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Heading for Nelson Road at 3:30 in the morning, Jamie's nervous. There's no way around it. He's tried to figure out how to go about this and he has a sort of rough draft in his head, but he's still nervous.
There's a part of him that had wanted to do what he's done before, thought about doing it last night – text Keeley and ask, because she’s still the one he thinks of when he thinks about talking. But even if she and Roy weren't broken up and he could talk to her and Roy were a safe topic, the main problem would still be there: asking someone, asking anyone, how to talk to Roy about this means admitting what “this” is.
Because the thing is, he’s never really said it. Ted had seen, a little, before anyone else, and obviously all of them saw the fucking embarrassment that was Wembley, which he’s tried his best to forget, but he’s never said it. There’s a difference between others assuming and his admitting, he’s known that for a long time. For as long as he can remember. Back at the pub, with Ted, he’d said He can be a bit... before stopping himself, and even just that had felt like too much. A little too close.
Dr Sharon had been the exception. But even then he hadn’t actually had to say all that much, because she was fucking smart and somehow seemed to hear the things he didn’t say. When he mentioned how sometimes these weird moments happen, when his hands and fingers start prickling as if they’d been asleep and are waking up even though they’d been fine a second ago, or how suddenly he feels fucking cold and like his heart’s going too fast, she’d talked about “triggers” and “fight or flight instinct” like it was something completely normal and not just him being a fucking nutcase.
He’s grateful for that now, because it least means he knows why his heart freaked the fuck out back at the restaurant.
She had also said, when he’d complained about how Roy wasn’t coaching him, ”There's no way for people to know what you're thinking unless you tell them.” And although it hadn’t exactly gone well when he first tried to, it had actually worked out in the end then. Not that they've been listening much recently.
But he also knows it's true, that people around him aren't mind readers. And Roy offering to train him is a big fucking deal and Jamie wants to make the absolute most of it, and if he's gonna be able to do that he has to tell Roy some things first. Because... Jamie knows Roy is a good man. That Roy isn't like his dad. He knows this, because at Wembley it was Roy who stood with him, who stood there with him holding him up and holding him together until he could stand by himself again, and has never once given him any shit for it since.
The problem is that no matter how much Jamie reminds himself that he knows, knows all this, knows that Roy isn't like his dad, no matter how much he shouts or postures or throws his weight around? Sometimes, that fucking fight-or-flight instinct of his just... doesn't. And he doesn't want that fucking this up.
He's gonna try not to fuck this up, he tells himself as he gets out of the car.
“Huh. You're actually on time. I'm almost impressed.” Of course Roy is already here. Was probably here half an hour ago. “Go on, get your kit on.”
”Uh. Before we start, can I say something first?” Jamie can already feel his pulse pounding in his temples.
Roy takes a step back, looking at him up and down, narrowing his eyes.
”You fucking told Keeley you love her again, didn't you.”
”What? No! I wouldn't – I wasn't – I was just gonna –” He stops. Breathes. ”I was just gonna say, if we're gonna do this – ”
”If? You have conditions now?” Roy has already turned away from him, to rummage through one of the storage cupboards for something. “I'm not bringing snacks if that's what you want.”
Jamie takes another breath. And another. People can't know what you're thinking unless you tell them, he reminds himself.
”Could you, like, not – I don't know, like, not throw stuff at me an' that?”
Fuck. He's gone and started at the wrong end. That was supposed to come later.
Roy turns around and stares at him like he's grown a second head.
”The fuck does that mean, not throw stuff? What stuff? You mean like a fucking football? Afraid I'm gonna ruin your hair?”
“Jesus, no, not like a fuckin' football. I – ”
He doesn't know how to do this. No, Roy can't know what he's thinking unless he says it, but he doesn't know how to fucking say it, does he? There's a reason why he never has before. This was a bad idea to begin with. Shouldn't have said anything at all, should've just got on with it.
“Look, you can yell all you want, but you can fuck off with the –” With the smacking and the shoving and the lessons... “– with the rest of it. Shit's not gonna fucking make me play any better.”
Roy Kent has known how to do things menacingly his whole career, fuck it, Jamie thinks probably his whole life, was probably a menacing fucking baby, and the way he raises his eyebrows and uncrosses his arms is no exception. For some reason Jamie sees that hand coming at his face again, smacking the fork out of his own, and suddenly it's like someone else takes charge of his body. He can feel his chest go out and his mouth turning up in a sneer, and hear his own voice go up an octave.
