Archive of Our Own

Now this is a cuisine he can get behind. Trent pats his stomach and is close to needing to roll himself out of Sam's joint. No matter what the footballer said about keeping expectations low — something something soft opening something something don't expect too much — Trent is stuffed. He really shouldn't have had that last Kokomo. Then again, maybe he's happy to eat something that doesn't have him scared of how it's going to be coming out the other end. (Sam also may have taken pity on him and steered him away from the dishes laced with chilis but that's neither here nor there.)

Even if he lives to be a hundred, it will be the one (1) dinner he never forgets.

He's ashamed to admit he hasn't consumed any sort of Indian cuisine since then. (Save garlic naan because it's hard to either fuck that up or make it so hot that one's tongue dials emergency services.)

The place is lively, chatter buzzing all around him. As he usually does, Trent sits back and observes those around him. Somehow, he wound up sharing a table with the kit man — he's not quite sure if the kid's actual surname is Kitman or he's just leaning into a poor joke made at his expense — and Higgins. He isn't the biggest fan of the Director of Communications. Hasn't been given how Higgins skittered to do Ms Welton's bidding at the start of Ted's tenure like a snake in the grass. Even if he's tried to make amends, Trent still doesn't trust him one whit.

While Trent's trusty notebook rests on the corner of the table, he hasn't opened it all night. The thing is like a security blanket for him and carrying it around at all hours of the day is a habit more than anything. Trent surprises even himself when he realises he doesn't feel a need to write about how the team interacts together during a night on the town. He can do that strange thing called 'have fun'. Novel concept, really.

It's nice to set his own rules for what's on and off the record for once.

Higgins is babbling on about something club-related, but Trent can't bring himself to pay attention. Instead, his gaze periodically searches for Ted. The gaffer's spent most of the night at a small corner booth with Beard, staring at his phone.

Trent knows from their late-night chat a month ago just what has Ted so distracted — but he sits on his proverbial hands and lets Beard handle Ted. For now. It's not his place, at least in public. He makes a quick mental note to ask Ted what had him frowning and doom-scrolling during what should have been a joyful night out to celebrate their win streak.

He's frowning more than Roy Kent and that's saying something.

"What's the best match y'ever seen, Trent?" Will asks, pulling Trent back to the conversation.

"Oh, uh..." He shakes his head as if to clear it from thoughts of Ted. "That's, ah, a bit difficult to answer. Depends on what your metric is for 'best.' I'd say that —"

Someone jostles him and Trent moves to slide his chair in toward the table so the person has more room to pass behind him. The restaurant space, while cozy, is much tighter near the front. But then there's the lightest touch of a hand on his upper thigh. He jumps at the forward gesture until he catches a whiff of Ted's aftershave. Trent keeps his face impassive (mostly) but sends an arched brow towards Ted. Ted, for his part, does nothing more than give Trent a cheeky grin — and leaves his hand right where it is.

Trent Crimm's legendary facial expressions surely aren't a red flag that says yep, Ted's getting frisky under the table. Ask me how many times Ted Lasso's shown off his impressive tonsil tennis skills in the last six weeks.

"Making the rounds, Coach Lasso?" he asks, trying not to shift in his chair.

Ted finally moves his hand from Trent's thigh in order to gesture back towards the booth he abandoned. The table, without an ounce of chill, turns in unison to look where Ted points. They're rewarded with an eyeful of Jane practically climbing Beard like a damn tree. Higgins makes a noise of the utmost displeasure though Trent has to swallow a laugh at the almost awed expression on Will's face.

"Well," Ted begins, clearly attempting to wipe the sour look from Higgins' face. "Jane's a bit crazy and Beard's sorta got the crazy that matches hers. But you know what they say: two's crazy, three knows to get the heck out of there before it spreads."

"I believe, Coach, the phrase is 'two's company, three's a crowd,' yes?" Trent asks, inclining his head.

"Sure's shootin', Mr Independent Novelist," Ted replies. "And dang it, crazy's one of those words we're not supposta say any more, right? What's a better and less offensive word? Her, uh, strangeness...? Well, maybe, sorta..."

Ted's sitting beside him in a restaurant featuring non-Western cuisine, and it feels familiar and different all at once. Ted's next to him this time — rather than across — close enough that their knees press can together under the table and no one's the wiser. Trent shouldn't enjoy the thrill he gets having a secret in plain sight quite so much.

A cheer erupts as someone enters behind him, but Trent doesn't need to turn to know it's Zava. There's fashionably late and there's downright rude and Zara's the latter of the two.

Will is beaming, trying to get the asshole — er, superstar — to see they have space at their table if Higgins and Will bunch together on their bench.

"I didn't think he'd show," Higgins says, applauding along with the rest of the team.

Zava's like any other hot-shot footballer he's covered over the years. There's always one — from Kent to Ronaldo to Messi to Tartt to Zava — and there will be more to come when each inevitably flames out. For most of them, though, Trent had to work to see the worst in all of them; to maintain his edgy reputation.

Meanwhile, Zava walks into a room like a walking red card.

"Gotta admit, the fella knows how to make an entrance," Ted murmurs, leaning into Trent's personal space so his voice doesn't carry.

Not for the first time tonight, Trent almost wishes the line of what they were to each other hadn't been blurred so spectacularly. That professional courtesy-slash-friendship they shared had been enough. Trent hadn't known Ted's sexuality; Ted hadn't known his. No attraction, just a healthy dose of mutual respect.

It was so much easier six weeks ago.

But then Trent remembers the feel of Ted's mouth on his, the way his moustache is rough against his skin, and knows it's worth it.

Mostly.

Zava takes Will's invitation, and the kit man looks as if he's about to die and go... wherever it is people go when they die. Trent's not the most religious person. Meanwhile, Ted looks uncomfortable, and Trent makes a mental note to talk to him later about it.

Jamie's frowning and they're on a winning streak. Ted's frowning and avoiding the star player that's put them on this win streak.

It's all about the wins lately.

Except, the Coach Lasso he fell for didn't give a damn about wins and losses. He only cared about the team. Signing Zava felt like the least Lassoian Way thing the team has done in the last two seasons.

That night, it had been Ted's team that first gathered. Once Zava arrived, even a blind man could have seen the shift. Gone are the easy conversations and replaced with everyone jockeying for Zava's attention. Trent wouldn't be surprised if a queue of worshippers forms at their table. Hero worship was never in Ted's vocabulary, and Trent isn't surprised to see the other man look so uncomfortable.

He'd seen the hesitation on Ted's face when Rebecca only wanted to land Zava to piss one Rupert Mannion off. There'd also been some weird analogy about skittles that Trent's still trying to unwrap. It's cute how Ted assumed Trent followed his bizarre thought process.

"Whelp, time to mosey on over to the next table. Would hate for it to show up in that book of yours that Ted Lasso shows favouritism."

Trent chuckles and, glasses in hand, pats his notebook. "No worry of that, Coach Lasso. The team novelist has decided to take the night off."

Ted hums his approval and, after pushing in his chair because those midwestern proper manners will never die, Ted ambles towards the table catty-corner from him.

Higgins pulls him back into conversation again, and this time Trent falls into the easy banter. It's as if spending a few minutes in Ted's orbit was enough to buoy his spirits.

There's not a single thing that could ruin his night.

"Marlboro Man!"

Oh, fuck his life.

He doesn't know why it bothers him so much when Sassy saddles over to Ted like she has some sort of claim on him. Okay, so the two of them fucked once. So what? A one-time thing doesn't mean anything serious.

A hint of envy bubbles up in his chest but Trent quickly swallows it down. He has no right to be even remotely jealous of Sassy. Keep it together, Trent. You've what…? Had a few walks home together, and more than a few stolen kisses here and there.

Not like they're actually dating.

Trent doesn't know what to call their not-quite-a-relationship-but-not-friends-with-benefits-because-there's-been-no-sex-so-what-are-the-benefits?... relationship.

