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Trent is uncomfortable for a myriad of reasons. The air surrounding him is dense with humidity, not helped in the slightest by his damp clothing that drips with rainwater. The thick jumper he chose to wear clings to his skin in a way that makes him itch and recoil from the woollen material, regardless of the fact that he cannot remove it, lest he be discovered bare chested by one, Coach Theodore Lasso.
Which brings him to another reason for his growing discomfort.
It’s a wonder to him that he got past the buzzer, convinced that the American coach would have sent him on his way after a few choice words. And yet he’d said nothing, simply letting the journalist into the building after Trent had announced himself with a muted, “Ted? It’s Trent. T-Trent Crimm.”
Now, he stands, causing a quickly spreading damp patch in the carpet as he waits for Ted to open the door to his flat. It must only be a minute or two, but in that time Trent has begun second guessing himself for his most likely ill-advised decision. Did he really think it was a good idea to just appear at Ted’s home? Ted would be well within his rights to send him packing. Christ, Trent wouldn’t even blame him if Ted decided to land a punch on the journalist’s tired face. His hand finds the sleeve of his sodden jumper, twisting it around his fingers, trying fruitlessly to calm his growing nerves.
Metal hinges creak in protest as the door is pulled open by the man Trent doesn’t know if he can face. It’s too late for second guessing now.
Lifting his eyes, he’s faced with the aftermath of his own words. Ted stands in the doorway silently. Unease begins to settle heavily in Trent’s chest as he takes in the man in front of him. Gone is the happy-go-lucky coach with the ever present smile. In his place is the shell of that man. His hair is a mess, as if he’s been dragging his fingers through the dark strands. His usual polo, sweater and khakis ensemble has been replaced by joggers and a loose t-shirt that appears to be inside out. It's clear he's been crying, recently if the tracks down his cheeks are anything to go by, and it tugs at Trent's heart painfully knowing it's his fault.
Ted stays silent, lips pulled into a thin line as his patience clearly begins to run out. Clearing his throat, Trent searches for the words he’d planned on his walk here. But they’re gone. Each and every carefully crafted sentence is lost. Though perhaps that’s not the worst outcome, it was his perfectly crafted words that found him in this situation after all.
"I can leave if you’d rather, Coach Lasso, but I don’t think it’s wise for you to be alone right now."
Ted’s moustache twitches minutely, barely enough to be noticed, but Trent sees it. He shifts awkwardly under Ted’s scrutinous gaze.
“Not- not that you are alone. You probably already called someone, but I- I wanted to make sure.” His words taper off, cringing at his inarticulate words. Where was that Kansan drawl making puns when he so desperately needed it? Anything to end this brutally uncomfortable exchange. Although exchange would imply that Ted is responding, which he decidedly is not, much to Trent’s dismay. Though he’s not entirely shocked to be receiving the silent treatment.
Christ, it’s just all such a mess. He'd known the second he heard Nate's scathing voice that he had no choice. Nate The Great , a name Ted had bestowed upon the promoted kitman, a name that now left a bitter taste in Trent’s mind. However, if Trent hadn't written that article, someone else would have. Someone more cruel, more vicious. And that left Trent with an impossible and heart wrenching choice. Let them eviscerate Ted, calling into question whether the American was fit to coach and risk his career, or attempt to alleviate the scorn as much as he possibly could, by littering the article with facts and figures regarding mental health in men's sport. All whilst knowing he would be burning any bridge he had begun to build with the man he’d started to grow inadvisably fond of.
"Admittedly, I didn't think this plan through as much as I probably should have. But if you're alone, please let me call someone for you. Coach Beard, perhaps?"
The silence is deafening. Ted offers no response other than turning around to walk further into the flat, leaving the door open in wordless invitation. Trent takes a moment to consider whether it’s a good idea or not, but ultimately he knows he won't leave unless Ted tells him to.
Trent toes off his shoes in the doorway, fighting between the discomfort of being so familiar in a place he is entirely unfamiliar, and the need to not cause any more disruption in Ted's life, even if that is just him being unwilling to leave wet footprints across the carpeted floor. He's well aware of his still dripping jumper, sadly there's not much he can do about that. He most certainly will not be asking Ted for a change of clothes, or even a towel. He's not in a position to be asking any favours.
Rounding the entryway, he spots a warm light coming from what must be the living room. The soft light glints off a collection of empty beer bottles that swarm on the small coffee table. There's that guilt ridden ache again, sitting cold and heavy in his gut. Ted is watching him, his eyes no longer holding that childlike joy that Trent couldn't help but be enamoured by.
The mask has fallen. Trent has no doubt that Ted truly is as caring and kind as he puts forth on a daily basis. But he knew that there was more to Ted, something hidden beneath the surface that he kept to himself. He only wishes it wasn't him who cracked the mask in two, forcing Ted to show pieces of himself before he's ready to.
"I'm sorry, Ted. Truly." He makes an aborted motion, taking a half step towards Ted before thinking better of it and remaining where he is on the other side of the room.
"S'fine." The resignation and slight slur in Ted’s voice has Trent flinching subtly, anxious that he’s truly ruined the slow building friendship that was growing between them. Because of course, the first man to fully capture his attention since his divorce would be one that he would hurt in such a personal and irreparable way.