“You know what? You wanna train me, fine. But the whole Big Bad Roy Kent routine is getting old, all right? Like, sometimes it's just sounds fuckin' pathetic. Bet Keeley saw that, too, and that’s why you fucked off before she could –”
“Fucking watch it, Tartt.”
Roy stares at him, hard. Straightens up. Towers in front of him. It takes every ounce of Jamie's determination to not take a step back.
When Roy speaks, his voice is like gravel.
“How about this? I'll train you the way I train you and you'll work like you fucking mean it, like I said, while shutting the fuck up. Or you can go home right now and go back to bed, and I'll watch Zava steal another goal from you next weekend.”
Several possible answers to that course through Jamie's head over the following few seconds, but the one that actually makes it out of his mouth is the shortest and the easiest one.
“Fuck you.”
He turns and marches back out to the car park.
Well. Fucked that right up, he thinks as he sits and waits for his hands to stop shaking before starting the car.
…
The next day after training, Beard has snuck off early and Ted's sitting at his desk in the office while Roy stands at the whiteboard trying out formations. Formations that probably won't be put to use given that their current tactics are basically just “Zava up front, everyone behind him get him the ball”, but, well, it's something to do.
“Hey, Roy, lemme ask you something before we head out – you and Jamie get into something the other night?” Ted asks behind him. “Every time you got near each other out there today I could've sworn the temperature dropped right down to the 20s.”
“It's September. It's like fifteen degrees out.”
“Oh yeah, sorry, I was in Fahrenheit there. In the 20s means chilly. In the double sense of weather and food, actually. Anyway, just meant that things felt a little frosty out there.”
Roy shakes his head.
“Dunno what's wrong with him. Saw him yesterday and he was being fucking weird.”
“Huh. I knew y'all have been getting along better, big fan of that by the way, but I didn't know you were spending time together outside of here. Dinner and a movie? Wait, lemme guess. Uh, Top Gun: Maverick. Personally, I loved it, although I do think it's a travesty they didn't invite Meg Ryan back.”
Roy rolls his eyes at the onslaught of Lasso-talk. ”We were here. He was in a fucking sulk back at Sam’s restaurant the other night over Zava being better than him, so I said I could do some extra training with him.”
Ted gasps and puts a hand over his heart. ”Roy Kent voluntarily offering to train one-on-one with Jamie Tartt. The times, they sure have a-changed.”
“Fuck off. We were gonna start yesterday morning. Then he shows up here and starts telling me what I can and can't do if he's gonna agree to let me train him, and then he started talking shit about – other shit. And then he just fucked off. Like I said, fucking weird.”
For once Roy is actually grateful for Ted's willingness to talk about just about everything, because he can't figure this one out himself. At the restaurant, Jamie had said he meant it about the training, and Roy believed him. For all the shit he would give Jamie about the pre-Madonna thing, he knows that if there's one thing Jamie takes seriously, it's football. The shit he pulled yesterday, and then giving Roy a wide berth all day long today, makes no sense.
“Hm. Yeah, that doesn't really sound like Jamie these days.” Ted looks thoughtful. “Okay, well, what did he say you could and couldn't do?”
“Didn't get too far down the list. Said I couldn't throw shit at him. Weird fucking thing to say.” Roy notices something about Ted's face change at that. “What?”
Ted gets out of his chair and crosses the room to lean back against the wall instead.
”You remember how we met Mr Tartt Sr. a few months ago?”
Roy freezes at that. He's made a conscious effort not to.
”And how we're all gonna be going up to Manchester again to play City in not too long? You think maybe that could have Jamie a little rattled? On edge?”
Roy hasn't, in fact, thought of that. With hindsight it feels like the sort of thing he should've thought of, but, well, he's had other shit on his mind the past few weeks, hasn't he?
”You know, you two aren't all that different,” Ted says.
Roy glares at him. ”You take that back.”
”No can do when it's true, Jimmy Choo.” Now Roy is starting to regret initiating this conversation. “I'm just saying, neither of you lets your guard down very often. If you do, it's usually because it's something important. Yeah?”
Roy would protest, but Ted's already moving on.
