Archive of Our Own

“Alrighty, my good canine friends, what’d I miss?”

Ted slaps the doorframe with his hand as he crosses into the office, where Higgins, Roy, and Beard are already gathered. None of them flinch at his cacophonous entrance, all of them more than accustomed to such things by now. Beard just gives him a little salute, his unblinking stare not shifting from his book.

“Not much; we’ve only just assembled,” Higgins reassures him. “Everything alright at home?”

“Oh, all sunshine and roses here. Pardon my tardiness—dropped my key down the drain this morning. Don’t ask me how that happened, ‘cause I ain’t entirely sure either.” 

…No one had flinched at his entrance. Suddenly that fact pings at something in the back of Ted’s mind. “No Trent today?” he asks, glancing around as though the man in question might have been out of sight somewhere in the tiny space, lounging on some table or cabinet in a vintage T-shirt as had become customary. “He’s usually here by now, yeah? Anyone hear from him?”

Heads shake. “I don’t think he tells anyone which days he is or isn’t going to appear,” Higgins says. “His movements are an enigma to us all.”

“I think he does it on purpose,” Roy grunts. “Wants to seem mysterious. It’s lame.”

Ted knows Roy well enough by now to know there’s no actual antagonism in his words—there may be a bit of affection there, actually. He still feels compelled, for some reason, to defend Trent. “Hey now, cut the guy some slack, won’t ya? He’s been here almost every day for weeks now. Not that much of an enigma, if you ask me.”

“Building up our expectations so that we’re surprised and concerned when he is suddenly not present,” Beard says without looking up from his book. “To be mysterious.”

Roy points at him. “Exactly.”

Ted casts an exasperated glance at Higgins, who only shrugs, ambivalent. 

He kind of wishes Trent had at least texted to warn of his absence. Which is silly—why would he need to do a thing like that?—but the thought is there nonetheless. “Well, forget him. We got bigger fish to fry. Coach, you got somethin’ for the Diamond Dogs?” 

Higgins gives a hopeful yip. Roy wrinkles his nose, which is kind of doglike in its own way, but Ted doesn’t point that out.

“I do, in fact.” Beard gazes around the room, meeting each of their gazes one by one, letting the suspense build. He reaches under his desk and slowly draws something out: A Tupperware, which he places on the desk with reverence. Everyone holds their breath. With a dramatic flourish, he opens it, to reveal—

“Jane made cookies.”

Higgins whimpers morosely. 

“So, just to be clear,” Roy says. “You called us in here to give us dodgy baked goods. You don’t actually have an emotional topic to talk about.”

“Whoa, careful there, Roy,” Ted teases. “You almost sound like you were looking forward to a good ol’ Diamond Dogs discussion.” 

(Roy glowers wordlessly. But, Ted takes note, he doesn’t deny it.)

“That is, in fact, the case,” Beard confirms. “But she made me swear I’d bring them to work to share. And I am not one to go back on my word. My honor is at stake here. And, probably, my life.”

The cookies in question—or are these biscuits here? Ted can never quite remember—are of the chocolate chip variety. They’re visually nondescript, if a little dry-looking, but they somehow seem to emanate an ominous aura. Everyone stares dubiously at them. “Have you eaten one?” Roy questions.

Beard lifts his chin. “Yes I have. Last night.”

“…And?”

“I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“The bar is low. The bar is ever-so-low,” mutters Higgins.

One bushy black eyebrow creeps ever-so-slowly up Roy’s forehead. Even Beard can’t hold out against that withering look for more than a few seconds. “…And was up half the night with stomach problems,” he admits in an ashamed rush.

The room bursts into groans and protests. “But! But!” Beard forestalls them, gesturing widely. “I was already having said stomach problems before the cookies. So: correlation, not causation. By rule of logic, the cookies did not cause the stomach problems.”

“…They just made them worse,” Higgins finishes for him. He shakes his head pityingly, pushing his glasses up his nose with one finger. “Not really helping your case, I fear.”

“Back me up here, Coach,” Beard pleads, turning to Ted. 

If the incident at Ollie’s is anything to judge by, Ted has an established track record for eating dubious food to please someone else. But the person in question is only present by proxy this time, and besides, Ted’s gut health isn’t the only thing at stake right now. He needs to be his best self at training—the players, and the fans, are relying on him. In his mental hierarchy, that comes first. 

“Coach, you’re my oldest friend,” Ted begins. 

