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Fluorescent lighting hummed above Trent's head, casting an almost clinical glow over the empty aisles of Tesco Express. Mindlessly, he'd been pacing up and down those short aisles for god only knows how long, doing a constant loop around the mini version of the supermarket giant. All he knew was that his head ached from the constant stream of top 40 chart-toppers and the incessant flickering of the tube lighting; and yet somehow, the basket hooked over his arm was still woefully empty.
It wasn't exactly his idea of fun. Traipsing the streets of Richmond in the dark of the night, aimlessly perusing the shelves of Tesco at eleven in the evening. But having spent all day locked in his home office, furiously scribbling down note after note, outlines and concepts for articles he's yet to have written, he'd finally taken notice of the lack of sunlight streaming through his window, the tea sat beside his many notebooks now depressingly cold.
He'd dragged his slipper-clad feet down the stairs, back aching from sitting hunched for a ridiculous amount of time- especially given his lack of youth. Finally emerging into the kitchen, he had made a beeline for the fridge, stomach growling something rotten as if it too had only just surfaced from a writer's trance. A deep groan escaped his mouth, head thumping hard against the door of his fridge as he witnessed the pitiful emptiness within.
Fingers itched to reach for his phone, the weight of it tugging his flannel bottoms low on his hips. Trent had practically memorised the menus that made up the delivery app. An app that had quickly become one of the most used on his phone, and wasn't that a sad thought. Ever since becoming a divorcee and a co-parent with a week on, week off custody agreement, Trent had fallen into bad habits. Days on end spent locked in his office, lost in a writing stupor that had his stomach grumbling angrily at long past stupid o'clock. That app had become a lifeline at times when it was too late to run to the shop, or when Trent simply didn't have the energy to cook a lone meal for himself.
But three nights in a row was a new record, and Trent wasn't feeling so inclined to make it a forth. With a quick glance at the large clock on his wall, he'd deemed it not too late to run to the shop, just to fetch something that would sustain him until he had time to do the big shop. And he'd have to do that before the weekend, when his daughter would once again bring the much needed life and warmth to the house. Because without her in it, it was simply that, a house. It was a place to wile away the hours until she made it a home again.
Trent knew that wasn't a healthy outlook on his life, but he was lonely. A deep, longingful kind of lonely, that sat heavily on his chest. He hadn't lived alone for over a decade, and with his then-wife and daughter to care for, he'd long forgotten what it was to be truly alone. Trent had never claimed to be a social butterfly, much preferring the company of books over his peers, but that wasn't to say he didn't ache for human companionship at times.
As he huffed quietly to himself, shaking the less than productive thoughts out of his head, Trent swapped out his pyjama bottoms for a pair of well worn jeans. The old t-shirt that hung loosely on his slender frame looked clean enough to pass for acceptable- he hoped. And his well-loved- if slightly holey- cardigan was a comfort he fully refused to remove. It wasn't as if he would come across anyone he knew at such an hour in the middle of the week now was it?
And that was how Trent found himself dragging his too tired body up and down the aisles. It may have taken a while but finally, after too many rotations of the small shop, he forced himself to actually take note of the items. In no mood to cook when he returned home, Trent made the executive decision to see what reduced pastries he could slip into his basket. As luck would have it, even in the middle of the night, Tesco's bakery section still held a small collection of croissants, cheese twists and a few of their more sugary baked goods.
With his basket half full of semi-stale pastries, Trent let himself be guided by pure muscle memory to an aisle of shelves swimming in glass bottles and variously sized cans. Now, muscle memory or not, Trent was not one to indulge often, but on night's where there's a chill in the air and when going back to an empty house chipped away at his aching heart just a little sharper than usual, well who could blame him for slipping a slightly pricier than usual bottle of whiskey into his basket?
“Do my eyes deceive me or is that one Mr Trent Crimm I see?”
The Kansan twang cut through the generic beat of chart-toppers in a way that had Trent almost dropping his shopping basket. He’d know that voice anywhere, but at Tesco, in the middle of the night on a Wednesday was the last place he’d expected to hear it. For a second he didn’t move, frozen to the spot as he attempted to restart his brain that had been running on autopilot ever since he’d left the house.
“Trent?” A hint of uncertainty had crept into Ted’s voice, leaving Trent wondering whether the confident persona was a little more put on than he had first assumed upon meeting the American gaffer of his beloved football club.
“Sorry, Coach Lasso.” Trent’s own voice was rough with disuse, his words croaked out in a way that had him clearing his throat. “It’s- it’s rather late and I admit you might be the first person I’ve spoken to all day. That is to say, I’m not sure I’m entirely awake right now.” And that was the excuse he’d use as to why he was admitting any of that to a practical stranger. He may have spent the day with him just a week or so prior, but that hardly meant they were friends- regardless of how intriguing he found the man.
“Call me Ted, please.” There was a familiar ache behind Ted’s eyes, one that Trent knew all too well. A deep seated loneliness that neither man seemed able to fully conceal in the emptiness of Tesco Express at such a late hour. The soft smile on Ted’s face was clearly strained, dark circles matching his own under the slightly taller man’s eyes. “That’s an awful long time not to speak to anyone.”