Yet he's sitting right there. Well, he's at the front and those two are back by the bar, but Ted has to realise Trent's been watching him all night. Has to guess that he'd notice the two of them, heads bowed close together and would hear how Sassy's laughter would hover above the din in the restaurant.

Fuck.

"Everything all right, there, Trent?" Higgins asks, leaning in. Cozy suddenly feels oppressive. Stifling.

"Yes, I am?" Trent responds to him with a question of his own. Right, a question is not an appropriate response to a query. "Yes," he amends a bit more forceful than necessary. "Been a long few weeks. So many away matches."

Higgins hums. "Can't say I envy you all those rides on the team bus," he says. "Kinda... don't envy you at all, really. When the lads are gone, I tend to get my best work done."

A surreptitious glance back toward the bar. They're still talking. Not that Trent's timing this, but it seems as if Sassy's been the object of Ted's attention longer than anyone else tonight.

Other than Beard. But Beard doesn't count.

And neither does he, apparently.

Logically he knows a relationship with the woman is the smarter play for Ted. He and Sassy are of the opposite gender and no one will give a fuck if they go public with their love affair. Whereas he and Ted are desperate to keep their whatever-we-are-to-each-other hidden because god forbid someone be openly gay in English football. Trent can sorta-get the guy, but no one can ever find out. It's the price Trent has to pay, and for the last six weeks, it's been worth it.

Tonight? Tonight it's a fucking awful deal.

Just because he and Ted aren't officially (or unofficially) an item — Trent doesn't need to sit here and watch Sassy throw herself at the guy he likes. Wants.

Nor does he have any desire to see Ted fucking reciprocate that attention.

Fuck.

Trent salutes Higgins with his glasses then quickly downs the last of his drink. Annoyingly it's mostly water at this point. "Enjoy the rest of your evening. I'm off to go see a man about a dog," Trent says, rising and gathering his belongings. Hoping like hell that no one is as observant as he is and has picked up on just how much his vibe has changed as of late.

While he hopes to sneak out unnoticed, Sam is moving up and down the middle of the restaurant, passing out matchbooks.

"Oh, oh, thank you, Sam," he says, after Sam hands him one from the box. He flips over the green matchbook and runs his finger over the embossed Ola's.

"No worries," Sam replies at almost the same time.

"This place is wonderful," Trent continues and the smile Sam gives him is brilliant. "Food's fantastic."

"Thank you so much for coming." Sam takes a step away to turn back towards the still-hopping restaurant. "Okay, listen, get home safe, okay?"

"Okay," he murmurs, though he isn't sure Sam heard him.

After shooting one last glance at Ted over Sam's shoulder, he slips out before anyone else notices he's leaving so early. Just because he knows Ted and Sassy makes sense in a way the two of them never will, doesn't equal a need to watch Sassy pull Ted all night.

Goddamnit, maybe it's better to let Sassy win.

Mind all a whirl, Trent's heading back toward where he parked his car, straightening his jacket lapels as he walks. The pavement's wet, and Trent appreciates the British weather when it rains during a meal, then is kind enough to hold off again so people can get home dry. He grips his notebook tight in one hand, careful not to drop it in a puddle. Trent keeps his pace brisk as if needing to put as much space between himself and SassyandTed. Sassed? Tessy? Ugh.

At least they don't have a cutesy portmanteau nickname.

By pure chance, two figures catch his attention as he approaches a cobblestone-paved alleyway. Though they're shadowed between two industrial lights attached to the brick wall, it's clear the two figures — the two men are kissing. In an instant, he's transported back six weeks ago to Ted pinning him to the door in a similar fashion. The memory curdles in his stomach, his mind's eye superimposing Sassy into his place.

Damn it.

His next steps stutter, breath catching as the two men are illuminated in the headlamps of a passing car. The car's an expensive sort, but Trent only has eyes for the two men. (Besides, he drives a Mercedes from the 80s, cars aren't his thing.) While he doesn't recognise the one with his back to him but the other? He'd know him anywhere.

Colin.

Trent stands there for longer than he should, his heart sinking for the two men. For Colin, mostly. He understands what it's like to keep a secret like this. It's one he's kept for most of his life, too. But where Trent is savvy and has the wherewithal to know how to keep his sexuality hidden, Colin is too naive to realise just how dangerous this is. (The kid can barely drive his fancy sports car for fuck's sake.)

It's true most at Richmond (and the wider sports world) is aware that he has a daughter — but the facade he presents is that he's nothing more than a simple single dad. Not that there was an ex-partner and said ex just so happened to be male.

It was one of the many reasons they ultimately split: because Trent knew he couldn't be out and proud... and report in the sports industry. True, it was rare for a reporter to get access to a team in the locker room — but he also knew he'd never be welcome there if they knew he liked men.

Unlike Ted, Trent has only ever cracked the door to his closet — not because he didn't want to be out and proud but because he couldn't jeopardise his career. Then again, no one ever asked him directly so maybe he doesn't need to consider himself closeted. Does it count as in the closet because no one's ever flat out asked 'are you gay'?

Schrödinger's Sexuality: he's both gay and straight until forced to declare otherwise.

Trent can't help but watch the two men in their intimate embrace, realising in that moment just how reckless he and Ted were that night. How easily someone could have seen them.

Before the other two can take notice of him, Trent picks up his pace once more, unsure if he's running from Ted or Colin at this point.

His heart breaks for Colin — knowing just how much harder his life is going to become should anyone find out. Trent isn't a religious man by any stretch of the imagination, but he still offers up a small prayer that no one else comes across that alley. That Colin can keep his secret until he retires from football or until someone else takes the heat as the first openly gay footballer during the course of his EPL career and not well into his retirement.

Colin's fragile in a way that Trent isn't and he would do anything to make sure Colin's safe. Protected.

Turning the corner, Trent stops when he reaches where he parked his ancient Mercedes. Ignoring the wet roof, he braces his arms and rests his head against his forearms.

The worst part of all of this? He feels that inherent need to reach out to his former editor with the scoop of the century. No need to cite anonymous sources — he's the source.

Keeping it Gay in Richmond. Almost eight months out of the game, but he still can't erase twenty years of habit. In the five minutes between seeing Colin and his mystery man and reaching his vehicle, Trent has a headline and an article fully formed in his mind.

And he hates just how badly he wants to be the one to break the story. He'd handle it like Ted's panic attacks: start with a factual recount, then bring up stats of other footballers who came out after retirement.

But all the while he'd keep himself firmly out of the spotlight. The article would be about Colin, not himself.

Not Ted.

He straightens, wiping away the last remnants of raindrops that had clung to his blazer sleeves courtesy of his car roof. Trent unlocks his vehicle — tossing his Moleskine notebook onto the passenger seat. And there goes his head, faceplanting onto his steering wheel in weariness mixed with frustration.

Keeping Ted's secret was easy because his own was wrapped up in that one. They're both old enough to have lived through the 80s and 90s — though as children — to understand the need to hide one's sexuality. Colin doesn't have that same benefit.

In other words, someone other than him needs to know about Colin. Someone who can be prepared for damage control when the story inevitably breaks.

Rebecca? No, she wouldn't understand.

Keeley? While her life is PR-focused Trent doesn't trust her to keep a secret from anyone. He tells her, and she tells Rebecca within thirty seconds after their call disconnects.

What's the saying? Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

So why does he have to tell someone at all? He should keep his mouth shut... if the story breaks he can play it off like he had no idea...

No, that only protects himself, not Colin.

Without thinking, he's flicking his phone on — and pulls up Ted's contact info. He trusts Ted. If no one knows of their stolen kisses, he can all but guarantee Colin's secret is safe with the gaffer. Ted would protect Colin from the world.

He presses the call button and Ted's moustached face fills the screen. It doesn't even ring but, instead, goes right to voicemail.

Well, howdy there. You've reached the voicemail —

Trent ends the call before he can hear any more of Ted's chipper voice. He knows there's only one reason Ted's phone would be off.

