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Trent will admit that the first notification, informing him of his addition to a group chat titled Richmond Coaches, causes his brow to furrow for approximately four seconds. He swipes it away without so much as opening Signal, though. It’s surely a poor joke, perhaps from one of his colleagues in the press room. Anyway, it isn’t worth his attention, especially as he works against a looming deadline.
When he does finally open the app, hours later with his deadline met and a late sodium-laden dinner eaten, it’s for an entirely different reason. He is mildly surprised to see the Richmond Coaches chat still there, now with 22 unread messages. With a roll of his eyes, Trent taps to read them, anticipating a thread full of two dozen annoyed journalists expressing their lack of amusement regarding the group chat name to - Trent’s best guess, without any evidence at all - Ernie Lounds before they removed themselves from the chat.
The first thing he notices is that there are only four other participants. The second thing he notices is their names: Ted, Coach Beard, Nate the Great, and Roy Kent.
Trent frowns. Trent blinks. Trent reads. And then, two minutes later, Trent rolls his eyes again and closes the app.
It would appear, to a more gullible person, that the AFC Richmond coaching team has somehow inadvertently included him on a group chat wherein they are discussing training and play strategies for their upcoming match against Watford. Trent does suspect, though still with no evidence aside from his own gut instinct, that Ernie Lounds is indeed behind it, and he wonders if every other journalist from a respectable publication in the Richmond press room has found themselves in their own identical group chats this evening or if Ernie is targeting him specifically. It wouldn’t be the first time for the latter - it’s not as if The Sun makes a habit of employing people who are particularly reluctant to harass other journalists. It would, however, be the first time since the news about his divorce - and along with it, the rumors regarding his sexuality - began to make the rounds among his colleagues.
Trent smiles to himself. Ernie will certainly play the hoax off as “just a joke, lighten up!” when confronted with the chat, but if Trent is being targeted, then he might be able to get The Sun temporarily suspended from the press room for homophobic harassment. It’s this lovely thought that lulls Trent to sleep.
—
There are more messages in the morning. It seems that whoever is pretending to be Nate the Great and Coach Beard got very little sleep throughout the night. Ted, meanwhile, appears to be undeniably a morning person as well as a heavy user of emojis. Roy Kent, true to the role, remains largely silent.
Trent sits in his usual seat in the press room a few hours later, his phone tucked away into his blazer pocket. He looks steadfastly forward, not turning to glance around at Ernie in the back even when he hears the man’s obnoxious voice. His plan is to wait a few weeks, let more texts build up in the group chat, give his other colleagues - assuming they’re included on this weak attempt at a set-up as well - a chance to murmur to him about their own mysterious chats, before confronting Ernie with his suspicions. It wouldn’t be beneficial to play any of his cards less than 24 hours after the initial notification appeared on his phone.
Coach Lasso enters the press room right on time, as usual, and takes his seat, grinning out at the crowd of eager journalists the same way a clueless sailor might smile at a school of hungry sharks. Trent smiles, small and genuine and significantly un-sharklike, despite himself, and the questions begin.
Trent is paying his typical amount of attention, keeping his eyes on Coach Lasso throughout, but this is all quite routine. A routine press conference full of routine questions regarding an upcoming routine match against a routine team. There’s nothing spectacularly noteworthy about Watford and so there is nothing spectacularly noteworthy to ask in this press room today. Trent can’t be blamed for his mind drifting a bit–though he could perhaps be blamed for his eyes drifting down to Coach Lasso’s thighs, thick in his truly intolerable khaki trousers. Regardless, the simple facts of the matter are thus: (1) he doesn’t quite catch what Lloyd’s full question is; and (2) Coach Lasso’s answer does catch his abrupt focus.
It is, word-for-word, something Ted sent in the group chat this morning at the break of dawn.
Trent’s fingers itch, twitching toward the pocket where his phone rests. Clenching his fist, he glances surreptitiously over his shoulder, where Ernie Lounds sits several rows back, legs spread wide and unceremoniously casual, lazy gaze set on Coach Lasso, expression bored and utterly devoid of any reaction one would expect from someone playing a conspiratorial joke on a disliked colleague. Trent knows Ernie well enough to know he’s a poor actor, and even less skilled at keeping smugness off his face. Huh, Trent thinks weakly as he turns around to face forward again. His eyes narrow, but his mind doesn’t work quite fast enough to formulate a proper question - his own trap - before Coach Lasso stands, still grinning, and waves his cheerful goodbye to the press room.
Patient enough to wait until he’s secure and alone in his car to finally pull his phone from his pocket, Trent opens the Signal app again and scrolls up to read through this morning’s messages. It only confirms for him his previous realization: identical phrasing, word-for-fucking-word. Trent frowns, closing the app and returning his phone to his pocket. He stares absently as he begins to tap his fingers against the steering wheel, his mind racing.
“There’s nothing to it but to wait,” Trent says to himself after a few minutes. Then, he shakes his head. “And chances are,” he adds, “there’s simply nothing to it.”
—
Ted
Alright, fellas, I’ve decided. We’re gonna go with the 5-2-2-1 to start today. We can switch to a 3-4-3 💎 if we need to.
Coach Beard
I think that’s a solid call, Coach. 👍🏻
Nate the Great
It’ll be good set-up for an offside trap too.
Ted
Well, I trust your judgment more than mine when it comes to that offside stuff.
Ted
But I know Isaac, Sam and Richard enjoy setting up a trap.
Ted
So: your fingertips, God’s ears, etc. 🙏🏻
Roy Kent
Not Isaac. Keep him on offense today. Use Colin instead.
—
Trent watches the match as closely as he always does, this time with an air of increasing incredulity as the time runs down. He clutches his small notepad in his hand, not opening it once throughout the match, even as Sarah and Lloyd, seated on either side of him in the press box of the stands, scribble frantically in their own notebooks. Finally, the match ends, and Trent means to leave with the rest of the fans, as he usually does, but Sarah grabs him by the elbow patch of his blazer and pulls him back down.
“Ow,” he says dryly.
“Why’ve you not been taking notes?” she asks. Her eyes, normally remarkably kind are curious, are stormy and suspicious, fixed on him. Trent sighs. He flattens out his notepad over his knee before flipping it open to the page where he took notes after checking his phone two hours ago.
5-2-2-1 to start. If needed, switch to 3-4-3. McAdoo on offense. Offside trap set up by Hughes, Obisanya, and Montlaur.
Sarah blinks down at the page for several seconds before looking up at Trent again, her eyebrow arched. “Are you a seer?”
Trent sighs again, flipping his notepad shut. “No.”
—
Trent sits down at his home office desk with a cup of tea far too hot to sip yet. Setting it aside to cool a little, he opens his laptop, types in his password, opens a blank document, and cracks his knuckles.