Chapter Text
Trent wakes to a pitch black bedroom. There is rustling next to his bed, and then an insistent tugging on the duvet and frantic whispering, “Daddy, Daddy.” It’s Penelope, his four-year-old, and it’s his week with her in this new arrangement. The bleariness doesn’t last; in a moment Trent is fully awake, reaching around for his mobile phone and its trusty light. “Pen?” He croaks. “Wha’s the ma’er?”
“Daddy,” comes the same small voice again from somewhere in the dark. “I feel sick.”
Maybe Trent is not quite as awake as he thinks he is, because he hesitates in confusion when he should already be launching himself and his daughter out of the room and to the toilet. His hand finally lands on the hard plastic of his mobile. If Jo was here—
“Daddy! I’m—”
It’s too late. His daughter is already vomiting on her feet, on the floor, on the bed, and all down her front. It’s like a tidal wave of sick. He has no idea how one small child can produce so much. It’s the stuff of nightmares. It is at once horrifying and amazing. She’s crying hysterically now.
“Oh, Penny,” Trent murmurs softly. He shines the phone’s light over the mess. It makes him feel queasy himself, especially when the sour smell of it hits him. He holds his gag at bay; this isn’t his first vomit rodeo. “It’s okay. C’mon. Away we go to the toilet, love.” He eases himself carefully out of bed, minding the twinge in his back and the mess on the sheets and on the floor. “Are you still feeling sick?”
She nods her head as she keeps on sobbing. “I couldn’t wait,” she wails.
“S’okay, my bug. It happens.” Trent efficiently strips the soiled night shirt off of her and leaves it on his ruined bed. He can’t do much of anything about her sick-soaked bare feet, so he just grabs her by her armpits and lifts her towards the flat’s only bathroom. “Up we go!” He says with false cheer. He gently deposits her next to the toilet.
“Sick!” Penelope screams. And then she promptly spews again all over the floor.
“The toilet, Pen!” Trent almost shouts. She doesn’t seem to understand. The splatter has gotten on him now. He doesn’t care. He really doesn’t. But he feels so useless, because he is objectively useless in the face of this screaming, vomiting child. Her tears mix with snot and drool and vomit, and in the clinical pale light of the vanity light, Trent feels utterly exposed. He feels like he has no business attempting to go this alone, even temporarily. He’s useless, so useless as a parent, without Jolene.
Penelope launches herself straight into his stomach and her surprisingly strong little arms latch around his lower half. She’s not done with the vomiting. He feels it soak into his pyjama bottoms. This has to be the end of it. But then, she is wailing: “I have to go number two!” And then worse: “Mummy! I want mummy! Mummy! Mummy!”
Needless to say, Trent will not make it into work in the morning.
***
The pre-match presser is underway at Nelson Road ahead of the Greyhound’s match against Crystal Palace. The two clubs are old yet oddly friendly rivals and there is plenty of festive buzz around this south/south-west London derby.
“—Now, I’ve seen these Crystal Palace fellas out on the pitch, and they are in fine form,” Ted Lasso is saying, in the midst of his usual pre-game pep-statement for the press. “I can’t wait to see how these young men conduct themselves — on both sides. I sure love match-ups like this, because it feels so much like a neighbourhood pick-up game, ya know?”
Dozens of pairs of eyeballs stare at Ted Lasso, but they don’t really seem to be understanding. That’s usual for an AFC Richmond presser, and for the most part, everybody is going with the flow.
It’s about time for questions. Ted’s keen gaze scans those in attendance but cannot find Trent Crimm. Instead, he picks out Marcus Adebayo, who he knows is from the same publication.
“Hi, Marcus Adebayo, from The Independent,” Marcus states before launching straight into his question. “I know based on Richmond’s standings at the moment this match seems like — as you’d say in America — a cakewalk, but despite that, how would you describe your approach to this match?”
“Thanks for your question, Marcus Adebayo, The Independent. It’s a good one, and I plan to answer it at length in a moment because I respect you and your readers, but first, I’d be remiss not to ask the obvious. Is Trent okay?”
Marcus seems momentarily confused. “Trent? Oh. Yeah, ‘course, he’s fine. He’s stuck at home.”
“Oh no, what happened?” Ted asks.
“Sick kid,” Marcus answers automatically.
“Double ‘oh no,’” Ted responds.
“My question?” Marcus attempts to get the presser on track.
Everybody is looking on in abject bemusement. It’s not every day a Premier League gaffer cares at all why one of the press regulars isn’t in attendance and even rarer that the answer inspires greater worry.
“Uh, oh yeah, okay,” Ted perseveres. “Today’s match! Well you know Crystal Palace, seems rather fragile, but—”
***
After the presser, Ted corners Sarah out in the carpark. It’s a bit of a turn-around. Usually it’s the journalist stalking the manager. If Ted remembers correctly, Sarah works for The Guardian, but he’s seen her and Trent interact on what looks like friendly terms — or at least whatever passes as “friendly” for Trent. If Sarah is surprised by Coach Lasso hollering after her, she doesn’t give it away. Rather, she turns around and pins him with a curious stare. She has a cigarette and lighter in hand.