Fine. It's his secret to keep.

Not like he hasn't kept a bunch of them over the past few weeks.

He starts his car and drives.

Bzzzz-Bzzzz-Bzzzz. Pause. Bzzzz-Bzzzz-Bzzzz. Pause. Bzzzz-Bzzzz-Bzzzz. Pause.

Trent groans and rolls over in bed, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He fumbles for his phone and when he sees Ted's name, he's sleepily trying to figure out why Ted Lasso is calling him at this hour. Trent props himself up on his elbow, squinting at his alarm clock. Whenever it is, it has to be late.

What the hell is Ted doing, ringing him at three in the morning? Right, he called earlier in the evening, but given Sassy — Trent didn't expect to hear from Ted until much later.

"Coach La—"

"Trent."

There's something in Ted's voice that has Trent bolting upright in bed, his duvet pooling around his waist. He grips his phone a little too hard, his mouth going dry.

"Ted is every—"

"Hey."

Ted's voice shakes, an impressive feat to accomplish with only one syllable. Trent's heart is racing, wondering what could have possibly happened to put him in this state. Though the really fucking petty part of him wonders why Ted's calling him instead of his sassy (heh) lady friend. Actually, shouldn't they be boning right now or whatever it is straight-ish people do?

"I get it's late and all..." Ted finally continues.

"Quite."

The only reason Ted could be calling him at this hour is because of Colin. His story must've broke in the wee hours of the night. But the journalist in him knows that's a foolish thought. Why break that sort of news in the middle of the night? The headlines get so much more traction when people are on their morning commute and have nothing better to do than aimlessly scroll social media.

"I, ah, saw ya called. Er, rang. That's the right phrase, yeah? I saw ya rang." The shakiness is gone, but in its place is that tell-tale slur that comes from one too many glasses of alcohol. Ted's hit the whisky. Again.

He can't help but wonder if Ted has a touch of a drinking problem.

"I did, yes," Trent replies, unable to hide a yawn.

"So let's talk."

"Ted."

"You called, I wanna listen."

"It's three in the morning."

"No time like the present."

Trent groans, banging his head back against the headboard. They need to have a serious conversation — two serious conversations more accurately — and neither of them should be had when Ted's in this state.

They also should be had during daylight hours.

"But it's nothing that cannot wait until morning," Trent scrubs a hand over his face. He thinks he said that correctly. Hopefully.

Which... it can wait, right? The Colin conversation, that is. Their lack-of-a-relationship doesn't count as a pressing issue that needs to be solved. (Frankly, it should have been discussed before Ted and Sassy fucked, but that's neither here nor there.) He pulls the phone away from his ear to check his notifications just in case someone didn't want to wait and risk having their scoop sniped.

With a sigh of relief, Trent sees nothing beyond half a dozen emails and FaceBook notifications. No breaking news — aside from a bunch of stories out of the USA. Something about President Jed Bartlett and this scandal involving a medical diagnosis from the looks of it. Odd thing to be up in arms about. Americans. But breaking news from across the pond makes sense with the US being five hours behind the UK. A few more swipes and he puts the phone back to his ear.

Nothing domestic. Nothing about Colin.

There's silence on the other end and, if it wasn't for the sound of Ted's ragged breathing, Trent nearly thought the call had disconnected.

"...Ted...?" he asks, worrying more when he realises Ted hasn't spoken in a while.

Trent hears the softest of sounds that can only be described as a whimper and his heart threatens to crack in two. It's the same sound Ted made the last time he called Trent at a late hour, needing comfort. Needing to tell the whole sordid story of Michelle and the marriage counsellor and the downfall of his marriage.

Another alcohol-induced panic attack?

Thoughts of Colin flee Trent's mind and he swallows past the lump that's formed in his throat. "Ted, either you start talking or I'm coming over."

"Come over. Please."

The phone disconnects without so much as a 'see you soon, cherry macaroon' or 'thanks so much, double dutch.' No, Ted's not rubbing off on him — he's just used both of those on Trent.

In the last week.

In the same damn conversation.

A lack of midwestern charm tells Trent that, whatever's happened, it's bad. Not Colin being outed bad, but something awful. His stomach sinks, realising that Ted called him first rather than Beard. (He's assuming, of course, Beard could have ignored a call from Ted because of Jane's jealousy. Or else Ted simply dialled the most recent caller. Damn it, Trent wants to be special for once.)

Needing help through another panic attack seems entirely likely given the state of Ted's personal life coupled with the way the team seems to be fracturing around a Zava-shaped hole.

But Ted rang him and asked for his help. Meanwhile sitting in bed, preening that he was Ted's three in the am lifeline call isn't going to solve anything.

Trent slips out of his bed and throws on whatever clothes he can reach, relieved that his ex typically took Amaya most weekends once the EPL season kicked off in earnest. He grabs a fresh shirt from the wardrobe and pulls on yesterday's trousers, then he laces his chucks up in record time. He shoves his phone and keys in his pocket — and is out the door in under fifteen minutes.

The Race Walking™ he's been doing with Ted has paid off. Within ten minutes Trent's at number 9½ Paved Court, frowning when he sees the outer door's been left ajar. Trent pushes inside, closing it firmly behind himself. Up the set of stairs to Ted's door and he's not surprised to find it, too, open and unlocked.

"Coach Lasso, It's a good thing it was me, else —" Trent breaks off when he steps into Ted's flat and sees Ted sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands.

Trent's heart shatters. This is so much worse than the night Ted called him over after doom scrolling on FaceBook.

"Ted...?" He asks, easing the door shut.

"I couldn't go through with it. She was here and I was here. And she was tipsy and I was tipsy and I thought it'd be easy and I know it's a shit—sorry, awful—thing to have tried to do but it doesn't matter because I couldn't go through with it so it's not like I did a bad thing only we did kiss so I guess that's a sorta bad thing but I wasn't thinking and you must hate me and I never should've brought her back here I guess I shouldn't have called but I needed—"

Ted's speaking a mile a minute, making it impossible for Trent to follow his train of thought. Or, more accurately, any singular train since it feels like no less than six different trains are running out of Ted's mouth at once.

Trent crosses toward Ted, his anger and jealousy over Sassy (mostly) forgotten. The key word there is mostly; Trent's only human after all. Whatever Ted's put himself through the last few hours is worse than anything Trent could ever say.

He picks up the nearly-empty bottle of whisky — Trent doesn't want to think about how much he's consumed since the last bender he's aware of — and moves it out of reach. Ted doesn't protest. Moving to stand next to Ted, he gently cards his fingers through Ted's hair and the other man leans in, resting his head against Trent's stomach.

"M'sorry, Trent Crimm, Independent."

Trent chuckles. "Why don't you try that again when you're sober and know what you're actually apologising for, hmm?"

Ted swivels his head up to look at Trent, the expression on his face almost pitiful. "She's always there, y'know," he says. "When I'm at my lowest. Last time I didn't mind it. Kinda needed it if I'm gonna be honest with you. Casual sex and getting back on the horse with no name. But that was then and this is now and this time I really didn't need her but she still she showed up like a bad penny. Er, like a bad pence piece. Ick. Well, that doesn't sound as good. Bad pence piece. That's just plain silly. It's a penny. Where was I? Right, I was talkin' about us. Or rather she and I — but we ain't an us, not like you and I are. I know it wasn't right but she was there like that time I felt awful back in Liverpool and she made me feel better then, so I thought this time." Ted takes a breath. "Yeah, we're still figurin' things out but I thought it'd be fine since we haven't had that talk so I liked my little loopie-loop hole. Then I saw you leave and I felt mighty darn awful, but I guess I wanted..."

"You wanted one night of easy and uncomplicated?" Trent supplies.

Ted nods and drops his head, almost nuzzling into Trent's stomach. "But she wasn't you."

The words are said into his faded band shirt, and Trent pretends not to hear him. Yet another thing he'd rather hear when Ted's sober instead of completely pissed.

