Chapter Text
It starts innocently enough: with mistletoe and Dani Rojas.
She’s about two glasses of champagne (working on her third) and an egg-nog too far in when she finds herself drifting over (again) to where Ted is standing beside Beard near the Christmas tree. She feels warm and mellow, and when she steps up beside Ted he shifts just a little so she can slide into place beside him, allowing her to be part of their conversation, not just standing awkwardly to the side.
Beard raises his eyebrows in greeting with a slight tilt of his pint, and other than flicking her a quick smile, Ted doesn’t break stride in the story that he’s busy regaling Beard with—something about skis and a tractor, and she’s not sure what else really.
It’s as Ted’s drawing a breath that Beard, smooth as butter, raises the hand holding his pint with a finger pointing to the ceiling above them. “Mistletoe.”
“Well. Wouldya look at that, Boss,” Ted says, sounding delighted while he peers up at the ceiling as though it’s not the same piece of mistletoe that’s been hanging there all night, and hasn’t already tripped up multiple people including Keeley and Will (Rebecca thought Will might pop an aneurysm), Isaac and Colin (right manly little peck on the cheek bruv), Keeley and Roy (not at all unintentional), and even Beard and Higgins.
Rebecca takes another swig of her champagne, and turns her face towards Ted obediently. His mustache tickles a little; it makes her smile, and his lips taste of the scotch he’s still nursing in his hand. It’s soft and warm and sweet, and she lingers possibly a second or two longer than she should, unaware until she blinks them open that her eyes had fluttered shut or that her hand had crept up to rest against his cheek.
Oh, she thinks, staring into the soft hazel of his eyes, breath warm where it still spills against her lips because their faces are much closer together than they usually are.
“Hi,” he says, smiling at her. Her heart trips unexpectedly in her chest, breath catching in her throat, and all she can do is smile stupidly at him.
The moment lasts until Ted jolts unexpectedly, jerking away from her, and seconds later she’s also disconcerted to feel something small collide firmly with her back.
“Got you!” Phoebe shrieks, and as the sound of loud giggling and stampeding feet recedes, she realises that they’ve been attacked with a Nerf gun and those little foam bullets have shattered the moment as though it had been the most delicate crystal.
She’s suddenly aware of the voices all around them; of their team, of their friends, of the Higgins’ home. And it’s only once his hand drops away that she misses how warm his fingers had been pressed against her hip.
“Merry Christmas, Boss,” he says, rocking back on his feet before lifting his scotch somewhat clumsily up to his lips for another sip.
Boss.
The word stings suddenly, like a piece of that broken crystal has lodged in her chest, but she smiles despite it (soldier on, darling) and forces the words out herself. “Happy Christmas, Ted. Beard,” she adds, tipping her glass towards him as well before tossing the rest of its contents back in one large mouthful.
Beard does nothing more than raise his eyebrows. She wonders for a moment what he’s thinking, but she’s not as proficient in interpreting him as Ted is, and feels a little exposed under his piercing gaze.
“Well. Time to do the rounds,” she says uncomfortably.
It was nothing more than a contrived, manufactured peck, she tells herself, turning away and keeping her shoulders straight. No moment, no crystal, no deeper meanings. Damn whoever came up with the ridiculous concept of kissing under mistletoe. And damn the fucking Nerf bullets for ruining the not-moment.
She tells herself that by the time she gets another glass of champagne it will have faded and be nothing more than a forgotten memory by the end of the night.
And why, she wonders, making a beeline towards the drinks station set up in the kitchen, why is she even so worked up over a silly little peck with Ted anyway?
It was fine. There was nothing wrong with it. In fact, it was pleasant and sweet and there’s absolutely no reason why she should be turned inside out at this moment.
Must be the champagne, she decides, and instead of getting another she puts her empty flute aside and contemplates her other options.
She’s just poured the scotch—slightly more than a double (a double and a single, a triple), when Keeley appears by her side.
“What the actual fuck, babe?!” she screeches, clearly several glasses of champagne ahead of Rebecca, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.
“I like scotch,” Rebecca says defensively, frowning at Keeley.
She does like scotch. She liked it even before she tasted it on Ted’s lips.
Keeley blinks at her. “No! Not that!”
Rebecca stares at her blankly. “What then?”
