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She should have seen it coming.
Rebecca really should have known the second she allowed herself to relish in her new-found serenity. But it had been earned, for fuck's sake—through clawing and crawling, inch after inch, digging through layers upon layers of loss and pain, towards finding herself again, recovering lost pieces and assembling them anew into a better, changed Rebecca she thinks she actually likes. And yet she’s barely just allowed herself to settle into the wonderful novelty of feeling at home in the world only for that world to come crashing down around her.
Because that’s how it feels. Like the rug’s been pulled from under her feet. Like the walls are crowding her, squeezing, crumbling.
It’s time, he'd said, I gotta go back to Kansas.
She’s not sure how she reacted, if at all. Inside, everything was rioting. Rebecca stood there dazed, twisting the golden cuff on her wrist, fingertips pressing into the delicate thorns, as if she could redirect the pain cleaving her soul in two somewhere less vital, less visceral.
But this was Ted. He'd always been so understanding, so supportive when she dropped her truthbombs on him. He deserved no less from her now, no matter how much she felt like the world was ending. Besides, unlike her questionable choices, Ted had done nothing wrong, had nothing to confess or atone for. He's a father who misses his son, and wants to return to him.
What had she expected anyway? That he'd stay forever? With a kid on the other side of the ocean? For what? A job where he was already within reach of the mountaintop? He'd promised her that much—to win the whole fucking thing—and he might actually pull it off.
How ironic, then—if it meant Ted leaving, Rebecca found she didn't even want the trophy.
Not that she could tell Ted that.
What she chooses to reveal has to be a careful balancing act. She doesn't want him thinking it doesn't matter, that his departure and absence from the club and their lives will go unnoticed. That he won't be missed, or that he could ever be replaced.
But she won't let him see the full extent of her devastation—for his protection and her own.
And if she broke down in tears the moment she locked herself in her office, if she’s presently sobbing on the sofa with the green army man clutched to her heart, if she can’t breathe for the immense grief sitting on her chest—well, that’s only for her to know.
Rebecca throws her heartbent self into event planning. There's not an awful lot of time, what with him leaving the weekend after the season ends. Still, Ted's farewell party will be the crowning achievement of all her hosting endeavours because he deserves no less.
Mae rents out the pub for an entire two days to set up, and won't take a single penny over what her daily income would be no matter how much Rebecca tries to convince her otherwise. She agrees to cater, only slightly grumbling to have to share the honour with that Indian restaurant Ted adores and the best barbecue place in town, plus a carton of Arthur Bryant's she's had shipped across the Atlantic. It feels a bit foolish, now that he will soon have the real thing, but she likes the idea of assembling the best of both worlds under one roof, all the things Ted loves from Kansas and Richmond, together.
Keeping busy, focusing on doing this for him, keeps her thoughts and feelings somewhat in check. She doesn't allow herself to wallow, to let the stone at the pit of her stomach or the lingering tightness in her chest take over, or her mind to dwell. She's delaying the inevitable, knows she will have to come to terms with what it all means and where she goes from here, but there will be enough time once Ted is gone. Too much time. Because this time he isn't coming back.
And Ted looks so peaceful. Like a huge burden was lifted when he made his decision. And she can understand that, as a general principle. But she's also hurt—hurt that he doesn't seem to be mourning the loss of what she thought had become his home here, his family. Maybe he never felt as strongly about them as they did about him. Well, they're going to show him regardless. Because he deserves to know. Ted deserves to know how much he means to them.
The party is a raging success. Everyone shows up at least briefly—people from the club, people from the community around Paved Court, people Ted has befriended from the most random walks of life. Even her mother turns up, making Rebecca all out of sorts with the way her eyes dart about the room and the knowing draw of her brow, plus the fact that she says nothing of it all. The players, coaches, and Higginses are the heart and soul though, taking turns telling anecdotes and reminiscing about the last three seasons of the Lasso Way.
It's fucking devastating. Rebecca wasn't prepared for this part of it all, having to bear the heights of all the wonderful recollections, stewing in the rising tide of her emotions while staring the impending ending in the face, dreading the Ted-shaped hole on the other side. The others aren't shy about their tears, but she knows that if she allows herself even one, she'll come apart, entirely and irreversibly.
When she flees to the loo for the third time to collect herself, Keeley pops up within seconds.
"Babe, how are you holding up?"
"I'm fine, why?"
"Bullshit." Her voice softens though. "You know I've got you, yeah?"
Rebecca clutches her glass, downing the rest of her G&T. Today's not the day for champagne. This is a celebration, but all she seems to be doing is mourning.
And he's still here, and she should be out there with him, soaking it up while she can.