But what's the phrase: drunk thoughts are sober thoughts, just easier to say?

"Let's get you to bed," Trent says, bending down to press a kiss to the top of Ted's head against his better judgment. "I think sleeping this off will be the best thing for you. We can talk in the morning. About all of this." When I'm sure you'll remember it.

"Good idea, Dulcinea." Ted blinks up at Trent. "Guess that makes me Don Quixote." He giggles. "Shame we're not in the Netherlands, I have no windmills to go tilting at."

Trent helps Ted to his feet, grunting as he's suddenly supporting the majority of his weight as they stumble forward together. "Ted, you aren't in any position to tilt a pinball machine, let alone a windmill."

"'Never tilts at all,'" Ted starts drunkenly singing, "'but that deaf dumb and blind kid, sure plays a mean pinbaaaaall.'" Trent winces as Ted passes through about six and a half different keys — yet somehow didn't manage to find the correct one.

He manoeuvres Ted to the bedroom, biting back a laugh as Ted faceplates onto the bed, bouncing several times with his legs sticking straight out. Ted starts giggling manically and Trent does his best to ignore him, working on at least getting his trainers off. He's not going to fight to remove Ted's clothing.

"Trent?" Ted twists onto his side, giving Trent a glassy-eyed stare.

"Yes, Ted?"

"Stay, will ya? It helped the other time and I just... I guess I need someone around who actually likes me. Or, one that I hope still likes me in spite of me tryin' to sleep with another person." Ted winces. "Worst idea ever, for the record. Worse than that time that I..."

Ted trails off, letting out the loudest snore imaginable. It'll be another day before Trent can learn whatever that 'worst time ever' is. He kicks off his shoes and drops his phone on the nightstand beside Ted's. It's mostly charged, thankfully. Deep down, Trent knows he should go back to his own bed — or at the very least, bunk on the sofa in the other room, but damn his heart — he can't leave Ted like this. And the man did apologise. It may have been an inebriated apology, but it still should count for something.

Even though he's laying parallel to the headboard, Trent joins him in the bed, feet hanging off the side. Ted, even mostly asleep, crawls into his arms, turning so that Trent's the big spoon. It's odd to hold Ted like this given their height difference, but when Ted laces their fingers together and holds their hands tight against his chest nothing else has ever felt so right.

It's not going to be easy, but… they can figure out what they are together.

In the morning.

It's early Sunday when Trent wakes, body stiff from staying in one position for the past four hours. Ted's still where he fell asleep, snoring softly. Trent can't help himself when he kisses the back of Ted's neck.

"Mmm, a fella could get used to this," Ted murmurs, pressing his body back against Trent's. As if there was any space between them in the first place.

There are a lot of conversations they need to have before this becomes a nightly occurrence. Namely officially defining what exactly their relationship is and no more Sassy-shaped interludes.

Ted rolls over until they're face to face and Trent tries to turn his head away. "Believe me, Ted, you don't want to be exposed to a man's morning breath."

Rather than pulling away, Ted tangles their legs together and, with his thumb and forefinger gripping Trent's chin, he eases his face closer. "I think I'll risk it."

The smile that springs to Trent's face is brilliant and he sees that happiness reflected in Ted's own. He doesn't fight the kiss any further. Butterflies alight in his stomach like they do whenever their lips meet. It's Sunday and there's no reason they have to do anything other than enjoy each other's company.

Dimly, Trent's aware his phone is buzzing on the nightstand but it can wait. There's nothing on this earth that could make him move from this bed.

Time is meaningless as they share lazy kisses, Ted's fingers slipping under Trent's t-shirt to trail over his skin. This is as far as they've gone and Trent's been letting Ted take the lead with what he's been comfortable with. However, after last night — Trent might be preening that he's the one who got to sleep beside Ted rather than Sassy.

"Well, I haven't learned that proper fry up of yours. I mean, really. Who thinks baked beans and that gross blood pudding stuff belongs at breakfast," Ted pulls a face. "But I can do my best not to burn a good old-fashioned American breakfast."

Trent chuckles and steals one last kiss, then shoves Ted away from himself when his stomach rumbles. "I wouldn't say no to that but... well. You wouldn't happen to have some tea...?"

Ted's rolling out of bed and springing to his feet. "Ya know, I happen to like you so much that I bought a box of those dirty leaf water bags you're so fond of for reasons beyond imaginin' and it's all yours so don't ask me to drink a lick of it." A shudder wracks Ted's whole body from head to toe. "Even asked what was the best sort to buy. Nice grocer person said I couldn't go wrong with PG Tips, so that's what I got you and it's all yours." He pauses, a blush heating his cheeks as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his very rumpled trousers and rocks back on his heels. "If it makes ya feel any better, I didn't offer Sass any. She asked, too, before the shoutin' started."

The incredibly petty part of Trent does feel better.

As fast as he was up on his feet, here comes Ted crawling back onto the bed once more. He tucks his feet under his bum and folds his hands in his lap as he looks down at Trent's prone form, his face all bunched up in worry.

"Actually, before the whole breakfast thing, can we talk? Maybe before the tea too, so ya don't get any idea about throwing it in my face and making me as disfigured as that Phantom of the Opera fella."

Ted squeezes his hands together so tightly his fingers are turning white then releases them, repeating the motion over and over. Trent's beginning to learn Ted's pre-panic attack tics and, after his gaze flicks between Ted's hands and his face, he's relieved to see no further sign of an oncoming panic attack.

Trent props himself up on an elbow, reaching out to cover Ted's hands with his own. "If this is about last night —"

"No, it's about Tuesday two weeks from now." Ted's lips twitch in a smile as Trent rolls his eyes. "Of course it's about last night. I owe ya, well, I owe ya a heck of a lot more than an apology. I think I mighta tried last night, but things got a bit fuzzy between… well, things got a lot bit fuzzy if I'm bein' honest here. Which I am."

Trent, somehow, manages to work his fingers between Ted's and laces their fingers. Funny how not even twelve hours ago, Trent was fighting the green-eyed monster something fierce, and now all that lingering jealousy has faded away into nothingness. Waking up and snogging his… uh, Ted after sleeping with Ted tucked against his body might've had something to do with it. While the hurt may still linger, Trent feels as if he's come out the victor.

"I won't lie to you, Ted," Trent says, running his thumb over Ted's knuckles. "I was pissed." He pauses. "Actual pissed. As in angry, not the drunk sort."

"Right, you folks have funny words for things over here."

"As if you don't?"

"Touché."

"Anyways," Trent clears his throat and sits up a bit straighter. "I was pissed but deep down I knew I had no right to be. We aren't anything official." We haven't even gotten naked together let alone had sex. "You asked for slow and I agreed. But I know you and Ms," Trent realises he doesn't know her surname, "Sassy have a history. More than you and I do in terms of the between-the-sheets variety. I could follow your logic leaps as much as I hated them. After last night? I truly do understand."

"But you shouldn't." Ted shakes Trent's hand away. "Damnit Trent, I want you to be angry with me."

Huh, Trent didn't think Ted knew how to swear when sober.

"Why should I be?" Trent asks.

"I don't know, because it means you care?"

Trent arches a brow at that. "Coach Lasso, I can assure you that I care quite deeply. And, on the record, I already told you I was angry last night. It hurt to watch you two talk and flirt. However, rather than make a scene that neither of us could afford to have, I left." Trent licks his lips before he continues. "I was jealous of how easily two people can be seen together when they're of the opposite gender. Particularly when at least one party is involved in English sports."

"Does it make you feel better that she sought me out first and not avicea-versa?"

Trent can't help but smile. "Not the correct phrase, but a bit, yes," Trent allows. "Regardless, I suppose I should thank her. If I hadn't left early, I never would have seen Colin." He sighs, preparing to shift proverbial gears to the other and much more difficult topic. "That's the thing we really need to talk about, Ted. Colin and another man were in an alley together. They were kissing just like—"

Ted leans a bit closer, hovering over Trent now but withholding a kiss. "And does it make you feel better that I'm pretty dang sure she and I are officially kaputsies for goodsies?" He speaks as if he didn't even hear Trent's attempted subject change.

