasp that is swallowed by the cheering crowd. Trent cannot move, transfixed by the display. He feels the breath stick in his throat at the strange gracefulness of it.
Despite the throw, Ted holds on, shifting, regaining his balance. He allows himself to continue on, keeping his seat until the bull finally comes to a stop.Trent barely registers the small amount of beer spilling from the cups of cheering club members like rain as he watches Ted hop down, breathing heavy and flushed. There is hair tousled across his forehead, sweat glistening in the light of the rustic exposed bulbs.
Trent can’t help but watch as members of the Richmond club, excited and buzzed with imported American beer, circle around Ted like planets around life-bringing sun. His smile is so bright Trent thinks it could light the whole room ablaze.
He almost feels like he hallucinates the way Ted’s flushed gaze slides back to meet his own before Ted is pulled away by the elated crowd.