Beard clutches a hand to his heart as though he’s been shot, setting his chair swiveling slowly. “Oh, the sweet sting of betrayal…”

And so, caught up in the banter, Ted forgets about Trent’s absence altogether. 

*         *          *

Trent is not there the next day either. Ted catches Colin in the hallway after training. “Hey, you heard from Trent lately?”

Colin scratches the back of his neck. “Naw, why?”

“Well, he just hasn’t been here the last couple days. I know you and him are pals, so I thought maybe he’d’ve texted you, or vicea-versa.”

“I wouldn’t worry,” Colin assures him. “He probably just got sucked into his writing, or whatever. I can text ‘im if you want me to, though.”

Ted suddenly feels vaguely embarrassed, although he isn’t exactly sure why. “Oh, I ain’t—I ain’t worried, I was just… curious. That’s alright, Colin, thanks.” He claps him on the back and sends him on his way. 

Surely Colin is right, Ted thinks. He’s being silly. If Colin’s completely unconcerned, then Ted should be too. He puts it out of his mind.

*         *          *

On day three of Trent’s absence, though, Ted finds he can’t put it out of his mind any longer. He tries to tell himself it’s just polite concern for a colleague of sorts, but in his heart he knows it’s more than that. He’s gotten so used to having Trent around that he just misses the guy. For as much as he usually keeps to himself, the office feels a little emptier without his rainbow mug and witty comments.

Call it concern for a friend, then. Ted wants to think they’re friends. He isn’t sure if Trent would say the same, but he hopes.

So, standing in his office before training, Ted scrolls down a ways in his contacts list to send a quick text to “Trent Crimm, Independent”.

Ted: Hey pal, you alive?
Ted: We’ve been missing you these past couple days. 

No response. Which is to be expected, of course. Ted isn’t demanding enough to expect anyone to answer his texts immediately, and he recalls that Trent isn’t much of a phone guy, sometimes even leaving his at home when he goes out. 

So Ted tucks his own phone back in his pocket. And he definitely doesn’t check it several times during training.

“Something on your mind, Coach?”

Ted jumps. Beard has always possessed an uncanny ability to appear at one’s shoulder in complete silence, but Ted had thought he was immune to it by now. He tries to shove his phone back into his pocket, but it gets caught on the hem and drops to the ground instead, forcing him to squat down to pick it up. His knees crack. He glances up at Beard, who just stares at him, unimpressed.

“Why Coach, my mind’s as clear as a Kansas sky at midday,” Ted declares, standing up with a little hop that makes his knees crack a second time. “Why do you ask?”

Beard fixes him with that uncanny gaze for a few moments longer, hoping he’ll break. But he’s no Roy Kent; Ted is resolute. “No reason,” Beard says finally. “I’ll be taking that.”

He holds out his hand with such confidence that, completely unthinkingly, Ted sets his phone in it. The second his fingers close over the phone, Beard flings it over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Ted’s, the phone spinning end-over end in the air. Ted cringes, but he sees it bounce in the grass a few yards away, apparently unharmed.

Beard must see the protest forming on his lips, because he leans in close and looks Ted intently in the face, forcing Ted to focus on him. “Those boys deserve your full attention,” he says, voice low and serious.

Ted opens his mouth and then closes it again, chagrined—because while (in true Beard fashion) he’s being a bit dramatic about it… he’s right. It’s a bad look to be that visibly distracted during training. Even with the team just running drills, he should be observing their progress, making mental notes, giving suggestions. He owes it to them, to be working just as hard as they are.

Mind clearing, he gives Beard an appreciative clap on the shoulder. “Right as rain, Thomas the Train. Let’s just leave that darn thing right where it landed for now, shall we?”

Beard nods, apparently satisfied. Ted blows his whistle. “Alright, fellas, bring it in, bring it in! What we’re gonna do next is…” 

Only once training has concluded for the day does Ted finally retrieve his phone from where Beard had tossed it. He has a couple texts from Michelle, just a continuation of some chatter about Henry—and one from Trent Crimm. Opening the conversation, Ted is faced with a single message:

Trent: I’m alive.

Ted blinks down at his phone, bemused. Well, on the bright side: Trent being alive is a good thing! On the… not-bright side, that response strikes Ted as the equivalent of when you ask a Midwesterner how it’s going and they say, Oh, you know, it’s going.