Wordlessly Keeley holds up her phone and thrusts it in front of Rebecca’s face, so close it’s fuzzy and blurry, and Rebecca has to blink and twist her neck to avoid the phone hitting her in the nose.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Keeley says with a giggle, still waving her phone around in front of Rebecca’s face.
With experience born of their many girls' nights, Rebecca catches Keeley’s wavering hand and steadies the phone the right distance from her face so that she can peer at it without having to concede defeat and pull her reading glasses out of her purse.
It’s a photo, off-kilter and slightly blurred, of the Higgins’ wonderfully eclectic and lopsided Christmas tree. And right there beside it are her and Ted, lips unmistakably pressed together. She studies it, pulling the phone out of Keeley’s hands and zooming into the picture, fascinated by how from this angle she can see the way Ted’s fingers are resting on her hip and how her hand is cradling the angle of his jaw. They’re standing so close together there’s almost no space between them.
Rebecca blinks, swallowing, before zooming out of the picture and handing the phone back to Keeley. “It’s a good photo,” she says vaguely.
Keeley’s staring at her. “Rebecca. You kissed Ted!”
“Mistletoe,” Rebecca explains, tapping the picture. “See?”
Keeley’s still staring at her. “Rebecca! You kissed Ted, and it’s on Instagram!”
Rebecca blinks. “It’s what?”
Keeley waves the phone at her again. “Instagram! And it’s on Twitter!”
And perhaps, Rebecca thinks, she should have wondered why Keeley had a photo of her and Ted exchanging a harmless little Christmas tradition on her phone about two seconds after it happened. With more misgivings this time, she takes the phone back from Keeley and looks at it properly.
It’s a photo on Dani Roja’s twitter feed with the caption “Merry Christmas Muchachos!”
Okay. So that’s not ideal. But it is Christmas, and there’s very definitely mistletoe in the picture, so it’s quite obvious what’s going on here. “Okay, well, maybe we should have a word to Dani about checking before he posts stuff like this on social media, but it’s only a silly Christmas tradition and there’s no way anyone’s going to take this seriously.”
Keeley frowns at her. “Why aren’t you more….”
“More what?” Rebecca asks, quite proud of how calmly she’s downplaying the whole thing.
Not that there’s anything to downplay, of course. She’s just stating the facts like they are.
“Well. Annoyed? Maybe even a little… affronted?”
“About Dani posting this?”
Keeley just looks downright confused now. “Did you even read his caption?” she asks finally.
“Yes. I did. It’s rather sweet,” Rebecca says, looking down at the screen again. “‘Merry Christmas, Muchachos.’ and then the hashtag… Oh. Oh. Well. That’s a little less than ideal, isn’t it?”
“Okay. So I just want to check exactly what your thoughts are about this before I say anything,” Keeley tells her earnestly. “You know, just in case we haven’t interpreted things quite the same way.”
Rebecca frowns at her. “How is there possibly more than one way to interpret #mumanddad other than implying we’re old?”
Keeley bites her lip, looking a bit like she’s collecting her courage to launch into battle. “I think… Rebecca… I think it’s actually implying that you’re together, more so than you’re old.”
Oh. Well. She looks down at the picture again, eyes locked on the way her and Ted seem very much to be kissing, not just innocently fulfilling a tradition.
“Rebecca?”
“It was hardly a kiss,” Rebecca scoffs, desperately clinging to her story. “More like a peck. A platonic brush of the lips by two colleagues under the mistletoe.”
And she might have gotten away with it, if it wasn’t for the video.
A video that goes for 54 seconds, during which her and Ted are very much kissing for about 45 seconds out of the 54 seconds. She watches it a second time, staring at the screen in shock.
How on earth did she kiss Ted for 45 seconds and have no idea that much time had passed? How did she lose almost a minute in the hint of scotch against soft lips and the scent of him surrounding her. She watches the way her hand creeps up his chest, brushing against his neck before curling around the angle of his jaw, almost reliving the sensation of his smooth, freshly shaven skin beneath her fingertips. She can still feel the weight of his hand landing so lightly on her hip, fingers twitching as though he wants to tug her closer before smoothing out and resting there so perfectly warm. The way they stare at each other for several seconds before the video ends abruptly.
Jamie’s hashtag (because of course Jamie posted the video) is also #mumanddad.
“That’s not an innocent mistletoe kiss,” Keeley tells her. “That’s a fucking snog if ever I saw one.”
