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There is a moment in every reading where Trent opens the floor for questions. He is asked, certainly, about the actual gruffness of Roy Kent, which makes him stop and smile a kittenish smile. "I'll tell you all a secret. He's as soft as they come. Appreciatively menacing. Mouth as filthy as a barge. But as warm and kind and nostalgic as they come." Once, he looks up specifically to see Roy leaned against a wall, rolling his eyes and schooling his face hard against a smile.
He is asked several questions about the team, which he answers to the best of his abilities, without divulging anything he has learned about their personal lives.
He is asked about Coach Beard, to which he always responds that there isn't a single thing about Coach Beard that is anyone's damn business. Then reiterates that those are Beard's words. About Coach Nate, to which he remains respectfully mum, in spite of their loaded mutual history. Trent does not have to answer any of these questions, and dodges some of them to the best of his practiced ability.
Always, without fail, Trent is asked about Coach Lasso. There isn't a single time that he doesn't pause. Doesn't stutter. The one time, he looked up, briefly, to Roy, and their eyes were both sheened over. But no mind. Trent answers like a man in love with no real information. Wistful and admiring and mourning a bit, but with hope like there is some streak of light left smeared across his hand. Trent answers like he could discourse about one man for endless hours at the head of a party.
His book does quite well, but no one really ever asks him to cross the ocean. So when his little island tour is over, he goes home to quiet, to his sweet girl, to a new job as a ghost writer, to honorary box seats at Nelson Road that are really reserved for former players, but are granted to him like he is some team pet. He doesn't mind, really. It is more than kind.
His inbox isn't quite as hectic as it used to be. His phone sits quiet aside from a message here or there from Roy or Higgins. Beard is busy with a new baby, so he understands when their communications fade. Rebecca starts promos for the new women's team with a summer footy camp for girls, and Trent has a little bird who shows an interest, so he takes her round. She's too young for a year or two, but perhaps it will build anticipation.
Trent becomes the kind of person who keeps and lets his home life revolve around a west-facing window full of houseplants. Waters and waxes their leaves. Figures out how to make dinner as many nights during his on week as he possibly can before he goes a bit crazy thinking about it and tries to make as many leftovers as he can for his off weeks. Steps into full participation at his little girl's school. Spends hours cutting large stars out of flimsy silver Mylar for the school panto. Garners donations for small star-topped plinths of various heights and different metaled honors for a Sports Day. Sends an email he never expects to have answered to an email address he is not certain is still functioning asking for a particular cupcake recipe.
And of course, Trent writes. He spends his working hours with a very well-to-do barrister he would never have anything to do with in real life. Pulling stories from him like he's shoeing a particularly nippy horse. Being openly curious and desperately trying not to be secretly judgmental. It isn't nearly the easiest job he's had, but the comparisons are wholly unfair. Sports and politics are different animals, really. Still, the writing comes easier than he'd expected. This barrister's voice is witty and dry and much like his own, previous to his last assignment anyway. There is little passion in it, but this ghostwriting job will hopefully lead to others.
The clubs are too loud, although he will still "throw down" when the wind moves just right. He finds the dating apps lacking. When he wants some fun, he'll hit them up, but realizes who he's looking for and who he finds are two very different things. Trent simply relies on making friends and finding love the old fashioned way. Throwing lavish dinner parties and inviting every sport and literary queer he knows until he has met every one of their queer friends and then every one of their queer friends and then begun to whittle down a little circle of friends. Keeley, Colin and Michael are the very youngest of them. Trent knows they try not to make him feel old, but their margin of success is comparable to Colin's driving record.
Trent's life is small. Quiet. Predictable as much now as it ever was. Only now he sleeps alone except on the rare occasion that his girl crawls into bed with him in the middle of the night. His friend group is small. Manageable. Unless he asks for company, company tends not to present itself. Unexpected tea with Roy on a late night after a match when Roy needs a friend. Maybe.
When the quiet blip echoes through the empty house, Trent continues pouring his tea without another thought, the meditation of his afternoon tea having soothed him into a quiet stupor. Trent steps to his record collection, thoughtfully perusing until he finds himself drawn to a buttery gold sleeve with waves of silk. Placing the record on the spindle, he can hear a rain start up. Prickly static sounds intro a soft, tinkling piano, and Trent returns to his tea, carrying it to his computer. When he is comfortably seated, he looks up to his screen and in an instant, he is somewhere else.
Mostly, Trent does not think about Ted. Except that there is the touch of Ted on everything in his life. Hasn't spoken his name outside of the countless number of times he has referenced him as "Coach Lasso" to a curious public. Removed all the set notifs and alerts as they've presented themselves over time. Doesn't seek out a relationship that wasn't actually maintained. But. If Trent were to give him a second's thought. There isn't a man he's met in person or on an app or in passing who quite stands up to Ted. Ted, with his sweet mustache and his lovely, vociferous hands and his heart-shaped face and his generous smile, his goodness and his silliness and his utter charm. Trent gasps for breath and he isn't altogether certain where the swell of emotion that closes his throat comes from. Certainly the email is just a cupcake recipe.
It would be just that, except that it is so much more. It is warm and apologetic and thoughtful and engrossing and goes on for pages. It is fully Ted. Witticisms and pop culture references and questions that knock Trent off his chair and observations about life that cause the tension in Trent's shoulders to melt away. And then there is a picture of Ted and his son Henry each holding an enormous tray of cupcakes for some school fundraising event, and Ted is every bit as soft as Trent can recall he was from across a crowded room. It is a small curiosity, then, that there is no recipe to follow.
There is no recipe to follow. Only, "Fondly yours."
So Trent thinks about Ted. Steps away from his computer with his tea and stands at his west-facing window and watches the rain. Listens to the lovely alto voice warbling from his speakers. Sips. Turns his head to see a small leaf rising from his favorite plant. Smiles. Considers what he might write back until the record pops and the static returns. Steps over to flip the record and rejoins the melancholy dusted up somewhere inside him he's not certain he can pinpoint.
The return email takes an entire evening to craft and is written from his writing desk, his couch, his floor a bit, his kitchen counter, and his bed. He adds the sweetest family portrait he can find, which is, sadly, his face covered in sickly sweet blue frosting and a big number 6 on his girl's birthday crown. Closes the email, "The world is very quiet without you around," hoping Ted understands the reference, knowing sometimes someone else's words are just better. He inserts the second request for the recipe in the postscript, hits send and puts his computer away.
In the morning, Trent wakes with the intention to be brave. He has a hair appointment and it is time. He has to braid his hair anymore before sleeping so he doesn't choke when he shifts in bed. When he forgets, he wakes up overheated, covered in sweat, pawing at his neck.
Maybe it will change his life. Maybe it will just be tomorrow and yesterday and today like it always is.