Ted: Well that’s a relief. Thought you might have been eaten by seagulls or something. Keeley tells me there’s been an uptick in their population around here recently, and let me tell you, those little dinosaurs can be awful vicious. 

No response. That’s probably fair, Ted figures. Not his best work.

Ted: Hey, everything alright?

Trent: I’m fine.

Ted: Anything I can help with?

Trent: No.

Ted hasn’t texted with Trent enough to have a great sense for how he talks over text, but all of that feels unusually dry, even for him—especially considering how he seems to be opening up as of late, joking around with the players and occasionally even sharing little anecdotes from his personal life. Ted hopes that isn’t just his imagination.

Either way, they appear to be at an impasse. Ted decides to try pivoting the conversation—maybe he’ll get the answers he’s looking for that way. A sort of journalistic tactic, he thinks with pride.

Ted: Will you be here tomorrow?

Trent: Almost certainly not.

Ted: Any idea when you will be?

Trent: No. Probably not for at least a couple more days.

Trent: Why?

Okay, so maybe that stings a little. Because you’re my friend, and I was hoping I was your friend, too, Ted thinks but doesn’t write. Instead, after a moment, he responds,

Ted: We’ve got a game tomorrow. I don’t want you to miss out on anything juicy you could use for the book.

There’s a pause in which the typing bubble appears and disappears a couple of times. When Trent’s reply comes through, the words sound a little softer.

Trent: I don’t want that either. Trust me that I would be there if I could.

Trent: I’ll be watching from home.

Trent: Talk to you later.

Ted hadn’t really been ready to wrap up the conversation, but he knows how to take a hint. Reluctantly putting his phone away, he once again does his best to stop thinking about Trent Crimm.

*         *          *

The game goes well. They win 3-2 in an exciting upset, Jamie scoring two nearly back-to-back goals in the second half. In celebration after the match, Roy bear hugs him so hard he lifts him clear off his feet, which would have been terrifying for anyone else, but it’s Jamie, so he’s laughing gleefully the whole time.

Once the celebrations are over and the clubhouse has cleared out, Ted gets out his phone and texts Trent again. 

Ted: You catch the game?

Trent: Just the tail end of it, but yes. Please tell the team they played well.

Ted: Will do, buckaroo. 

Ted pauses, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

Ted: Can I call you?

Trent: Please don’t.

Ted: I’m worried about you, pal. 

Trent: You really don’t need to be.

Ted: Why? Cause there’s nothing to worry about, or cause you don’t think I should be worrying about you?

Trent: What's the difference?

Ted: You know damn well what the difference is, don’t play around.

Ted realizes that comes across a lot harsher than he meant it to. He’s never loved texting as a means of communication—so much of the way he interacts with people hinges on tone and expression and body language, and without them he feels like he’s short several tools in his toolbox. 

(Also, his jokes never quite land the same over text.)

Ted: Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.

Ted: Would you at least give me a clue what’s going on?

Ted: I don’t need all the gory details of your personal life. Just an overview would be peachy.

He doesn’t really expect that to work, but whether Trent just got tired and decided it would be easier to placate him, or for some other reason, he responds.

Trent: If you must know, I’m ill.

Trent: I can see you typing. Let me stop you right there. I’m not dying of cancer or anything like that.

Trent: I’m just sick.

Trent: Satisfied?

Ted: Well, I’m real sorry to hear that. Not sure why you couldn’t have led with that, but, you know, we got there eventually.

Trent: Glad your curiosity has been sated. 

Trent: Now I’m going to go sleep for another fourteen hours. Goodnight.

Ted: Night, Trent. Hope you feel better soon.

Ted’s flat feels emptier than usual that evening. It’s a familiar feeling—it always feels empty, but especially so on game days. It’s the same feeling he always used to get when he got home from summer camp as a kid, or when everyone went home after family Christmas, saying drawn-out goodbyes and filtering out one by one until the house was quiet once more. An adrenaline crash, maybe. Big emotions draining out and leaving behind a conspicuous space where they had once been. Drawing attention to something that was already missing. 

How is it possible to be so surrounded by people and still be so lonely? 

It’s better than it had been. Of course it is. Because now the people surrounding him aren’t strangers. He knows them, and he loves them, and little by little he’s starting to accept that they love him, too. But this feeling still creeps in, when it’s quiet, surviving all his attempts to beat it back. Like he, here in this empty apartment, is the only thing that’s real. Like everything he’s doing is just chasing shadows on the walls.