Rebecca stares at the frozen image of her and Ted still gazing at each other, and looks up at Keeley in shock.
“Fuuuuck.”
Keeley’s (probably not the most sound) advice is to just ignore it.
“It’s got way too many likes and shares already to just take it down,” she tells Rebecca.
“How on Earth can it already have over a thousand likes?” Rebecca demands. “It’s only been up for five seconds!”
“Oh,” says Keeley, “No, that’s the video. The picture’s on about five thousand already. Oh, yes, look, it’s already been shared by—shit, even The Sun has shared it, Rebecca.”
“Why is anyone at The Sun sharing stuff on Christmas?” Rebecca asks, aghast.
“Not just them. The Independent's in on it now. And there’s the Daily Mail. Holy shit, Rebecca, this is going viral!”
Rebecca takes a large swallow of her scotch, finding the smooth liquid somewhat lacking, even though the burn manages to drag down some of the panic trying to claw up in her throat.
“Fuck. Rupert’s going to have a field day with this.”
“Hang on,” Keeley says. “Oh, this is great! Look at all of these, Rebecca!”
“What am I looking at?”
“The comments! Everyone’s loving it Rebecca! Look. Oh, look, maybe not that one, but look at the rest of them!”
And because she can’t help herself, a bit like a passerby’s morbid fascination when driving past a car accident, she accepts the phone back from Keeley and starts scrolling through the comments.
I knew it! It’s so sweet!
Football’s power couple
Coach got game #mumanddad (she might actually murder Isaac for that one).
God, I wish someone kissed me the way he just kissed her.
Wanker’s got moves, give him that at least.
God they’re fit together. Imagine their babies.
So sweet.
Her eyes skim them, and Keeley’s right, for the most part it’s nothing but positive gushing and excitement, and she’s seeing more and more #mumanddad on accounts she doesn’t recognise.
The scotch (and maybe all the champagne and eggnog) twists uncomfortably in her stomach, a thick, heavy feeling settling deep in her gut.
“Rebecca?” Keeley asks, sounding worried now.
“But this… this is all wrong,” she says quietly, thrusting the phone back at Keeley. “We’re not… that wasn’t…”
Keeley’s hand, small and warm, settles gently on the side of Rebecca’s face, stilling some of the ball of anxiety starting to spin itself together. “Oh babes,” she says quietly. “Ignore it. If this isn’t… If you’re not ready… just ignore it. It’ll be fine.”
“It won’t be fine,” Rebecca says urgently. “The press is going to be ruthless and will turn it into something awful. Something that it’s not. This is a fucking disaster.”
There’s movement to the side, and she looks up to see Ted walking stiffly beside Beard and Roy, faces all taught with concern as they approach.
But Ted… Ted doesn’t just look concerned. He looks… well... devastated, and that ball of anxiety cracks open with a painful jolt so that it feels like she’s being hollowed out from the inside.
By morning the grainy images are on the front page of the tabloids, and because she can’t help punishing herself she checks every single one of them, stomach twisting and chest aching at the mocking titles and awful commentary about inappropriate relationship. She hates the way they paint Ted as being a dimwitted American, suggesting that he’s only after her money, or implying it’s not his coaching skill that’s keeping him employed. And of course there are remarks from Rupert; she can hear his disdain about how far she’s fallen, it’s pathetic that she has to sink so low to find a man. It infuriates her because Ted is ten times the man Rupert will ever be, but no one can seem to see that except her.
She stays away from social media—it’s bad enough seeing the tabloids, but she doesn’t think she could bear to see the public response turn negative towards Ted as well, not when they’ve finally started to embrace him. Instead she focuses on getting ready to attend the Boxing Day match. She takes extra care with her appearance—tallest heels, pointy earrings and bright red lipstick—before she steps out of her house, head held high and ignores the paparazzi waiting with their cameras and calls of “Where’s the Coach? Didn’t stay over last night then?” as though they expected to find Ted at home with her.
She’d been making a habit of popping into the locker room before games of late, listening to Ted’s pre-game speech and smiling at the sense of camaraderie before the match. But today she hides in her office, and only slips into the owner's box moments before the whistle blows, back straight and face deliberately blank.
And if the whistle blowing as soon as she sits down means Keeley can’t pull her into a conversation about what’s happening, well, that’s just another benefit, isn’t it?