"I can't, Keeley," she whispers. "Not yet, okay? Later."
"You mean when he's gone."
"And there's nothing I can do about that, so what difference does it make? I just want to do this for him. I want to give this to him, he always gives so much, everything, to everyone, and—"
Her voice breaks.
Keeey grabs her hand and squeezes.
"Okay, babe, whatever you need. I love you, yeah?"
"I love you too."
When she returns to the group, Ted is nowhere in sight. She exchanges a silent look with Beard, who motions outside. So Rebecca goes.
She finds him around the corner, back towards her, hands in his pockets. For a split second she wonders if—but no, he's not having a panic attack, she can read it in the line of his shoulders. Tension, but not panic.
"Ted? Are you okay?"
He turns around slowly, eyes a bit wet, a wistful smile tipping his lips upward.
"This whole shebang is just—wow. Real doozy, Rebecca. You didn't have to go to all this tro—"
"Of course I did. And don't you dare suggest it was trouble. You matter so much to us, Ted. I wanted to show you. Give you a proper send-off."
Her filter seems to be momentarily broken, but she doesn't regret it. He should know, shouldn't he. It's only right.
"Well, I appreciate that."
He looks so soft in the lamplight, eyes sparkling and cheeks dimpling as he smiles at her. In the light drizzle, his hair is wet and shiny, boyish with that tendril falling across his face. Rebecca stares at him, suddenly fighting back tears—he's so fucking dear to her, and she's never stopped to think twice of it, it's just been such am integral part of her universe, and now—
"Hey, are you okay?"
Deja vu. She can see it register with him, too. Can feel her insides melt when he chuckles in recognition.
"I should be asking you that," she says.
And then the fucking rickshaw rolls in, and she swears it might even be the same bloody driver from the gala two years ago.
"Wanna hop on this thing?"
Ted beams at her—and this is their thing, remembering, and silly little rituals, and random phrases one or the other will call back to and almost universally be understood and met right there.
"Ain't it bad form when I'm the main protagonist here?"
"The party is for you, Ted. Whatever you want goes."
"Okay, yeah. Let's go."
And so they do. It's a bit of a squeeze, but she wedges herself close, into his side as he makes space by stretching an arm over the backrest, and thinks nothing of it. He's safe—always has been.
"Still waiting on that mood check, ya know," he mutters as they take off.
"It's not about me, Ted. Tonight is all about you."
Besides, it feels nice to just be like this. Why talk? Why ruin it?
"Well that's mighty nice of y'all.” He ruminates a bit, quietly admits: "I guess I'm…relieved? That make sense?"
"I think so. Big decision. Full circle moment—all that, right?” She swallows“I'm happy for you, Ted."
It also stings a little, his relief, but it's fine. He shouldn't hurt. The whole point is for Ted to be in a good place.
"I know that." His tone should prepare her for what follows, but he hasn't done this in years. "Oklahoma?"
"Ted…" She doesn't want to tell him, but she can't, won't, lie when the sanctity of the word between them has never been tarnished. "I wish you would stay," she breathes, toying with her ring, the gold knot as tight as her throat. "I want you to, but I'm not asking you to. Because I understand you want to be with your boy."
"You're sad," he notes, and he can't be fucking serious.
"Of course I'm fucking sad," she spits. "Bloody heartbroken."
"Coach Beard’s go—"
"I don't care about that. Well, I do, but not—The professional loss is massive, but it's not my primary concern."
The silence stretches between them as the rickshaw begins its second lap around the Green.
"I'll miss you, too, Rebecca."
She bursts into tears. Hot and salty and fucking unstoppable, and he's pulling her into his arms, hoarse words of comfort rolling off his tongue, and shit shit shit , she can't do this, she simply can't.
"Fuck, I'm sorry," she sobs into his neck, tucked so tightly against him she's drenching his skin with tears she can no longer contain. "I'm so sorry. I promised myself—don't want to make this any harder than it already is."
They both hate goodbyes—that’s why she’d planned the party early, so it would be easier, more digestible.
His embrace only tightens.
"Sometimes I think we're almost scary similar, ya know?" he mutters into her ear, his breath raising gooseflesh in its wake.
The night is chilly; their cocoon warm but finite.
Oh how she wishes she were more like Ted. Wonderful, kind, beautiful Ted.
Maybe they should both stop trying to spare the other by increasing their own burden. Maybe they'd have gotten there together down the line, as the next step in their growth. But the evolution of their friendship feels more uncertain than ever.
Just another of the many, many things they could have talked about but haven't, and now it might be too late.