That earns another eye roll. Fine, they'll talk about Colin over tea/coffee and this promised American breakfast. "I can't say I'd complain. Well, about that anyway. I will, however, lodge a formal grievance over the way you butcher the perfectly respectable English language. Goodsies and kaputsies aren't words, Ted."

"Fiddlesticks," Ted says and lowers himself to kiss Trent for real this time. He loses his balance, topples over and lands on Trent's chest with his full weight, sending Trent's breath out in a whoosh of air. "This fella made his choice. Even drunk off my butt, I knew you'd come. You did that other time, too." Another kiss, then Ted bumps his nose against Trent's. "What I'm tryin' to say and probably failin' miserably at since there's no coffee in these veins to help me think straight—" He snickers. "—is that I do want it to be an us and a we and all the other stuff that comes with bein' together, even if it's just us who knows it. I want to be your boyfr — Nope, nuh uh. We're not in middle school." Ted pauses again, cocking his head like he's running through every other potential relationship label. "Y'know what, who gives a fig about a label? I sure as heck don't unless it's on a bottle of really good whisky."

Trent slides his hands down Ted's back, settling on his waist as he feels Ted relax on top of him. "Unofficially officially boyfriends," he agrees, even as he wrinkles his nose.

Ted's right, that term does make them sound like they're still in primary school. Partners, though, feels too close to a very long-term commitment. They have time to figure out what they want out of this and, with at least setting the ground rules together, they can figure it out as they go. Granted, Trent isn't quite sure how to navigate this new development with his ex — other than he isn't going to pull on him what Michelle did to Ted. But that's for Future!Trent to worry about. Once Ted's ready to be introduced to his daughter, then he'll cross that bridge and not before.

"Wait a tick." Ted braces his hands on either side of Trent's shoulders and pushes up into a plank position. "Did you say Colin was doin' somethin' with a fella just like I was doin' to you a buncha weeks ago? Didn't think you journalists buried the lede like that."

Damn Ted and his abrupt subject changes. He's going to have to ask for pointers since his attempt failed so spectacularly.

Trent drops his head back toward the mattress with a groan. "Bear in mind that I tried to but you wouldn't listen. Multiple times, at that. And you ignored my phone call."

"Okay, well, I'm listenin' now." Ted's eyebrows knit together, drawing deep lines on his forehead. "Are you sure?

"I know what I saw."

"You're not, I mean, you didn't write up a thing or tell—" Trent gives Ted his best death stare and Ted quickly holds one hand up in surrender before returning it to the mattress before he topples onto Trent again. "Fella still has to ask."

And while Trent understand it still stings. But when Ted's lips find his again, a lot of the hurt melts away.

"It was dark and no one else was around," Trent says when he has full use of his mouth again. "I'm fairly certain I was the only one who saw them." He hopes. God, he hopes.

Ted gives up on holding himself above Trent in favour of snuggling in close, resting his head on Trent's chest once more. Trent slips his hands beneath Ted's tee, thumbs drawing small circles at the small of his back. He's dimly aware of his phone buzzing on the nightstand again, but Trent can't be arsed to care. Not when Ted's weight is so comforting and he's exhausted after not getting a full, uninterrupted night's sleep.

"It's going to make life a lot harder," Trent says quietly.

"His, mine, or yours?" Ted asks, his voice just as soft.

Another sigh. "Yes," Trent replies. Ted picks his head up, pressing his chin into Trent's chest and he fights a wince. Still, Trent traces a line along Ted's cheekbone, loving the way Ted tilts his head into the light touch.

"I was afraid you were gonna say that." Ted presses kisses to Trent's neck, jaw, and lips in quick succession. "Well, for now, no one knows about any of us — so I'm gonna attempt to brew that awful garbage water you're so fond of and make us breakfast."

Only Ted could jump from such a serious topic to cooking breakfast without breaking a sweat.

Trent's phone starts buzzing again.

"Go on, I'll be there in a moment to show you how it's done."

A final kiss — or five — later and Ted's moving off the bed. He gives Trent a little salute following it with a little dance move — Trent 100% appreciates that accompanying arse wiggle — as he heads out of the bedroom toward the kitchen. It's been a strange twelve hours, that's for sure. Somehow he started the night jealous as fuck and ended it with a boyfriend so it couldn't have been all bad, right?

Trent rolls himself into a sitting position, legs planted on the floor and grabs his phone, unsure who (or what) is so insistent at half-seven on a Sunday morning.

His notifications are in reverse chronological order, and Trent stares in horror as he scrolls back through each and every headline. Every single one tagged with some variation on breaking news:

The Daily Mail on Sunday: Footballer Likes His Balls — well that's just tacky.

The Sun on Sunday: Richmond's Got Gays — uninspired, but catchy.

The Sunday Mirror: Richmond Knows How to Handle Their Balls — Well, now he sees who the Mail copied. Shocker.

The Sunday Express: Who's Richmond's New Man? — Well, he won't lie but he wants to know too.

The Guardian: First Openly Gay Footballer at AFC Richmond — Boring, but factual. Half credit.

And there, the newspaper that broke the story in the first place:

The Independent: Keeping it Gay in Richmond — Damnit, that was his headline! If he'd have written the story. Which he didn't.

Attached to every article is the same grainy photo taken outside of Ola's of the two men snogging against the alley wall. It's taken from the same angle that Trent had seen when he left the restaurant.

A guitar riff fills the room and Trent jumps a mile, nearly throwing his phone across the room. What person under the age of fifty doesn't keep their phone set to vibrate only? Ted's phone is blaring the opening chords to — yep, that's Don't Stop Believin'. Of course Ted would use that fucking song for a ringtone. Why does the man have to be so damn predictable?

Ted zooms into the room, wiping his hands on his trousers. "The Richmond ringtone," he says by way of explanation. "But why are they calling—"

"Ted," Trent says through clenched teeth, trying to grab him before he can pick up. He pinch-zooms one of the articles, trying to blow up a title large enough for Ted to read from halfway across the room.

Nope, Ted's more concerned about answering his phone before it stops ringing than looking at what Trent's holding in front of his face.

"Howdy doody, Mickey Rooney," Ted says, chipper as ever as he answers his mobile.

Meanwhile, Trent's hissing, trying to catch his attention and pointing maniacally at his phone.

"Why, Rebecca! Nice to hear from ya. Though a bit early on a Sunday. If this is about Sassy I want you to kn—" Ted stops speaking and Trent doesn't need a speakerphone to hear Rebecca.

Ted's pacing back and forth as he talks, still ignoring Trent. Damnit.

"Ted, you have to get here quick. There's a story that broke a few hours ago and those fucking bastards just ran with it! Didn't even give us the courtesy of a fucking heads up. They just fucking ran the fucking story."

"Woah woah woah, hold yer horses there. I think that's quite a lot of pounds in the cussin' jar. Hey! Got it right on the first try. Anyways, what's the who about the what now?"

Trent rises from the bed and tries to block one of Ted's circuits around the room. It's as if he's realised there's someone else in the room. At last, Ted turns toward Trent to try and shut off his rather accurate impression of a pipe leaking steam when he finally reads the headline Trent's holding up for him. His face goes white. Trent knows the feeling. He sinks back down onto the edge of the bed, scrolling through article after article while Ted speaks to Rebecca.

"These bastards have a story about Colin," Rebecca says, her voice tinny from the earpiece. "And the newspaper that broke it is The Independent. Fucking Trent Crimm that two-timing weasel. I'm going to hang him from the fucking goalposts when I see him."