In a momentary flash of clarity, Ted wonders—does everyone feel like this, from time to time? As interconnected as human beings can be, at the end of the day, all of them are alone in their own minds. There’s no such thing as being wholly understood, and maybe the loneliness of that is an intrinsic part of the human experience.

He thinks of Rebecca, stepping out of the wreckage of her old life, intent on blowing it up until nothing but ruin remained. Untouchable at the top, yet so fragile in her own way. He thinks of Nate, standing on the West Ham pitch in maroon and black, hands behind his back, empty-eyed. He thinks of Keeley and KJPR, of a lion and a panda.

He thinks of Trent. Recalls that he, too, is divorced with a child. Imagines him sleeping off his illness alone in his bedroom. Wonders what his bedroom looks like. Wonders if he has anyone to take care of him when he’s feeling unwell.

He thinks… that he needs to either start drinking or go to sleep, because his thoughts are taking him in weird directions. Giving his head a firm shake as though to dislodge the clinging strands of melancholy, Ted sends a quick goodnight text to Henry and crawls into bed.

*         *          *

The next morning, Ted wakes up to 6 texts, which is alarming. They are from Trent, which is more alarming. Opening the conversation, he sees that all six of them—the earliest from 2:39 AM—have been deleted. Which… he isn’t quite sure what to make of.

Ted: You use my contact as a makeshift grocery list last night, or what?

Trent: Sorry. It looks like I texted you by mistake when I was half-asleep.

Ted can’t help but wonder who Trent had actually been trying to text at that hour. It’s none of his business, he knows, but the curiosity rankles. 

Ted: Still feeling under the weather?

Trent: Yes.

Trent: I made it out of bed twice yesterday, which is twice more than the day before.

Ted: Woof. That don’t sound pretty.

Ted: Improvement’s improvement, though, right?

No answer.

Ted: Okay, I’ll get out of your (magnificent) hair.

Ted: But you’ll let me know if you need anything?

Trent: Probably not.

Ted: Yep, figured as much.

Ted: Always a pleasure.

Ted sets his phone down, shaking his head. The man’s a tough nut to crack, no doubt about that.

But when he picks up the phone again a while later, once he’s dressed and his teeth are brushed, he sees there had been a follow-up text.

Trent: I appreciate the sentiment, though.

Ted looks down at the screen for a long moment, smiling, before pocketing it and heading out the door.

*         *          *

By day five of Trent’s absence, everyone is taking notice. Ted fields enough individual questions about it—it intrigues him that they all seem to assume he knows Trent’s whereabouts—that he decides to just make a little announcement before training. “Okay, listen up, fellas,” he calls out, clapping his hands. “I know we ain’t ready to get started just quite yet, but I’ve gotten a handful of questions about our good pal Trent Crimm, formerly The Independent, so I figured I oughtta address ‘em all at once.”

Thierry raises a hand. “Did he get eaten by seagulls?”

Ted points at him. “Now that was my guess too, which makes me feel very vindicated, but fortunately, it ain’t correct.”

“That’s highly improbable. Seagulls have never been documented eating a human,” Jan informs them all.

“Thank you, Jan Maas. That puts my mind at ease, actually,” Ted says. “No, he’s just out sick, alright? I know we’ve all gotten fond of our little tag-along journalist, but try not to worry your pretty heads too much, you hear me? He’ll be back before we know it.”

The thing that makes Ted proudest is that it isn’t even his idea. Neither is it Sam’s, the most perceptive and compassionate of them all, or Colin’s, who’s the closest with Trent of all the players, or even Isaac’s, who has that sort of “immediate practical action” approach to matters both on and off the pitch. 

No, of all people at Nelson Road that day, it’s Jamie who says offhandedly into the locker room, “We oughtta, like, do somethin’ for ‘im. Bring ‘im some soup or summat.”

There’s a brief silence in which Ted feels a little guilty for his surprise. He knows better than anyone that Jamie isn’t the man he used to be—that over the past couple of years the young footballer has grown into someone shockingly conscientious, someone who frequently puts others before himself. 

Still, Ted hadn’t been entirely sure how much of that mindset extended to people beyond his teammates. And Trent, well… he’s integrated more into the AFC Richmond family since making up with Roy, but he remains something of an outsider, despite Ted’s best efforts to draw him in closer. Ted still isn’t certain whether or not that’s by choice.

In any case, he recovers himself and says, “Y’know what, Jamie, that’s an awful nice idea. Anyone got a great soup recipe?”