“Mhm. Look, I know we joke about Jamie being, y'know, a little... fragile – “
“A fragile little bitch,” Roy interjects.
“ – and in some ways it's true – well, I'll argue with the b-word – but in other ways... Heck, you know as well as I do, that kid is hella resilient. I mean, you gotta be, growin' up with... That, and then make it to here.” Ted shoves his hands in his pockets. “He asked you not to throw things, huh?”
“Yeah. Why, that mean something to you?”
“Kinda.” Ted looks uncomfortable. “Maybe.”
“The fuck does that mean? Does it or doesn't it?” Roy has felt strangely out of balance since yesterday morning, trying to figure out what the hell had happened, and if Ted has answers he'd like them now, fuck the “maybe”s.
Ted sighs. “I didn't tell anyone this, but I, uh, I saw Jamie with his dad after the game when we were relegated, first year. Back in the treatment room here.”
“That cunt was here?”
“He was.” The fact that Ted apparently allows the word ‘cunt’ there without protest there is telling. “Wasn't happy. Got in Jamie's face. Not too different from Wembley. Probably louder.”
Roy's confused. “But they won that night. And the little prick was – ” Why is it still hard for him to say? “He played well.”
Ted nods, with a sad half-smile on his face. “Mhm. Yeah. Well, apparently Mr Tartt's standards have always been... higher. Anyway, when I walked up, first thing I saw through the door was Jamie gettin' a cleat thrown at him. Sorry, boot. Scared the bejeezus out of me when it came flying.”
“A boot thrown at him,” Roy echoes. Well, fuck. “What did you do?”
Ted hesitates before answering.
“Not enough. Right then and there, nothin'. I walked away.”
When Roy opens his mouth, Ted holds up his hands.
“Believe me, I wish I could go back and do it differently. Jamie wasn't with us anymore and I didn't think he'd want me buttin’ in, but I promise you I know I messed up there.”
Roy wants to push back, but at the same time – could he honestly say, for certain, that he would have done differently? After that match, and what happened? Would he have cared, or would he have thought serves him right and walked off? He doesn’t like thinking about the answers to those questions, so is glad when Ted starts talking again.
“What I'm sayin' is, the kid's got baggage, Roy. You know that. Baggage he's not particularly keen on lettin' anyone see. And if he asked you that specifically, yesterday, to not throw things at him, he probably had a reason, and maybe he figured that after Wembley, you'd...”
Ted doesn't finish the sentence, and he doesn't need to.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck.” Roy sinks back down in his chair.
“Whew.” Ted smiles. “Impressive breath control there. Ever thought of taking up singing?”
“Lasso, I swear...”
“Sorry. Force of habit.” Ted clears his throat. “Look... In some ways, Jamie is – all right, fragile, if we're gonna stick with that word. Not his fault. Sometimes he just needs a – lighter touch. Y'know?”
As much as Roy would like to never admit it, definitely would never admit it out loud, he does know. Ted's right. Life would've been so much easier if he hadn't at some point during last season, maybe even before Wembley, started to realise that there was more than he'd thought behind that shiny Jamie fucking Tartt facade. But he had, and it made things complicated where they had been simple.
And the thing is, he thought he'd figured out that balance, mostly – giving Jamie a hard time, because that's their language, while at the same time being clear in that when it comes down to it he's still on the little shit's side. For the most part, at least. When it matters. He'd thought he had that down, picking up on when Jamie genuinely needed the latter. That was partly why he'd offered to train him, for fuck's sake. But apparently, he'd been wrong, and he'd missed something.
Fucking Ted Lasso, coming here and screwing things up, he thinks. He had been perfectly happy before Ted came along and made Roy start seeing all of these little shits, not just Jamie, as people, people he fucking – cares about, instead of just idiots he had to work with. Just like he’d been perfectly happy having one night stands who stole his watches before he met Keeley.
“Put it this way,” Ted says. “Think of a street cat. You gotta approach a cat the right way, right? You startle it, you don't speak its language, it's gonna hiss. You don't listen, you're gonna get scratched. Cat's spooked and defending itself. And it's gonna poof up and make itself all big and scary and yowl at you until you leave it alone.”
Roy looks out into the dressing room through the window. Jamie's laughing at something with Moe, and clearly this is a Jamie-and-Roy problem, not a Jamie-and-Anyone-Else problem.