Because the rickshaw stops eventually, their breathing synced by then, the both still locked in a hug. They disentangle to disembark, Rebecca's arm tucked into Ted's as they return to the others. Her heart has gained a new plaster, but also an odd, pulsating ache that wasn't there before.
Rebecca helps him pack even though his possessions are remarkably meagre—another reminder that this was always temporary, that he was always going to leave—and finds the biscuit recipe with Ted's notes scribbled over it tucked into a cookbook. He offers to teach her. She shakes her head—she can't bear the thought. He seems to understand and gifts her the recipe anyway, in case she ever changes her mind.
She knows she won't.
It's the one thing they can’t bring her comfort with—because it's not the biscuits she'll miss when they're both gone.
The roar of the stadium is deafening as she bursts out of the owners' box and runs towards the pitch, Keeley on her heels, Higgins trailing behind them. There's champagne flowing and confetti falling, and the team have hoisted Ted up in the air, and he's laughing and waving, his eyes soft when he spots her from Isaac's and Colin's shoulders. Isaac shouts something, and then Jamie and Dani are sweeping her off her feet and onto their shoulders, and champagne is raining down on them, and Ted's hand finds hers, and they raise their arms in victory. The cup travels from hand to hand, and Ted can't hope to make a speech here, but there are tears in his eyes and all she wants to do is give him a proper squeeze and hold on tight—so she does.
He sways them, spins her across the pitch to the tune of Richmond Til We Die , grabbing her by the waist when they slip and fall, both laughing. He rolls them to take the hit, a soft oomph in her ear, and it's fucking ridiculous—she's arse over tit and drenched in champagne.
In a fever dream she hears it start, a song she hasn't heard in years, and Ted chuckles wetly in her ear when he recognises it. And then they're letting go, and the chant builds, and the team are dancing with a goofy Ted in their midst.
Go Lasso go Lasso go!
Rebecca kicks off her heels and stands, Keeley's arms immediately around her middle. She takes it all in, the glorious merriment—but her breath catches and she is shaking as a vivid memory of the first time she heard this song breaks to the surface. Plotting, and failed revenge, and out of it all friendships and, dare she say, a family of sorts—and it's all Ted, he's the catalyst, and he's—
Go Lasso go Lasso go!
This is how it all began, and now it's how it ends.
Ted is late. They’ve got a lunch date, just the eight of them, at a nearby pub that isn’t the Crown and Anchor this time. Roy and Keeley are holding hands, Beard is sipping on his third beer, Higgins keeps glancing between her and the door making his weird little noise. Nate keeps fiddling with the little hand-crafted gift box he’s brought, and Trent is tapping his pen against the table and occasionally writes something down in his notebook.
Rebecca is crawling out of her skin.
Ted is late, and he leaves tomorrow, and she really thought they’d have this time together.
He hates saying goodbye, which is why they had his farewell party early. Why they’re only meeting in a small circle today. Why Ted had told them he’d prefer not to have anyone accompany him to the airport.
Ted hates saying goodbye.
Fuck.
Rebecca’s eyes snap to Beard’s face. He gives her the smallest, near-imperceptible headshake. Fuck.
Dread fills her belly as tears cloud her vision.
“He’s not coming, is he?” she hears Trent say.
But she’s already out of the door.
The traffic is shit. The traffic is shit and she should not be driving in this state but her Rover is there and there is no time and she needs to get to the airport because that’s where Ted will be and how dare he fucking do this to them and her heart is going to beat out of her chest and her phone is ringing but she can’t talk to Keeley now—she can’t talk—she can’t—she—
She needs to see Ted.
She needs Ted.
She wants him.
How long has she felt this way? How long has she known? How could she not have known earlier?
She doesn’t try to call him, doesn’t text—they’ve tried that already, and he hasn’t answered. Beard will have gone to check Ted’s flat by now, and found it empty, with a note containing an apology. Maybe there’s a box of biscuits with it.
Rebecca just wants Ted.
And he might already be gone.
But if someone’s worth a wasted airport dash, it’s Ted Lasso.
And Rebecca is running, stumbling, racing ahead. She’s elbowing people out of the way, heels knocking furiously against the ground, heart in her throat and tears streaming down her face. She flings her credit card at the poor bastard behind the counter and snatches up a freshly printed boarding pass to get her through security, abandoning her shoes right then and there. The floor is cold, her cheeks hot, and her phone is blowing up still as she holds on to it for dear life, sprinting towards the gate she barely caught in a blur.
Last call.
Rebecca sobs.
Her eyes are burning. Her lungs are burning. The soles of her feet are burning.
But she doesn’t stop.
Call Ted Lasso.
His phone is off.