“Yes, well, that’s one of the downfalls of living alone isn’t it?” Trent could only blame the near identical hollow stare that they seemed to share as a reason for why he was being so forthcoming, especially considering Ted was one of the few people he should know better than to try and befriend.
Is that what they were doing? The awkward dance of friendship as middle-aged men working on opposing sides of the football-journalist divide. Christ, Trent was tired. They’d been talking for less than five minutes and he was having an internal fight with himself over becoming friends with Ted Lasso and his ridiculous- yet annoying attractive- moustache. Had Trent mentioned how stupidly tired he was? That was clearly the only excuse for that particular train of thought, no truth behind it whatsoever.
“Now I thought you said you had a daughter, where’s little miss Crimm at?” Ted spoke animatedly, his face emoting at a level Trent could barely keep up with. There was curiosity, perhaps a little sadness, either for himself or Trent, the journalist couldn’t say, but any other expression was lost to Trent as Ted quickly schooled his features back into that soft but weary smile.
“She’s with her mother this week.” Any inclination that Trent had to mind his words and keep his private life, well private, was lost as he saw a genuine look of understanding dawn on Ted’s face.
The structurally sound wall that Trent kept up between himself and anyone that was not his ex-wife or daughter, had a crack right down the middle. Ted had dropped the fake, but well-meaning, smile, and instead wore the similar look of someone missing their child. And that was all it took for Ted to take a sledgehammer to the wall Trent had maintained for most of his adult life.
“I’m sorry, Trent, that is none of my darn business is it? You just tell me to hush my butt and I’ll say no more.” Ted mimed zipping his lips, causing a soft huff of laughter to leave Trent’s mouth. There was that disarming kindness that left Trent wondering just how deep it truly went, he suspected it went right to the core of him.
“It’s alright, Coach-” Ted raised his eyebrows, “Ted.” Trent corrected, “Turns out it’s not entirely horrible talking to you about my home life. I’d forgotten how much we actually have in common.” Trent offered a half smile, feeling his traitorous heart flutter as Ted’s moustache twitched with the first genuine smile he’d given that evening.
“Well then, we best get snug because we are two peas in one cosy little pod.” Trent couldn’t help the quiet snort he let out at the ridiculous joke, nor could he control the faint warmth he felt surge through his chest at Ted’s pleased grin. Good god, he felt like a schoolgirl with a crush. And wasn’t that a absurd thought, this was Ted Lasso for Christ’s sake.
“Seems we have more in common than we thought.” Trent continued, ignoring his foolish heart. The journalist gave a subtle nod towards the bottle neatly tucked beneath Ted’s arm, identical to the one in the basket Trent held up in Ted’s direction, offering him a knowing look.
It seemed to take Ted a second to catch on, as if he had forgotten he’d picked the drink up in the first place. But when he did, he pointed his finger at Trent,
“Ya caught me. Living alone, it just ain’t the same, y’know?” Trent cursed himself for a moment as the light in Ted’s eyes dimmed, the reminder of what wasn’t waiting at home for either of them forcing an uncomfortable chill to settle over the journalist.
“You just need a little something to smooth the rough edges.”
Ted’s responding nod, the way his eyes dulled even more, caused the ache in Trent to grow a little stronger, the crack in his armour to spread a little wider. Trent needed to leave, he had never intended on seeing someone he knew, let alone bringing them down to wallow alongside him.
“Now you just stop me if this is too forward,” Ted had stepped closer, there was still a respectable amount of space between them, but Trent could now see even clearer the dark circles and slight stubble of the man in front of him. He gulped subtly as his eyes trailed down to Ted's unlawfully soft looking lips, what reason could there be for this man to have such plush fucking lips and why can't Trent stop staring them? It took him a second too long to realise Ted was still speaking, oblivious to Trent's inner turmoil, “but what d’ya say to putting yours back and not leaving a fella to drink alone?”
Trent paused.
Ted was inviting him to his house? Ted Lasso, American coach of AFC Richmond, was inviting a journalist- and not just any journalist, Trent Crimm of the Independent- the same journalist that writes for his own team, to his house?
Trent didn’t know which was more absurd. The invite or the fact that Trent was seriously considering accepting it.
On one hand there was journalist integrity; which was, of course, extremely important, the backbone of his entire career. But on the other hand, Trent was in absolutely no rush whatsoever to return to his empty house and there was Ted, kind, patient as a saint Ted, inviting him into his home and extending his hand in friendship? More? Whatever it was, Trent couldn’t help but be intrigued by the offer, and was heavily leaning towards saying fuck it, why not?
“Ya still in there?” Ted’s hand was reaching towards him, fingers close enough to touch the worn knit of his cardigan if he so pleased and Trent itched to close the distance.
Shit. This was a bad idea.
“Thought I’d lost ya for a second there. So, whaddya say, Mr Independent?” Ted held up his bottle in question, his mouth and moustache cocked into a half smile as he waited for the journalist’s response.
Trent didn’t even think before opening his mouth with an answer.