“Ooh!” Will’s hand shoots up from the corner of the room, where he’s folding towels. “My mum makes the most incredible potato soup. It’s so good, I used to pretend I was ill just so she’d make it for me. I have the recipe, I can try to replicate it.”

“I will bring a beverage,” Richard declares. “There is nothing that clears up an illness faster than liquor of the highest quality.”

“W…wow, Richard,” Ted says, startled but pleased. “Now, I can’t corroborate the, uh, medicinal applications of hard liquor, but I’m darn touched that you’d be willin’ to part with some of your precious stash for our pal Trent.”

Richard nods solemnly. “A great sacrifice. But a necessary one.”

Caught up in the excitement, several of the other players start piping up, pitching suggestions about what they could bring. “Alright, alright, hold on one moment,” Sam interjects, cutting through the chatter. “Are we sure that Mr. Crimm would even want any of this? I can’t say for sure, but he strikes me as the type who may prefer to be left alone at times like these.” 

“That’s a good point, Sam. An entire team of overenthusiastic footballers showing up unannounced on Trent’s doorstep might be more of a torment than a comfort, if you catch my drift.” Although the mental image that gives Ted is equal parts hilarious and adorable.

The team murmurs quietly amongst themselves, realizing he’s likely right. But they aren’t to be deterred from their idea. (Ted is so proud of their persistence.) “Okay,” Colin pipes up. “What if we all bring our stuff to the gaffer, and he can bring it all over for us.”

Sam nods approvingly. “That seems like a good compromise to me. The message still comes across, that it’s a get well soon gift from the whole team, but he doesn’t have to engage in much unwanted socializing.”

“He is the wrong person to send if you’re looking to minimize socializing,” Roy pitches in with a pointed look at Ted. 

Ted winces. “You know, I don’t even got a comeback for that one, Roy, that’s fair. But I promise I’ll keep it to a minimum, cross my heart and zip my lips.”

“That’s not how the saying… yeah, whatever.”

So it’s decided. The team splits for the day, and show up one-by-one at Ted’s flat over the next couple hours bearing their gifts. Will with an enormous pot of soup. Richard with not one but three bottles of something too fancy for Ted to wager a guess at. There are a couple cards. A little box of chocolates. Bumbercatch even drops off a scarf Ted’s pretty sure is handmade, although surely not specifically for this occasion—that would be some truly impressive knitting speed.

When it’s all done, Ted stands in the entryway staring down at an overflowing box that sits at his feet. It’s a lot of stuff, and his chest warms at the sight of it. He’s always loved the way the team functions as a unit even in matters like these—if one or two of them decide to do something nice for someone else, all of them are instantly onboard. But he’s also deeply touched on Trent’s behalf. He can’t wait for Trent to see all this, solid evidence that he’s a member of their strange family now, that they want him around and worry when he’s gone.

…Which brings him to the realization that he does not know where Trent lives, and he needs to figure that out pretty fast. If necessary, he could probably contact either Higgins or Rebecca, and one of them with their multitude of connections might be able to get him the information. But that’s a last resort—he’s hoping he’ll be able to take an easier route. 

Ted: Hey, Trent.

Ted: For no reason in particular, what’s your home address?

This time the response comes almost immediately.

Trent: No. 

Ted: 123 Southeast No Street?

Trent: Got it in one

Ted: Come on. Not even a hint?

Trent: Ted Lasso, I am not giving you my home address

Ted: Ooh, full name and everything. I feel like I just got called to the principal's office.

Trent: Something I imagine happened often in your youth.

Ted: You know, over text I can’t quite tell if you’re being sarcastic or not, and that scares me a little.

The typing bubble pops up briefly and then promptly disappears again.

Ted: Please? I swear with journalistic integrity I won’t make you regret it.

Trent: Journalistic integrity?

Trent: You’re not a journalist, Ted. And even if you were, journalists don’t have any integrity. It’s the first item on the job application.

Ted: You do, though.

Trent: …

A long enough time passes without any answer that Ted is about to open up Higgins’s contact and call in a favor. But then—a Google Maps link appears on his screen.

Trent: You’d better be true to your word.

Ted grins so widely his cheeks hurt.

Ted: You know me!

Trent: Unfortunately, yes.