“Coach Lasso,” she greets him coolly. She gestures at the lighter. “Do you mind?”
“Uh, not at all,” Ted says after brief hesitation. “Those things will kill you, you know.”
Sarah gives him a withering look. “But what’ll kill me quicker? A cigarette or another dull pre-match presser?” She takes a drag and seems to relax, incrementally. “I have one after every presser,” she admits.
“Well then, I’ll endeavour to make these lil shindigs more entertaining for you. Maybe add in some song and dance? Karaoke! Some slam poetry? That’s some real fun. Anything to help you kick that habit.”
Sarah lets herself smirk at his stupid humour. The way he tries to connect; it’s disarming. “You have a last minute scoop for The Guardian, Coach Lasso?” She asks.
“No, sadly,” Ted says, and he actually does sound sorry. “Wish I did. Actually, I just wanted to — You know Trent Crimm, right? Like on a personal level?”
Sarah’s brows rise nearly into her hairline. “We’re colleagues, yes,” she answers carefully. She finds it strange how he’s acting, almost like he’s nervous or embarrassed or—
“Not friends, just colleagues?” Ted presses.
That earns him an odd look. Yet still, Sarah says, “If you’d like to know specifics, and I’m not sure why you would, we meet up for drinks every now and then. Recently, we went to a concert at the Roundhouse together. We were cohorts at uni. So yes, fine, we are friends. But we’re not dating, if that’s what you’re trying to get at? He’s not exactly my type.”
“No, no, that’s not it…” Ted trails off. Was it or was it not? Perhaps it was an ancillary worry, or more accurate, one he hadn’t considered.
Sarah considers him, finding this very amusing. Ted Lasso is unlike any Premier League manager she’s ever been forced to deal with. He is wholly and entirely himself. Against her will, she finds herself thawing. She takes another draw, blows the smoke slowly to the side. She glances across the carpark and sees her colleagues looking on in interest, gathering like hyenas, gazing wistfully at fresh carrion. They are out of earshot, which is the only reason Sarah chooses to play this game. “Okay, Coach Ted Lasso from America. What’s it you’re wanting to know about Trent?”
Ted jumps on the opening. “Guess I’m just concerned is all. About sick little Miss Crimm. Cute as a lil bug. I’m a dad myself, and— I know it can be stressful, taking care of a small human being. He’s seemed pre-occupied the past several weeks. Hell, at one press conference, he didn’t even bother asking a question. Ran into him and his kiddo on the Green the other day. He’s different when he’s not in meet-the-press-mode, all domestic-like and—“ Ted back-tracks. He’s getting weird, and he’s rambling, being altogether “too much” with Sarah Linton from The Guardian, who is a stranger. She may have been Trent’s friend, but she wasn’t Ted’s. “Well, I just wanted to check in on them. Make sure everything is a-okay. I don’t have his number.”
“So you’re wanting his personal mobile number,” Sarah sums it up.
“You get straight to the point, now don’t you.”
“That’s what they pay me for.” Again, Sarah is considering him. She weighs the danger of passing along Trent’s number to this ridiculous man. She pulls out her mobile. “He’ll kill me for doing this,” she mutters, then says, “Give me your number. I’ll share his contact info.”
Ted grabs his own phone, kpauses, almost falls for it. “Nice try, but Keeley from PR has really gotten onto me ‘bout giving my number out to everybody. She says I’m a PR disaster waiting to happen. Pretty sure she said it in a nice way, but sometimes it’s hard to tell with you people.”
Sarah huffs in laughter. “You can’t blame me for trying.”
“I’m not.”
“Fine. We’ll do it the old fashioned way.” Sarah digs out a tiny pad of paper and a pen. She scrawls the number on a page without even consulting her contacts list. She juggles it all somehow with the cigarette still in hand.
Very close friends, Ted amends the classification of Sarah and Trent. Perhaps Sarah has a hell of a memory, but Ted himself can count on one hand the number of cell phone numbers he can recite from memory alone.
Sarah violently rips the page out of the pad and reaches out to hand it to him. When he moves to take it, she draws it back. “Favour for a favour, yeah? Give me a scoop sometime. Ever since Trent wrote that adorable little exposé on you, I’ve been itching for more of your story. You’re a bit of a novelty around here.”
“So I’ve come to learn,” Ted admits with a charmingly self-deprecating grin. “And again I’m not sure if you’re being nice or just sarcastic.”
“Both.” Sarah gazes at him expectantly.
“I think I can oblige.”
She relinquishes the piece of paper to Ted. Trent is definitely going to kill her. She can already envision his pissy scowl and the inevitable, fiery tongue lashing. He won’t speak to her for a week, maybe even longer. That man knows how to entertain a grudge. Already she regrets what she’s done, a little bit. But Ted’s interest in Trent is too weird, too genuine. It’s the kind of ignorant love-struck fascination that she’s all too familiar with. Sarah has seen it time and time again. It’s best to just unmoor that ship and let it sail. She’s merely speeding things along, adding tinder to the feeble spark. Perhaps this man’s intentions are entirely platonic—
Ted is taking a quick picture of the piece of paper with his mobile. Sarah stares at him.