He sighs. “Phoebe's fucking cat scratches the hell out of me every time I go over there. I'm shit with cats.”
“Mm. Good thing Jamie's not an actual one, am I right? Bet he'd make a handsome one, though.”
Roy watches as Jamie slings his bag over his shoulder, almost ready to leave.
“Hey.” Ted's voice again. “I've seen you be not shit with him when he needed you not to be, Roy. I believe in you.”
Fuck it, then. Here goes nothing. He goes to the door, takes a deep breath and –
“Roy.”
Ted's voice from behind, quiet and gentle, stopping him just before TARTT makes its way out of his mouth, and Roy turns to look at him.
“Street cat.”
Roy closes his eyes for a second. Wills whatever higher power there might be to give him strength.
“Jamie.”
He makes an effort and thinks he manages to keep his voice almost conversation-level, seeing Ted give him a thumbs up out of the corner of his eye, and when Jamie looks up Roy starts towards the dressing room door, motioning with his head for Jamie to follow him. “Outside.”
Jamie looks less than thrilled, but to Roy's relief he follows, down the hall, through the tunnel out to the stands, where Roy stops.
“What do you want?”
Now that Roy's actually looking he can see it, the way Jamie holds himself differently. Stiffly. Shoulders high, hands wound in his shirt. Did he look like that yesterday morning, too? Roy couldn't say. Probably did, and it pisses him off to no end that he didn't notice.
He points to the row of seats to their right and waits until Jamie reluctantly sits before he takes a seat himself, across the isle. Leaving some space.
“I fucked up.” Evidently that's not what Jamie expected to hear, judging by the way he goes still and the stubbornly defiant frown on his face falls away. “You – shit. You tried to say something yesterday, and I didn't listen, and I'm – ” He clears his throat. “I'm sorry. So, if you wanna have another go I'll sit here and listen and I'll shut up.”
For a moment Jamie looks like he's going to get right back up and walk off.
“I don't...” Jamie doesn't continue, and when Roy glances over his jaw is working. A small part of Roy wants to prod, while another larger and louder part of him wants to change his mind, get up and walk away from this conversation entirely, but he'd said he would sit there and shut up, and so he does. He sits there, and waits, while one of Jamie's knees bounces up and down so fast it makes Roy's own knee ache just seeing it.
And he doesn't know why the fuck he even notices, but he does – how Jamie's ears have gone red, a bright, traffic light red, in a way that some part of Roy remembers seeing before. At Wembley.
Finally, Jamie seems to make a decision. He takes a deep breath and mutters, “It was the food.”
“'The food'? What fucking food?”
Jamie somehow shrinks back into his seat, and Roy realises that if he's not careful right now he's going to fuck it right up again, and he might not get a third chance. Street cat, he tells himself, think about the goddamn street cat and just fucking shut it.
“At Sam's, at the restaurant. You – when I had the fork and you did the...” Jamie waves his hand in front of his face, and it dawns on Roy what he's talking about.
Oh. Yeah, he did do that. And – oh, fuck, he can see where this is going. Oh, fuck.
Jamie stares down at his hands while he talks, quietly.
“It's just... shit my dad would do. Knock a plate down, or flip it on me. Tell me to clean it up. To teach some fuckin' lesson. Or 'cause I pissed him off. Or just because it was Wednesday, or whatever.”
“And I don't – like shit, like, comin' at my face, and I don't mean like fuckin' footballs. I just – I just don't. And I didn't mean to start with that, yesterday, 'cause I know it didn't make any sense, like. And sometimes, you – I'm not sayin' you're like him or anythin, 'm not' –”
Roy manages to bite down on the I would fucking hope not that wants to jump out at that, but Jamie's speeding up now and starting to sound worryingly apologetic, and Roy can't shut up any more.
“ – okay, I know you're not –“
“It's okay. I get it.”
“I just – “
“No, I get it.” He clears his throat. “I mean, I've – I've been told, occasionally, that I have – temper issues.”
Roy just hadn't realised, genuinely hadn't, that he had temper issues enough to remind anyone of that particular piece of shit, and fuck if that isn't a kick in the teeth. He tries not to think too hard about that right now and listen to what Jamie's saying instead.
“I was gonna – I had it, like, planned out. Sort of. Then I just, I don't know, went sideways and when I said it out loud it just sounded fuckin' stupid, and I didn't – I don't...”
