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‘No date tonight then, Trent Crimm, newly independent?’ Mae put the pint in front of him and watched as he fumbled his wallet out of his pocket.
‘Me? Er, no.’ He handed over a tenner. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think you’d know who I was.’
Mae looked him up and down.
‘Oh I know you alright. And I know why you’re sitting here all on your lonesome. The only thing I don’t know is why you haven’t asked him yet.’
Trent opened his mouth to ask her what she meant but she had already walked away.
___
Trent laid his book in his lap for a moment and watched as Maya played with her stuffed toys. Sun streamed in through the window on to them both and he felt peaceful as she quietly murmured to her teddies and poured them tea as they sat around a tiny table.
‘Are they having a nice party?’
Maya looked up with a smile.
‘We’re having a tea party.’ She pointed at a rag doll with long wool plaits. ‘That’s me.’ Then at a giraffe with a scarf round its neck. ‘And that’s you.’
‘Aw, that’s lovely. And who’s that we’re having tea with?’
Maya patted the teddy bear on his head.
‘That’s Coach Lasso.’
Trent choked on the sip of water he had just taken.
‘Why,’ He cleared his throat. ‘Why is Coach Lasso at our tea party?’
‘Because,’ Maya’s tone was that of all small children when they have to explain things to stupid adults. ‘When Mummy’s boyfriend comes over he always has dinner with us so Coach Lasso will too.’
Trent tried to steady his breath although he had no idea why it was shaking.
‘But darling, Coach Lasso doesn’t come over.’
‘That’s because you haven’t asked him yet,’ Maya replied confidently and went back to pouring tea.
___
Rebecca put down her glass teacup and smiled at Trent across the desk.
‘Is that enough for your chapter?’
‘Yes, thank you Miss Welton, you’ve been most helpful.’
‘And now, if you’ll permit me, perhaps I could ask Trent Crimm, one-time scourge of the press room, a question of my own?’
‘By all means.’
Rebecca fixed him with the kind of steely look only she could manage.
‘Why haven’t you asked him yet?’
___
Trent lent against the railings of the practice pitch, notebook and pen in hand, watching intently as the players drilled.
‘Oi. Prick.’
Trent jumped as Roy appeared next to him. He realised that these days, having settled their differences, Roy’s name for him was mostly a term of endearment. Their heads followed the path of the ball as it was passed across the field. Trent tried not to focus on Ted, standing tall and masterful, calling instructions to the team.
‘Gets boring you know,’ Roy growled.
Trent raised an eyebrow but kept his eyes on the pitch.
‘Watching you moon over him.’
‘I don’t, I, er, no, it’s not, um.’ Trent felt himself flush red.
‘Whatever. Do us all a favour and just fucking ask him.’
___
Trent nipped through the coaches’ office to get to his desk, unaware of Coach Beard, in his usual position, feet up, strategy book in hand, until he was nearly at the other door.
‘You know,’ the coach spoke without raising his eyes from the page. ‘It is a statistical fact that you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.’
Trent turned to face him, ready to make some meaningless response.
‘And.’ The coach turned a page but still didn’t look up. Trent waited for the next drop of wisdom. ‘You are statistically more likely to regret an action you didn’t take than one you did.’
‘That’s…’ Trent began but Coach Beard cut him off.
‘Which is to say,’ he held up a declarative forefinger and flicked his eyes up to meet Trent’s. ‘You’re better off asking him. Statistically.’ He put down his finger and appeared to be engrossed in his book once more. Trent stood for a few more seconds, trying and failing to find the right comeback. Eventually he turned on his heel and went into his office.
___
Trent was lost in his work, re-reading his shorthand from interviews and making notes. He didn’t hear Ted enter his office until the coach’s behind was resting on the desk next to Trent’s hand, his chino-clad thighs inches away, his ankles crossed. Trent looked up at Ted’s smile and tried to plaster on one of his own.
‘Whatcha doing, Bobby Ewing?’
‘Just, er, writing up my conversations.’ Trent could feel his hand shaking and put down his pen in case it gave him away. It had become increasingly difficult to hide his feelings recently and the constant barrage of weird questions from people around him was not making him any calmer. He took a deep breath and caught just a little of the warm, woody smell of Ted’s aftershave. Or possibly it was just Ted, for all Trent knew. He wouldn’t put it passed him to smell great all the time, to radiate cologne like he radiated kindness. He met Ted’s eye properly and a calm settled on him. He felt a genuine smile spread across his lips as Ted watched him steadily. Somehow the man’s presence, while pushing every button Trent had, simultaneously made everything seem like it would be ok.
‘That’s what I thought,’ Ted said quietly. ‘I saw you, beavering away in here like a beaver on dam-building duty and I thought ‘there’s a man who is writing up his conversations.’’
Trent watched Ted carefully. He couldn’t put his finger on the reason for the pregnant feeling to their apparently innocent chat.
‘So it turns out that I been hearing a lot of gossiping about questions as of late.’
Trent’s stomach tightened but he didn’t move a muscle.
‘And I got to thinking, you know. I began a-wondering. And I realised I had a question of my own.’ Ted’s soft brown eyes locked on to Trent’s and for a moment Trent could have believed nothing existed outside of the four grey walls.
Fearful of breaking the spell, he murmured:
‘What was your question?’
Ted hooked his finger under Trent’s chin and tipped it up towards him. Trent stopped breathing altogether. Ted bent forward and pressed a slow, soft kiss to Trent’s lips. He pulled away far enough to speak, his breath ghosting against Trent’s skin.
‘My question, Trent Crimm, I-hope-soon-won’t-be-independent, is when are you going to ask me?’