“Just in case I spill some ketchup on it later,” Ted explains himself. “Or whatever it is y’all put on your fries. Can’t be too careful. Well, could be anything, really. I remember one time—“
Sarah tunes him out. Trent is going to murder her — slowly and gleefully, then somehow transport her body to a remote section of Florida, and then feed her sad corpse to a pond full of emaciated alligators. No one would ever know what happened to her.
Ted is somehow still talking.
Fuck that. If Coach Ted Lasso from America is as good at kissing blokes as he is at talking endlessly about nothing, then Trent should end up thanking her for the assist. Well, for the kissing part, not the talking endlessly about nothing part. That, she can’t help; nobody is perfect, and with Ted, it seems like it’s a whole package deal, take it or leave it. She has to admit, he is easy on the eyeballs, in his own way.
“So yeah, needless to say,” Ted is saying, and Sarah hasn’t been listening so she has zero context, “I am not a fan of the mushy peas.”
Sarah is nearly through with her cigarette. She is careful to blow the smoke well away from Ted. She waits for him to prattle on, but surprisingly he seems finished. It’s impulsive, then, when she decides to provide some context to the whole thing regarding Trent.
She may always downplay her friendship with Trent, and they may tease and haze each other relentlessly in their professional roles, but the truth is— she loves him deeply. He’s one of her best friends, and she knows he’s not easy to like, but beneath that prickly exterior is a profoundly thoughtful person and someone she thinks the world of. She wishes more people could see the Trent she knows, but he doesn’t make it easy for himself. Then again, Ted Lasso here seems to have cut through the bullshit with just a smile and his special Ted Lasso sunshine.
“Don’t take this the wrong way; I’m not airing his dirty laundry,” Sarah says, “But I feel like context is key before you do— whatever it is you want to do. Trent is going through a rough divorce. It’s not pretty. So just— be careful and be kind. But most of all, be patient.”
Ted suddenly looks bereft. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” he says softly.
“Yeah well, being married to a woman for nearly a decade, having a child, and then finally admitting you’re actually as fruity as a fruitcake has a tendency of veering off down that road,” Sarah remarks wryly. “Didn’t help that she’d been fucking one of the busboys at the restaurant she works at. Then again, needs must.”
“Wow, well, okay.” Ted seems suddenly distinctly uncomfortable.
Sarah skewers him with her eyes. “You breathe a word of this to him and I’ll flay you open in The Guardian.”
“I—“
There’s a sudden loud ringing coming from Sarah’s pocket. “That’ll be my girlfriend. I have to take it.” She’s already moving away. “See you around, Coach Ted Lasso from America. Treat my Trent right. Or else.” She answers her phone. “Hey sweets… yeah, work as usual… well, I don’t know—“
Ted watches her go. He looks down at Trent’s number. He cradles it in his hands, like it’s some gift from above. And maybe it is.
***
It takes a lot, cleaning up all the vomit. He’s stripped his bed, dragged everything, soiled pyjamas and all, including the mattress cover, to the laundry area of their building, and set everything to a heavy wash in hot water.
Trent is in no mood to wait for laundry, nor is Penelope, so he sets an alarm on his phone and heads back up to his flat. Penelope, even after a bath, is understandably moody and lethargic after being so sick, so Trent sets them both up on his sofa. She takes some slow sips of Dioralyte with Trent’s supervision then settles into a cocoon of blankets on his chest. Once her eyes are closed and her breaths are even, he’s able to stealthily slide his laptop into this lap and catch up on AFC Richmond.
The morning presser is already online, which makes sense as the match is about to begin. He hears Ted’s voice.
“Now, I’ve seen these Crystal Palace fellas out on the pitch, and they are in fine form. I can’t wait to see how these young men conduct themselves — on both sides. I sure love match-ups like this, because it feels so much like a neighbourhood pick-up game, ya know?”
That’s Ted. Always gracious and positive. Trent hold’s Pen close to his chest as she sleeps and he smiles.
“Hi, Marcus Adebayo, from The Independent. I know based on Richmond’s standings at the moment this match seems like — as you’d say in America — a cakewalk, but despite that, how would you describe your approach to this match?”
“Thanks for your question, Marcus Adebayo, The Independent. It’s a good one, and I plan to answer it at length in a moment because I respect you and your readers, but first, I’d be remiss not to ask the obvious. Is Trent okay?”
Trent cocks his head at his laptop. What the hell kind of discussion was this? At a Premier League presser? Who cared where he was!
“Trent? Oh. Yeah, ‘course, he’s fine. He’s stuck at home.”
“Oh no, what happened?”
“Sick kid.”
“Double ‘oh no.’”
“My question?”
Trent groans. Penny shifts in his arms, just slightly. What the hell was Ted Lasso’s issue? Asking after Trent? What did he care?
“Uh, oh yeah, okay. Today’s match! Well you know Crystal Palace, seems rather fragile, but—”