"Rebecca, I'm lookin' now and it's not his name on the arti—"

"Don't you dare defend that snake in the grass!" Trent pinches the bridge of his nose. He's not offended in the least; he's aware Rebecca would have said the same thing even if she knew he was listening. "He doesn't need to put his name on it for it to be his damn story. The headline just screams his name. Besides, it's an anonymous source. Anonymous source my fucking ass, Trent Crimm, I'm going to fucking ruin you if it's the last thing I do."

Trent tries not to smile but fails. She's not wrong on the headline screaming his name — it is his headline — she's just wrong about everything else she's said so far.

"And," she continues, almost stuttering she's so angry, "just because he gave you a heads up you better not return the favour to him. I'm going to murder him. With his own credentials that I gave him. I knew this book was a stupid idea and I never should've let you be the final say. He probably lied about being fired from The Independent!" There's some muttering in the background and Trent thinks he can hear Keeley and Higgins chiming in as well. "Nelson Road, thirty minutes. Faster if you can make it."

Three beeps say she's disconnected before Ted can even reply.

"Trent?" Ted asks in that same tone he used the last time he was about to ask if Trent was the anonymous source.

He looks up at Ted, pleading that the other man isn't about to take Rebecca's side. "Ted, I swear to you—"

Placing his phone face down on the nightstand, Ted steps toward where Trent is perched on the bed. He plucks Trent's mobile from his fingers, sets it aside, and then slots his body between Trent's knees. "You already said you didn't have anything to do with this and I believe you." He then cups Trent's face in his hands, kissing his forehead.

Trent's phone starts buzzing on the bed, Rebecca's name popping up on the lock screen. He lets it ring a few times, half-tempted to let her go to voicemail and avoid a confrontation altogether. Ted clears his throat and Trent sighs as he answers the call. Ted, for his part, doesn't move away and Trent settles a hand on Ted's hip to ground himself for the impending onslaught.

He feels like he's about to be called into the headmaster's office.

"Ms Welton? To what do I owe the pleas—"

"Nelson Road. Eight sharp. Don't be late."

Three beeps.

"Well, she's mighty angry with you," Ted says, breaking the silence with a weak chuckle.

Trent gives Ted a wry smile. "What're the chances she believes me as easily as you did?"

Ted cocks his head, considering. "She might be a bit harder," he allows, bending down to press his lips to Trent's. "But you can't use a kiss to convince her either."

Despite everything, Trent can't help but laugh.

"Trent Crimm, hand over your credentials now before I hang you with them," Rebecca says before he can even enter the office.

Lovely. Though he supposes he should be grateful she hasn't been able to craft more creative ways to end his life in the last half hour.

Trent shares his shoulders and, after taking one last deep breath, steps inside Rebecca's office to face the proverbial firing squad.

There's a bizarre symmetry to the scene: Ted's sitting in the same seat Trent occupied six weeks ago — with the duet of Higgins and Keeley flanking Rebecca behind her desk. Higgins' face is screwed up in not-even thinly veiled disgust (or is that his usual expression?) whereas Keeley looks as if she's about to launch herself across the desk, nails at the ready and intending on going for his eyes.

"First of all," Trent starts, "I... ah, don't have my credentials. They're at my flat—"

After Rebecca's phone call, he and Ted parted company soon after. Trent didn't have time to head back to his flat to change, so he's stuck wearing the clothes he slept in. Hopefully no one either a, notices his rumpled appearance — at least he grabbed a fresh shirt when he first went to Ted's — or b, Rebecca doesn't ask why he doesn't have them, since, theoretically, he should have just left his flat.

They were smart enough to stagger their arrivals at Nelson Road to keep suspicion at a minimum: Ted first then Trent ten minutes later. As close to eight as possible without being late. No stories to get straight because Trent's just planning on denying everything and hoping for the best. It's stupid as far as plans go, but it's their only safe option.

"Fine. Post them to the club. Anything so that I don't have to see your face around here ever again." She waves a dismissive hand. Does that mean death's off the table? "Along with your notebooks. Anything you've written about the club is my property. I will make sure you never work in this bloody town again if it's the last thing I do."

Trent frowns. He's not going to correct Rebecca that it doesn't quite work that way.

"I believe I have a right to know why I'm being dismissed," he says instead, playing innocent.

Keeley lets out a frustrated growl. "As if you don't already know!" She says, incredulity lacing her voice. "You lying piece of shite I oughta just—"

"Keeley!" Rebecca hushes her wanna-be guard dog, sticking an arm out before Keeley can vault over the desk. "Mr Crimm, I'm sure you're aware of the story that broke this morning."

Trent taps his blazer breast pocket where his phone rests. "I'm aware. Has anyone checked in on Colin?" He glances between three rather guilty-looking faces. "I see."

"Don't act like you're concerned about him," Rebecca says drawing her lips together in a sneer. "We know you're the anonymous source referenced in that The Independent article. If it wasn't for you none of this would have happened. How can you just sit there like that?"

Trent folds his hands in front of his abdomen, looking from Higgins to Keeley, then finally ending with Rebecca. "Because I'm not the source."

"And why should we believe ya, huh?" Keeley asks, pointing a finger at Trent. "You got the scoop and you wanted back in the game so badly and knew this was your one chance. It's how I'd do it if I were you!" Her eyes go wide as she realises what she just said. "No-no-no! Not that I did this! He's the awful jerk, not me."

Trent sighs. "Again, I can assure you that I had nothing to do with this." He finally takes the seat beside Ted in front of Rebecca's desk now that it seems she's willing to have an actual conversation rather than hang first and ask questions later. "You're just going to have to trust me, Ms Welton."

"I'm sorry, Trent, but your assurances mean nothing," Higgins finally says, adding unnecessarily to the conversation.

Talk about a tough crowd.

"Look, we all know Trent here's written some pretty awful things about, well, just about all of us." Ted pipes up, finally breaking his silence. Though Trent doesn't need Ted to defend him, it's nice to have a friend in the room all the same. "And maybe I'm just the dumb American over here, but I kinda think he's telling the truth. So let's believe him and this conversation is over."

Ted punctuates his statement by giving Trent a double thumbs up which looks utterly ridiculous given the situation.

"Ted, please," Rebecca says. "While you may have forgiven him for that hatchet job he did on you, his reputation precedes him. The fact of the matter is he's a journalist first and foremost and I'm afraid he no longer has the trust of Richmond ownership."

This is ridiculous and Trent is done with this entire conversation. He's tired of being accused of something he didn't do. Yes, he gets it. It is the sort of thing that Trent Crimm, The Independent would have done. Trent had the urge to do just what he's been accused of — but he didn't. Damnit, he's changed! Surely people other than Ted and Roy have noticed this by now.

Right?

"Enough," Trent says, rising to his feet. "Answer me this: why on earth would I out Colin?" Trent asks, glancing at each of them in turn. "What's the motive? And it's not returning to journalism. I'm very done with that life. For this very reason, actually."

"I don't know, book sales then?" Keeley asks in response, arms crossed in front of her chest as she stares Trent down.

"Because you're miserable without journalism and wanted to make the kid's life a bit of hell, too?" Higgins asks, then makes a tsking sound. "I thought you'd changed, but you are the same bloke you always were. You're back to seeing the worst in people."

Ouch. Apparently not.

Rebecca, for her part, says nothing.

Ted went silent after Rebecca chastised him, but Trent can see the way he's clenching and releasing his hands in his lap, pushing them between his thighs so no one else can see them. Even his face shows lines of stress, but apparently, no one else can see that Ted's riding that razor-sharp line of an impending panic attack. No one other than Trent. Every fibre of his being is screaming comfort him but Trent has to fight the urge to reach for Ted's hand to calm him down.

Too many angry faces pin him in place and, for the first time, Trent can understand that panicky feeling that creeps up Ted's spine before he has one of his attacks. Drawing in a few deep breaths, the answer to ending this inquisition comes to him suddenly with surprising clarity.