There’s no use wasting time, so Ted stoops and bundles the box into his arms, groaning as his back twinges. “Bend at the knees, bend at the knees, yep, that one’s on me,” he mumbles, straightening out. “Now, how to open the door…”

Forty-five minutes later, he finds himself at Trent Crimm’s doorstep. Ted ponders the possibility of knocking with his head, or maybe his knee, but those both sound kind of painful, so instead he elects to set the box down and rap with his knuckles like the normal man he is. 

There’s a faint thump from somewhere inside, then silence for long enough that Ted is about to knock again when the door finally opens.

Trent looks terrible. He’s wearing an oversized, grease-stained T-shirt and sweatpants—sweatpants—with his glasses pushed up on his head like a headband, barely restraining a multitude of unruly tufts of salt-and-pepper hair. He’s barefoot, his face drawn and pale, bruise-like circles under his eyes, which look dull and sunken. The light coming from outside makes him squint, shielding his face. 

He looks terrible, and for some reason, Ted can’t figure out what to do with his hands.

“Jiminy Cricket, you look like you got run over by a truck,” he blurts. 

“Thank you, Ted, that’s exactly what I was hoping to hear,” Trent replies, dry as a bone, his voice gravelly and low. 

The quip reassures Ted enough that he almost stops kicking himself for what he just said. “Gee, I’m sorry, Trent. Came out before I could stop it. Can I come in?”

Trent heaves a deep sigh that grates in his chest, turning into a painful cough. “If you must,” he rasps, longsuffering, stepping out of the doorway to give Ted room to enter. Ted stoops to pick up the box again, remembering to lift with his legs this time, and hauls it inside. Only then does Trent seem to notice it, pushing the door shut behind them with a skeptical squint. “What the hell is that.”

Ted grins. “This right here is—whoa, whoa, steady.”

Trent sways suddenly, face going paper-white. Ted drops the box with a tremendous crash to take him by the shoulders and steer him to the couch, where he sits heavily, burying his face in one hand. “Ugh,” he says faintly. “Must have stood up too fast.”

“Gravity’s always been my worst enemy, too,” Ted jokes, though he knows the way his hand lingers on Trent’s arm gives away his worry. “When’s the last time you had somethin’ to drink?”

“I did spy some bottles in that box that I dearly hope haven’t shattered.”

Ted of all people is no stranger to using humor to defuse others’ concern, but he can’t help but feel it’s ironic that this is something the two of them share. “You know that ain’t what I meant. …Although Richard did extol the healing properties of hard liquor, and he seems like an expert in these things.”

Trent waves a hand wearily, head still down as he recovers from his bout of dizziness. Ted pats him on the shoulder. “I’m gonna get you a glass of water. Where—”

“Cupboard to the left of the microwave.” 

Trent sounds resigned now, like he knows there’s no point in protesting. (Ted’s glad he knows him like that, because there is no point in protesting.) He locates a glass, fills it up with tap water, and presses it into Trent’s hand, settling next to him on the couch. Their fingers touch for a moment, and Ted tries to ignore the way it raises goosebumps on his arms. “Drink up.”

“Yes, doctor,” Trent replies wanly.

But he drinks, albeit slowly, one sip at a time. Silence fills the room as he does so, and Ted realizes he’s been staring, eyes fixed on Trent’s hands around the glass and his lips on the rim, the way his throat moves when he swallows. He quickly averts his gaze. 

They don’t speak again until Trent has drained the whole glass, setting it down on the coffee table with a clunk. “Want some more?” Ted asks, hopeful to be given another task. 

“That’s alright. Thank you.” Some of the color has returned to Trent’s face, and his eyes have recovered a bit of their usual shrewdness. “I’d like to ask you a question,” he appends after a moment.

“Well that’s one thing you’ve done plenty of since we’ve known each other. Fire away,” Ted replies, though he has a feeling he already knows what it is.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

It’s not a joke, but there’s the seed of a joke in there somewhere, one he knows Ted will understand. Ted can’t help but smile in the face of that unimpressed stare. “I’d like to go on the record and say this wasn’t even my idea,” he states proudly. 

“Oh? Did God herself implant the idea into your head of coming to my flat to bother me while I’m unwell?”

The sarcasm is cloying. Ted guffaws. “Man, you get extra mean when you’re sick. Good thing I never got Sick Trent at any of those press conferences, huh? Or, on second thought, maybe I did at all of them.”

Trent shakes his head, turning away like he always does when he’s smiling and trying not to show it. He rolls his eyes; does a little hand twirl to indicate he is only playing along with great reluctance. “Fine, then. Whose idea was this?”