“Ted!” she shouts as she rounds the corner towards the gate—but all that comes out is a broken cry. The bloody thing is too blurry to make out, but if he’s still there, if he can hear—She tries again, like they’re back at Nelson Road, like she’s shouting out her window, like he’s just down on the pitch about to look up with a grin and a goofy wave. “Ted!”
He turns around.
She knows it’s him by the little tug on her heart. Like it’s saying hi, there you are —and like his says it right back. It’s new and yet it’s not.
Oh, it’s been them all along, hasn't it?
Ted stands rooted to the spot, thumbs hooked around the straps of his rucksack, jaw slack, like he’s seeing an apparition. Rebecca almost tumbles to the floor, sheer relief and pure exhaustion. How does the mere sight of him, his very presence, settle something in her soul?
Then again, hasn’t it always?
His dazed little smile mirrors her own.
“What the fuck, Ted?” she pants at last, and even to her it comes out soft, fond, watery.
“Told ya I suck at saying goodbye,” he mutters, hand rising, reaching, hanging in midair between them. His eyes are wet, his hair messy, mussed up from fingers being run through it, and she catches herself wishing they were hers.
“Then don’t.”
His eyes soften, a mournful look settling on his face. He's about to let her down gently, but she won't allow it, because there has to be a way. There has to.
“Rebecca—”
“No, I know, Ted. I’m not asking you to stay. Not in London, not permanently—not without your son." He breathes a sigh of relief, his rueful smile so very grateful she understands, and how could she not? Still, she can’t just give him up, can't give up what they are to each other without a fight. She wrings her hands, twisting the knot ring around her finger. "But do stay. In my life. Maybe by my side?” she adds after a beat, and perhaps it's not the bravest thing she's ever done, but it's close.
Ted's eyes widen, his smile stretching slowly, that incredulous little crease carved into his brow.
Her heart might just beat out of her chest as she waits for a response that's simply not coming.
Oh god, does he not—?
Theodore Lasso. Passenger Theodore Lasso.
“I—" he starts. "Rebecca, I gotta—"
Paging passenger Welton. Passenger Rebecca Welton.
Ted stares at her like she's grown a second head.
"Wait, did you just—?"
Fuck, she—and he—her throat closes up, and suddenly no air gets through, and her hands fly to her chest. Not this. Not now.
But he's there, and he clocks it, just like she always has with him.
"Hey. C’mere.” He scoops her into his arms then, easily, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Shhh, s'okay. I gotcha."
“I love you,” she breathes into his jumper, trembling but refusing to back down. She needs him to understand. She needs him to have all the facts before he decides their fates.
Ted pulls back just enough to see her face, and she must be a sight with all the miles she's run and the tears she's shed, but he's looking at her with nothing but awe. He's looked at her something like that for a while, sometimes, always—she's not sure, but she's seen that look before, and never for anyone but her. “There's your truthbomb," she says, halfway between a sob and a chuckle. "I’m in love with you, Ted.”
Last call. Passengers Welton and Lasso. Rebecca Welton and Theodore Lasso.
The morning smells of freshly cut grass and vast blue skies. It's hot already, her jeans clinging to her like a second skin, her braids allowing what little breeze there is to cool her exposed nape. The pungent scent of hay and horses tickles her nose.
In the pitter-patter of hooves, she can barely make out his steps, but she can sense his approach, isn't surprised in the least when his arms wind around her middle, his chest pressing into her back.
He presses a kiss to the side of her neck, and she giggles at the tickle of his moustache.
"Rebecca, look! I'm doing it! I'm really doing it!"
And so he is—Henry's finally mastered the trot, and she could just about burst with pride and joy at his beaming little face.
"Of course you are, sweetheart. Just magnificent!"
"Dad, look what Rebecca taught me!"
"Great job, buddy! Go dream team," Ted hollers, his voice laced with emotion. Rebecca's heart flutters at the nickname. It always soars in the presence of her boys. He nuzzles her cheek, fingers dipping just under the hem of her shirt, rubbing tiny circles into her skin. "I love you so dang much, darlin'."
It's so soft and reverent she could just float away.
"Even when I impulse-purchase outrageous gifts for your son?" she teases, melting into him.
Ted chuckles, warm and light as it vibrates against her back.
"Always. No exceptions. No take backs."
She could live here forever. Here, in his arms, in his heart—and in Henry's. Here in Kansas, and back in London, and even on those bloody horrible commercial flights that carry them back and forth.
"Hey, Rebecca? Thanks for chasing me down.”
“You did it first—metaphorically. And now we’ve met halfway.”
Ted squeezes her tighter, wraps his arms around her, and presses a kiss to her temple—a silent promise for the future, echoes in a reverent whisper:
“And now we’ve met halfway.”