Jamie doesn't finish the sentence, but Roy thinks he hears it anyway. I don't know how to talk about this. Well, he thinks, that makes two of us. It doesn't feel like Jamie's done, though, so he stays quiet this time.
“I'll – like, I'll do the work, I will, I just... I just don't wanna get that shit mixed up with playin' – playin' here.” Playing here. Because it was plenty mixed up with playing when he was still at City. Yeah, Roy can imagine it was. “Y'know?”
Roy gives an affirmative grunt and waits a beat, in case Jamie's going to say more, but that seems to have been the gist of it. Which means it's his turn to figure out what to say.
Phoebe told him once that apologising when you've done something wrong is never the wrong thing to do, and maybe he shouldn't need to take advice from an eight-year-old on something like this, but honestly, a lot of the time Roy's pretty sure that particular eight-year-old is the smartest person he knows.
“I'm sorry.”
Jamie shifts uncomfortably. “It's fine, you don't – ”
“It's not fucking fine. Fuck's sake.” Because it's not, and he has to make sure Jamie knows that, has to make sure Jamie hears him say that. “I shouldn't have done that shit at the restaurant, and I should've listened to you yesterday, so now I'm fucking apologising and that's it. I'm sorry.” He gets louder than he intends to at the end there, but he hopes Jamie understands why. Roy thinks he does when all he says is:
“Jesus, all right, don't have fuckin' heart attack about it!”
Roy shakes his head, thinks about it for a beat before asking.
“Still want me to train you?”
“Yeah.”
He can't decide whether the fact that Jamie doesn't hesitate for a second makes him feel better or worse.
“Okay then.”
They sit quietly for a bit, the silence feeling at least slightly less oppressive than before. But inside Roy's head, it's far from quiet.
Jamie said it was about the thing at the restaurant, but Roy's not an idiot – if this was enough of an issue that Jamie felt he needed to talk to Roy about it before they started training, then... How many times has he reacted automatically the way he always tends to do and caused the same –
I'll fucking kill you!
When I'm done you won't have any teeth left.
TARTT.
Jesus, Mary and fuckface Joseph.
“How about this?”
Jamie looks over at him, looking maybe a little relieved that he didn't need to be the one to talk first this time.
“If we're gonna do this... Look, we – we gave you a signal for when it's time to be a prick. You can give me one if I need to... not... be one.”
That actually makes Jamie laugh, a surprised, genuine sound that for whatever fucking reason is music to Roy's ears. He looks at Jamie, raises his eyebrows and waits.
“Wait, like, for real?”
“Only for when you fucking mean it,” Roy warns him. He can already see many ways this could go wrong, but fuck it, if it prevents this shit from happening again. “Not because you have a date or you wanna fuck off home early and play fucking FIFA or some shit.”
Jamie rolls his eyes, but seems to think it over. “Like what signal?”
“Jesus, you tell me, that's the fucking point.” Roy actually kinda wishes he knew that signal right now. “Just... Think about it and let me know.”
“Yeah. Yeah, all right.”
This time the silence is almost comfortable, and Roy hates the fact that he has to break it and keep going, but apparently this is what's happening now.
“So. Going up to Manchester again in a couple of weeks.”
A vague affirmative noise from Jamie, but nothing more.
“The Etihad,” he adds, like an idiot. “Been a while since we were there.”
When Jamie still doesn't answer, Roy does the exact opposite of what he'd actually like to do, and plunges right in.
“Oi.” He waits for Jamie to look up before going on. “You know we're not gonna let him pull any of that shit again, right? He's not coming fucking near you. Not in Manchester or at any other point this season.”
Jamie looks down again and smiles a little at that, but it's not a smile Roy particularly likes. It's small and a little – sad, a smile that says he appreciates the sentiment but knows it's bullshit. It almost makes Roy hope that the bastard will fucking try them just so that Roy can have a chance to get his hands on him.
Suddenly a thought occurs to him, though, and he curses both it and the fact that he hasn't thought it before.
“You didn't – did you see him? After the United game?”
To his immense relief, Jamie shakes his head.
“Nah. I told Ted when he asked before we went up there, he was up in Newcastle with City.”
Thank fuck for that and thank fuck for Ted and his foresight, Roy thinks, but then Jamie continues.