“I’d call it a team effort. Jamie was the first to propose doing something nice for you, and then Will volunteered his mom’s special soup, and it all spiraled from there. I’m pretty sure the whole gang woulda showed up at your doorstep, clown-car style, if Colin hadn’t convinced them to let me be a solo clown instead.”

“I suppose I owe Colin a lifetime of thanks, then.” A crease forms between Trent’s eyebrows. “You told them I was ill?”

That’s… not exactly the part that Ted had hoped Trent would pay attention to. “Only because everyone and their mother was askin’ after you,” he says. “You’re part of the crew now, like it or not. They wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Trent doesn’t respond, still staring into the middle distance with his brow furrowed. There’s something here, Ted can tell, but he’s not quite grasping what it is yet. He opts for a distantly related question again. “Little Miss Alia at her mom’s this week?”

“Yes,” Trent says, attention returning. “That at least is convenient timing. I’m in no condition to care for a child at the moment, even if infecting her weren’t a concern. I shouldn’t be contagious anymore,” he adds as a sudden aside, to Ted.

“Oh, I weren’t worried about that.” Ted refuses to let go of the reins lest the conversation drift off course. “They been by yet with a care package of their own? I imagine a kindergartner has even more… let’s say imaginative ideas about what things have healing power than a team of footballers.”

Trent clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “No, not… as such.”

That tension is back, and Ted doesn’t understand it. From the very little he’s heard him say on the topic in the past, Ted was under the impression Trent had a good relationship with his ex-wife and his daughter, so…?

Then he thinks back to the conversation they just had, and back to the texts before that, and something clicks. “Trent,” he says slowly. “Do they know?”

Trent mumbles something under his breath.

“Pardon?”

Trent sighs. “Not as such,” he repeats grudgingly.

“Trent.” Ted pulls out his best stern dad voice, which—if he does say so himself—is quite good.

Trent’s voice takes on a petulant edge to match. “What.”

“You’ve been bedridden for days and your family don’t even know?” Maybe Ted isn’t as good as he thought at playing the stern dad role, because it’s already slipped away from him, and now he’s just sad.

“No, Ted, they don’t,” Trent says tightly. “Happy?”

Ted is obviously poking repeatedly at a sore spot, but he doesn’t want to let this go. “‘Course I ain’t happy to hear that. First me, then the team, now them—is it really such a big deal for people to know you’re not feelin’ well?”

Trent is silent for a long moment, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, a line of tension down the slouch of his spine. He glances at Ted out of the corner of his eye, and it’s just a moment, a brief little flicker, but right then Ted sees through to something fragile and frightened, and he finally gets it. Suddenly he aches with an intense flash of empathy.

“Look,” he says, shifting on the couch. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone and told everybody somethin’ you told me in confidence.”

Trent frowns at the sudden change of approach. “It’s… it’s fine, Ted. It’s like you said. It’s really not that serious.”

“Maybe it is, though.” Ted runs his fingernail along the pad of his thumb, looking for the right words. “I know all about bein’ in the public eye, alright? Feelin’ like you can’t show any weakness, or everyone’s gonna be on you like a pack of hyenas.”

Trent presses his lips together. They both know he was one of those hyenas, for Ted, once upon a time.

“It’s still hard for me, sometimes. A lot of the time, actually.” Talking about this isn’t easy in itself, but Ted trusts Trent—and if being honest about his own struggles is going to help someone else, then isn’t it innately worthwhile? “It’s like some kinda survival response. Instinctive, almost. To…” Ted gestures vaguely, searching the room with his eyes. “To hide. To not let anyone see me, when I’m low. So… I’m in no place to judge you or anyone else for doin’ just that.”

Trent clenches and unclenches his fingers. Ted waits. When Trent finally speaks, it’s haltingly, like the words are being dredged up from somewhere deep down. “I didn’t want…” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “To be a burden to them.”

Ted’s heart breaks into a million pieces. “Oh, Trent…”

“This week is Maxine’s week with Alia. It’s supposed to be their time together, time where they can focus on each other. Where they don’t… don’t have to think about me.” Trent barks out a humorless laugh. “God knows how protective I am over my time with her. It’s the least I can do to let Max have the same. I can take care of myself; I don’t need to make things all about me.”

It’s uncanny, the way the words resonate with Ted, as though Trent may as well have been reading from Ted’s biography. Hell, isn’t that the whole reason he’s here in London, four thousand miles away from his son? To not be a burden? To give Michelle space? To not make things all about him?