Without meaning to, Trent glances down at Ted — and when their eyes meet, he knows Ted's figured it out too. Ted unclenches his hands, pretending as if he needs to scratch his neck, but he's trying to subtly wave Trent off. Trent shakes his head almost imperceptibly in response.

Twenty years of being in the closet just because no one ever asked him the right question.

Time to open wide the door. Time to be Schrödinger's gay no longer.

Trust my instincts, close my eyes and leap.

"Fine, Ms Jones, allow me to rephrase. Why would I, a gay man, out another gay man for fucking book sales or, an even more ridiculous notion, to make Colin's life hell?"

As expected, the room goes silent.

Rebecca's stunned, Higgins is blinking rapidly, and Keeley has a thoughtful expression on her face.

Trent doesn't dare look over at Ted.

His coming out definitely wasn't part of their last-minute strategizing that morning.

Of all people, it's Keeley who speaks up first.

"Huh," Keeley says, cocking her head at Trent like a curious kitten. "I want a refund on my gaydar. I can't believe I didn't pick up on it before."

"Why? Because of the hair and the whole vibe?" Trent asks, lips quirking to an almost smile, gesturing at himself.

Keeley grins. "Yeah! Well, that and the shoes. No straight man would ever be caught wearing leopard print shoes."

"They were cheetah, actually."

"Be that as it may," Rebecca says, interrupting the fashion discussion and bringing them back to the issue at hand. "Your sexuality aside, I have to insist that this is exactly the sort of thing you'd do. Once a journalist, always a journalist. You outed Ted's panic attacks and you outed Colin. Plain and simple. End of story."

Didn't they already discuss this? Trent pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to keep his annoyance in check. How could anyone think he'd betray another queer man in this way?

"Yes, I did out Te—Coach Lasso's panic attacks to the world, and may I remind you that I was fired from there because I revealed my anonymous source to Ted. A source I've yet to reveal to the rest of you so I'd like a bit of credit for my integrity here." Trent narrows his eyes at Rebecca. "Back then it was my job to write the story when I received it from my source, anonymous or otherwise. I did the job I was paid for."

Rebecca folds her hands on the desk. "Are you saying that if you were still a reporter, and you got the tip that Colin was gay, you wouldn't have written that story?" The way she asks says that she already knows his response.

Damnit, she's not wrong.

Trent swallows hard because deep down he knows she's right and admitting that fact is only going to damn himself further. In the end, he doesn't need to respond. His silence speaks volumes. Trent keeps his gaze focused straight ahead. He might crack if he sees anything akin to disappointment in Ted's expression.

"That's what I thought," Rebecca says, as if she's the star barrister who just got the defendant to say 'I did it' on the stand. "Stop lying, Trent. You left Ola's early. I spoke to Sam already this morning, and he said that Colin and his friend left first and that you weren't far behind. Which puts you at the proverbial scene of the crime." She ticks off every single point on her finger as she speaks. "Therefore, you're the anonymous source."

From behind Rebecca, Keeley mimes someone dropping a mic.

Fine, if they won't believe him, maybe they'll trust a lack of evidence on his mobile.

Probably won't, mind, but it's the last shot he has to clear his name.

He pulls out his phone, enters his passcode, and slides it across the desk as he re-takes his seat once more. "Ms Welton, I have nothing to hide. The only person I rang or texted after I left Ola's was Ted. I rang to tell him what I saw, but only received his voicemail. He returned my call in the middle of the night, but that's it. I haven't spoken to anyone else until you phoned this morning. There's no texts, no photos, no voice memos, no nothing. Because I am telling the bloody truth."

It's Keeley who reaches over Rebecca to pick up the device. She chews on her lower lip while she flicks through Trent's unlocked phone, humming under her breath while the rest of the room watches.

"He coulda deleted things," Keeley points out, tossing the phone back towards Trent and he fumbles the catch, nearly dropping his mobile in the process. "Means nothing, Mr Anonymous Source."

Well, fuck this, officially. Trent rises to his feet. "I'm done with this farce. I quit. You can have my credentials but you don't get the notebooks."

"You can't quit because I'm firing you!" Rebecca fires back at him.

If she needs to have the last word, then fine. He turns toward the exit and Ted reaches out, wrapping his fingers around Trent's wrist to stop him from departing. He looks down at the gaffer and, just as Ted knew he was about to out himself — Trent realises a moment too late what Ted intends to do.

"Trent's not going anywhere."

"Ted, it's not worth it." He belatedly forgets to use Ted's title.

"Ted?" Keeley asks, confused. "I didn't think you ever used first names with, well, anyone. Ever."

"Yes, it is worth it," Ted says, ignoring Keeley and rubbing his thumb along Trent's wrist bones. He doesn't let go of Trent, but he can feel the way Ted's hand is shaking. This is a stupid idea. "Rebecca, I can guarantee that he's not the source." Ted takes a deep breath as all eyes are on him. "Because he was with me all night. We spent half the night talkin' and the second half sleepin' and that's the truth."

Unlike his, Ted's declaration isn't met with silence. Worse, it's met with laughter.

Still, Ted doesn't release Trent's wrist. If anything he squeezes tighter, almost to the point of pain.

"Ted, don't protect him," Rebecca says once she can finally get a grip. "I know you and Sassy went home together…"

"Yes, we left together but that's it," Ted says, turning toward Rebecca. "I sent her home because a fella really shouldn't cheat on the guy he's dating with another gal. I'm fine with the whole casual sex thing, but I ain't the cheating sort. Ask her yourself if you don't believe me."

No one argues. It's as if not trusting Ted is counter to the laws of nature. At least someone around here is taken at his word.

With a deep breath, Trent moves his hand so that he's lacing his fingers through Ted's. Holding his hand. In front of everyone.

Any remaining laughter abruptly cuts off as the trio behind the desk stares at Ted and Trent (sitting and standing respectively). It's terrifying and Trent can't imagine what's running through Ted's head right now. Probably the mild-mannered midwestern version of oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

But Ted's hand is solid in his, grounding him.

They're both out, even if it's only to three people.

No going back now.

The silence in the office stretches so much longer this time, and deafening in its stillness. Trent's heart races, threatening to beat out of his chest.

"Okay, that's it. I really need a refund on my gaydar," Keeley finally says. Then she grins at the two men. "And I think you're both the cutest, aaaah I can't even!" The last word turns into a squeal and, well, Trent assumes that's Keeley's seal of approval on their relationship.

One down, two to go.

Higgins' phone rings and he's easing behind Keeley to slip out the door behind Rebecca's desk, with a muttered, "excuuuuse me," then speaks quietly into the device as he goes. Trent finds he really doesn't care if Higgins approves of them or not.

Which leaves Rebecca.

"Any issues that it's me and Trent?" Ted asks, tilting his head and lifting both eyebrows at her.

She shakes herself out of whatever stupor she's found herself in and waves her hands in that I'm okay with this really, but shit, I've been quiet too long and it appears like I'm not okay with my gaffer being gay and dating the team novelist sort of way.

"All good here," she finally croaks out after Keeley smacks her upper arm a bit harder than necessary. "Happy for you both. Truly. Congratulations."

Trent remains standing but his left hand rests on Ted's back, thumb rubbing small circles just above his shirt collar.

"Excellent. So that settles that." He grins then, leaning into Trent's ministrations. "So! I believe we can all agree once and for all that Trent's not the anonymous source and that he and I make a darn cute couple, ammiright?"

Rebecca nods once. "That we can," she says while Keeley lets out another squeal of approval.

Ted clears his throat then, as if trying to prompt an apology from Rebecca. While Trent appreciates the gesture, he knows there isn't one coming. Rebecca is the sort whose vocabulary doesn't contain the words 'I'm sorry.'

"Can I interest you in a cuppa?" Rebecca asks instead, gaze fixed on Trent.

Trent nods. Well, an offer of tea probably is Rebecca's version of an apology. "Yes, please. I was owed tea a bit ago but there was this phone call that derailed things a bit."