“Just texted me afterwards. Usual stuff. Givin' me shit about not scorin' this season.” There's a pause, and Jamie's shoulders seem to climb back up an inch. “Said I should start to soon if I don't wanna get shipped out in January.”
Motherfucking piece of shit.
“Yeah, like that's fucking happening,” Roy says once he thinks his voice might be able to sound sarcastic instead of just furious. “Let you go somewhere else and come back and score against us, 'cause that worked out so well last time, didn't it? Like we're fucking idiots?”
He thinks maybe Jamie's shoulders relax a fraction at that.
When Jamie first came to Richmond it had been with an obvious air of – well, really a mixture of grandiosity and resentment, Roy remembers. He'd come there knowing he was going to be the best player on the team, yeah, but also with the knowledge that he still hadn't been quite good enough for City to keep him in their squad instead of sending him on loan. Determined to prove them wrong, to get away from the lower-half-of the-table mediocrity of a club he'd ended up at. Now he's sitting here, hunched over with worry at the idea of having to leave.
Looking back, Roy thinks that resentment Jamie gave off was partly why Roy's dislike of him had been so immediate. (Because immediate it had been; he'd disliked the kid from the get go, before they saw any of his worst behaviour on the training pitch or in the dressing room.) Because he recognised it. He'd felt it himself when he signed for Richmond, that feeling of I shouldn't be here, I'm better than this. The difference between them was, that for him, at that point, that hadn't been true any more – this was his level now, and he fucking hated admitting it. But for Jamie Tartt, going only on pure ability... He was probably right, and Roy had despised him for it.
Then of course Jamie had proved to be the absolute Prince Prick of all pricks anyway, and Roy hadn't had to examine his dislike any closer. Simpler times.
Back in the trickier present, he says, “The goals'll come. And even if they didn't, no one's getting shipped out, Tartt. All right?”
“All right.” Jamie looks relieved. “And I'm... I'm sorry about the – the other stuff I said yesterday.” He hesitates. “I didn't really – I mean – ”
Roy sighs, because yeah, Jamie had chosen the exact right buttons to push to piss him off, but also…
“Should’ve been my first clue.” Technically it should’ve been his second or third, or whatever, after Jamie literally asking if he could say something before they started. “Wasn’t like you.”
For some reason that makes Jamie fidgety again, as if the idea that him acting like an arsehole is now something that should set off warning bells makes him uncomfortable. The smile that threatens to pull at Roy’s lips at that realisation is fonder than it has any fucking right to be, and he quickly forces his traitorous goddamn mouth to get the fuck back in line.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Feel like we should be holding Keeley's fucking cushions.”
Jamie snorts at that. “You mean the fluffy pink ones?”
Roy allows himself a small smile at that and nods, but when Jamie opens his mouth again he immediately gives a pre-emptive “No.”
Jamie looks insulted. “I wasn't gonna –”
“Yes you fucking were. Still not talking about it.”
“Fine, be like that then. Grumpy old twat,” he adds under his breath, and Roy does him the courtesy of ignoring it.
There's one more thing Roy thinks Jamie might need to hear from him, and after everything he figures he owes the kid as much, so he goes ahead.
“I know he's a prick.”
Jamie seems unsure where the conversation has gone now, so Roy clarifies.
“Zava. I know.”
Immediately, Jamie sits up straighter.
“Then why – ”
“Because he's a fucking football genius and a legend, okay? Also a prick and a fucking nutcase, but a legend. Rules are different for players like that. They get more leeway. Shouldn't. But they do. And as long the league table says it's working...” Roy shakes his head. “Hard to argue with.”
He watches as Jamie mulls this over. After a minute he sighs and looks at Roy.
“He really is a dick, though, right?”
“A fucking big one,” Roy agrees. “The rest of 'em will see it at some point, too. Maybe he'll actually win us the whole fucking league first, though.”
Jamie makes a face at that. “Don't fuckin' need him to do that.”
Roy looks at him.
“Go get your fucking kit back on and show me why.”
Jamie grins as he practically leaps up to head up the tunnel back to the dressing room, and fuck if the sight of that doesn’t make the last of the tension that set in Roy's body the moment Lasso had mentioned James Tartt back in the office drain back out of it.
Life really was easier before Ted fucking Lasso got here. But there's no denying it's more interesting now.