"It isn't.” Trent's voice comes out harsher than he intends. A slight bite to his words that has Ted’s eyes widening a fraction. He forces himself to soften his tone, gaze stuck on Ted as he continues. “You're allowed to be angry or upset with me, Ted.” The American shakes his head with a quiet scoff, eyes dropping to the dark bottle in front of him, fingers picking at the condensation-damp label.
“What I did- it's going to have massive ramifications for you and I can only apologise profusely for that.” Trent hates the way he can feel the burning behind his eyes as he speaks. He’s written many scathing articles, but this is the first time he’s felt the desire, the desperate need , to apologise for one. “I know that I have no right to ask anything of you. But if I could, I would like to earn your trust back. I don't know how, but I'll do anything I can. You're a good man, Ted, and you don't deserve what's going to happen tomorrow."
Ted’s mouth twists into a grimace, a wet line of tears building in his soft brown eyes. Trent prepares for the blow as Ted’s lips curl around his words.
"Why'd ya do it? If I'm such a ' good man '? If ya respect me so damn much?" His voice is thick with emotion, cracking as he spits out his question. Trent blinks away the stinging tears that are trying to fall, forcing them back.
"If it wasn't me, it would've been someone far more cruel. My co-workers and I, we're vultures , Ted. We rip people apart for the world to see. But I don't want to do that, not anymore. It's been building inside of me for a while, but tonight has shown me that I'm not the man I want to be. You've shown me that, you've made me realise that I can be better, I can do better. And for that I thank you, Coach Lasso from America." His lips quirk into a half smile as he remembers the first time he referred to Ted that way, eyes dropped to the carpet. That was perhaps a little more than he intended to share this evening. But it’s the truth. And he can’t find it in himself to regret letting that honesty show in front of Ted.
Glancing up at the man in front of him, Ted only offers a stilted nod. His face is closed off, bar the tears that spill down his cheeks. The room falls silent but for the quiet sniffs of the coach and the constant dripping of Trent’s jumper, that is steadily growing colder and far more uncomfortable by the second.
"You shouldn't be alone tonight. Let me call someone for you, it's the least I can do." Trent is close to pleading with the other man. It’s clear his presence isn’t helping, but he flat out refuses to let Ted deal with the heavy emotions of tonight by himself.
"You're here ain't ya? Pretty such that constitutes as not alone." There's a tired bitterness to his voice, a bite to his words that Trent has never heard before but certainly cannot blame him for.
"And I'd be happy to stay, if that's what you want, Ted." He hesitantly takes a small step towards the sofa where Ted is sitting, cringing slightly at the gentle squelch of his wet socks against the carpeted floor.
Trent flinches whole-bodily as Ted throws himself up from the sofa, standing so his face is mere inches from the journalist’s own. Trent can feel the warmth seeping from him, can see the way the dim light makes his tears shimmer.
"Stop sayin' m'name like that. You don't need to pity me, Trent, and if ya are, then leave." His words are practically spat out, forcing Trent to take a step back from the much broader man. He puts his hands up in a placating manner, offering Ted not barely there smile.
"It's not pity you can hear, Ted. It's grief for the hurt that I've caused you.” He admits quietly, wishing he could reach out to the other man but knowing that would do nothing to ease the turbulent tension between them.
Downing the last of his beer, Ted turns away from Trent to add the bottle to the growing collection.
“I’m goin’ bed. Spare blankets are in the closet, roomie .” He nods towards a door in the hallway as he drags himself out of the room. Trent releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding, letting a slither of tension ease out of him just slightly. The sardonic tone Ted’s voice had taken didn’t suit him, but then again, neither did the entire mood of the evening.
With Ted elsewhere in the flat, Trent set to clearing the coffee table of beer bottles. Trying his best not to make a sound, lest he disturb Ted even more, he carefully disposes of them in the recycling bin. He can hear the sound of running water, Ted must be having a shower. With that in mind, Trent hunts down a glass and some painkillers.
Upon reflection, he probably shouldn’t be wandering around the American’s flat without permission. But his desire to do something, some small extension of his apology, wins out. Placing the water and paracetamol on Ted’s bedside table, he quickly retreats back to the more neutral ground of the living room.
When he sees Ted again, it’s been at least thirty minutes of Trent stewing in his own, rarely helpful, thoughts.
“Here.” Ted sets down a towel and a change of clothes on the now clear coffee table. Trent looks over at him from where he was pacing in front of the window with more hope in his expression than he thinks he’s ever felt. “I appreciate ya, Trent.” His voice is quiet, his eyes focused somewhere over Trent’s shoulder, but it’s a start. It’s an olive branch and it’s more than Trent was expecting.
“Sleep well, Ted. I’ll be here in the morning, you don’t have to face it alone.” He reaches out a hand, hesitantly resting it on Ted’s forearm, so lightly he’s not sure Ted can even feel it. There’s more talking to be had. Bridges to be rebuilt. But Trent lets the hope wash over him as Ted nods, a tired smile creasing his eyes as he briefly lets his eyes fall on Trent’s for the last time that evening.