Rebecca has the good sense to look mollified. She steps toward the little drinks station set and flicks the kettle on.

"Well, that's two outta three givin' their stamp o'approval," Ted says. "Better than half, but still not a passin' grade."

Trent unwinds his hand from Ted's and retakes the seat he abandoned once Rebecca returns to her desk. "Since we've all agreed that I've been telling the truth this entire time and wasn't the anonymous source—"

"Sorry, Trent," Keeley murmurs.

"—the next step is to figure out who it is."

Ted raises a hand as if they're still in school and he has to wait to be called on. Rebecca nods at Ted and he sits up a bit straighter. "That's all well and good, Clint Eastwood, but point of order and somesuch, I think the first next step is to support Colin. The second next step is the who of the anonymous source."

Trent smiles. Of course Ted would think of his player first. It's one of the things Trent adores so much about the gaffer.

"And," Ted continues tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Trent's the best choice for the job. I think Trent Crimm, Gay Mentor has a nice little ring to it, don't you?"

There goes his smile as a look of pure horror takes its place. Trent isn't quite so sure about being the best choice for anything mentor-wise. Just because he had that inherent need to protect Colin doesn't mean he knows the first thing about being a gay teacher to a naive footballer. But Ted looks so hopeful that Trent doesn't have the heart to turn him down.

"Well, I love this idea," Keeley says. "And I can help out too if ya want!" Heads turn in her direction and she giggles. "What? I went to university for a wee bit! I... dabbled."

Just how many queer people work at this club? Trent's beginning to realise it's probably more than he thinks. Not surprising, but more than a little heartbreaking that English sports are this unwelcoming to queer folks that everyone is hiding from everyone else.

Maybe he just figured out what he really should write about during his time at AFC Richmond. He told Ted the day he was fired that he wanted to find something with deeper meaning... this just might be it.

It's a thought at least.

"So, with Colin sorted," Rebecca says, trying her hand at a subject change, "we're left with figuring out who's the source."

"Logically, anyone at the restaurant is a possibility," Trent winces seeing the utterly heartbroken expression on Ted's face. "Not saying it was anyone on the team," he quickly adds, reaching out to put a hand on Ted's knee and squeezing gently. He slides his chair a bit closer so he can keep his hand where it is and not have to stretch. "Could've been a passer-by, too, but I think we need to narrow it more than 'the whole of southwest London' and that's the best start."

Speaking of anyone who could be a suspect, Higgins' absence feels conspicuous, but after being the one everyone pointed a finger at, Trent's loathe to turn it around on someone else. Even if that person is the one-third who didn't give his blessing (yet) to their relationship.

As if on cue, Higgins is re-entering the office. "That was the EIC of The Independent," Higgins says, tapping the back of his phone.

"The ee-eye-sea?" Ted asks, glancing at Trent for a translation. "The heck is that?"

"Editor in chief," he murmurs under his breath. Louder, and to Higgins, "What did Jackson have to say?"

Higgins shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot as he passes his phone from his left hand to his right. "Well, he confirmed that one Trent Crimm wasn't the source."

"Colour me surprised," Trent deadpans.

"And we believed you before Higgins took the call, isn't that right?" Rebecca asks with a death glare of her own for Higgins.

"Oh, right right. Of course we did." Higgins chuckles uncomfortably. "Turns out the reporter is a brand-new young hire, desperate to make a name for himself. Didn't follow protocol and went rogue, posting it without the EIC's knowledge." He glances at Rebecca. "It's why you didn't get a courtesy heads up and he sends his apologies. He also wanted to reiterate that The Independent is not a tabloid —"

Trent snorts.

"—and while he believes it's a newsworthy item, he also says he isn't in the business of outing people. And takes full responsibility."

"Except there's no puttin' that toothpaste back in the tube," Ted says.

Rebecca taps her fingers on the desk. "That's all well and good, but like Ted said, the article happened and nothing is going to change that. What's he going to do to make it up to the club? He's lucky I don't strip their press credentials and make them cover the game by standing outside Nelson Road. They can guess the plays based on the crowd's reaction."

"Before you do that, I have neeeews!" Higgins giggles and Trent wants to strangle him. "I may have taken the liberty of asking who the source was."

Speaking of burying the lede...

"And!?" everyone but Trent shouts in unison.

While the others play out their version of Masterpiece Theatre, Trent's mind launches into overdrive. There's something about all of this that feels… familiar somehow. Not the outing or the paper having to walk back an article that never should have hit the proverbial presses, of course. That's brand new and shitty. No, there's something else bothering him.

It all comes down to people who will do anything to make a name for themselves. Who have no integrity and are so easily preyed upon by whoever the true villain of the piece is.

His mind conjures up an image of Nate. He's the very definition ambitious. The young kit man with a keen analytical mind who was desperate to be the name at the top. To be adored for what he could do. Who accepted Rupert Mannion's help to commit the ultimate betrayal.

Nate fades into an imagined picture of that young journalist who's desperate to make a name for himself with his first big article. Ambitious. Another kid who, clearly, took help from the devil himself to make his dreams come true.

Then he remembers: the car that passed him. Expensive and out of place in their corner of Richmond.

Could it really be that simple?

"Fuck, it was Mannion," Trent breathes under his breath, feeling the puzzle pieces slot into place.

Three pairs of eyes centre on Trent. Higgins looks positively gobsmacked. "How... how did you figure it out?" He asks, jaw gaping and, apparently stunned that he didn't get to do the big reveal.

Point, Trent Crimm.

Trent spreads his hands wide unable to keep from smirking. "I'm just that good," he says, winking at Ted, but then he sobers. "No, the truth is I just put it all together. Rupert pulls strings. He likes helping people so they're indebted to him like he's some Machiavellian villain. He did it with Nate, he did it with this kid, too. And he'll probably do it to the next ambitious kid who wants to take whatever shortcut Rupert can offer them."

"I'm going to destroy him," Rebecca all but growls.

"I'll help!" Keeley chimes in, the expression on her face far too gleeful at the thought.

Trent admits he wouldn't mind helping after Mannion tried to frame him. And if it wasn't for Ted, he would have succeeded, too. Trent squeezes Ted's leg and is rewarded with one of his brilliant smiles in return.

The kettle starts whistling, making the entire room jump. The offered cup of tea feels like it came an aeon ago. Rebecca rises and busies herself steeping three cups of tea — plus a bottle of still water for Ted — when Trent realises his hand is still on Ted's thigh.

Out in the open.

Well, they may only be out to the people in this room, but it's a start, isn't it? While it may still be a secret to keep from the world at large, Trent is at peace in a way he hasn't been in a long time.

"Now that I'm thinkin' about it. Hey, Higgins," Ted calls out, trailing his fingertips up and down the back of Trent's hand. "You're our missin' piece here." So apparently Ted's jumping back that far in the conversation. No one seems surprised. "Still waitin' on you. Is that a yea or nay to me and Mr Independent Gay Mentor over here?"

"Oh," he says, taken aback by the subject change. So Higgins was taken aback, but Trent wagers it's because he was put on the spot to either be a homophobe or not. "Well, there's no rule against fraternization of employees so I don't see an issue."

"That sounds like a fancy way of saying hundred per cent support, yahoo!"

Not exactly a glowing endorsement of their relationship — but if Ted's happy, then Trent is, too.

"So Trent," Rebecca says, handing over his freshly steeped cup of tea and returning to the matter at hand once more. "Feel like helping us take down a tyrant? I think Rupert's reign of terror has gone on long enough, don't you?"

Trent takes the tea cup with a soft smile. Between the offered tea and Rebecca drawing him into this inner circle, he finally feels like he has a place here at Richmond. It's, truly, a peace offering.

In more ways than one.

He glances at each of the assembled faces in turn, feeling like Ted casting the final vote that allowed him to join up as the team novelist. Only this time, there's no one waving him off. Just three heads nodding in unison.

"Love that," Trent says, using the cup to salute her with a grin. "Let the games begin."