Yet somehow, hearing the words out of Trent’s mouth make them so much starker. Like it took seeing himself reflected in a mirror, rerouted through someone else, to see how fucked it all was. Ted swallows around the lump in his throat, casting around for words to explain everything he’s thinking and feeling and coming up empty.

“I know,” he manages at last. “I know that feelin’, better than you could ever begin to imagine.”

Trent nods, a tiny acknowledgment. His eyes are fixed on the glass resting on the coffee table, not looking in Ted’s direction, but Ted can tell he’s listening closely.

“And anything I’m about to say is gonna be crazy hypocritical, ‘cause my biggest secret is that I’m God-awful at takin’ my own advice. But the best remedy I’ve found is to have people on the inside. People you don’t gotta hide from.” Ted pictures their faces in his head as he speaks—Rebecca, the Diamond Dogs, Doc Sharon. His people. “To teach your brain that not everyone’s the enemy. That it’s okay to let down those walls sometimes.”

“Your own pack of hyenas,” Trent murmurs.

Ted smiles at that. “Your own pack of hyenas.” He clears his throat. “Now, I don’t know your ex-wife, and I ain’t gonna make any assumptions about what kinda gal she is, or whether she’s one of your hyenas or not. But either way, you’ve gotta know that you ain’t alone out there. If you can’t put that burden on her just yet, then hell, I’ll take it for now.” Ted knows this might be pushing it too far, but he’s in too deep to stop now. “‘Cause I am one of your hyenas, Trent Crimm. And I don’t let a member of my pack suffer by himself.”

Trent lowers his head, hair falling around his face. Ted can’t tell what he’s thinking at all. “The point is,” he finishes, “It’s hard, bein’ seen. Bein’… paid attention to. But it can be awful nice at times, too.”

The silence hangs heavy. Ted can distantly hear the sounds of traffic outside, the faint buzz of the lamp on the end table, the whir of a fan in the other room. He endures it for as long as he can, but Ted’s never been any good at silence. It gives him too much time with his own thoughts. He probably should have just kept his mouth shut—giving motivational speeches to his team is one thing, but in a setting like this, it must just sound preachy. Who is he to lecture Trent on something he still can’t manage to do himself, most days? 

His mouth tastes bitter. “Well. I shouldn’t overstay my welcome,” he says finally, slapping his thighs. “I’ll stop yappin’ your ear off about who knows what and let you get back to your beauty rest.”

Despite everything, he desperately does not want to go—doesn’t want to leave Trent sitting here alone, looking small and sad and tired, doesn’t want to return to his own small and sad and empty flat. But he always does this. Always injects himself in where he isn’t needed. Always ends up doing more harm than good. He should know better by now. 

“Go get it.”

Ted blinks, his spiraling thoughts grinding to a halt. “Hmm?”

Trent turns and fixes him with a look that freezes him to the spot. It’s weary and it’s profoundly affectionate in a way that makes Ted go warm all over. “The box, Ted,” he says. “And, while you’re at it, two rocks glasses from the same cupboard as before.”

Ted jumps to his feet, trying and failing to squash into submission the grin threatening to break out on his face. “Yessir, Aaron Burr.”

“And take off your shoes,” Trent calls after him as he disappears into the kitchen for the shot glasses.

So that’s how Ted ends up sitting on Trent Crimm’s couch, sampling Richard’s expensive liquors and Will’s soup (which they both agree is every bit as delicious as he’d claimed) as the two of them sort through the rest of the box. Ted finds himself looking at Trent more than at the gifts themselves—he’s seen them before, and what he hasn’t seen nearly as much are the little unguarded expressions Trent makes as he inspects the offerings, flashes of amusement and skepticism and surprise. He’s put on his glasses to see better, and they keep slipping down his nose. It’s cute, and for once Ted doesn’t balk from the thought, letting it take shape in his head.

If Trent notices him staring, he doesn’t point it out. He draws the last item out of the box—a piece of paper—and his eyes widen in surprise, holding it up to get a closer look. “Wow.”

“What is it?” Ted peers over his shoulder. It’s a loose but shockingly detailed pencil drawing of the entire Richmond team, Trent included, with Get well soon! scrawled in the corner. “Wow!” he echoes. “I didn’t know we had such a talented artist on the team. Any idea who made that? They musta dropped it off without knockin’.”

“I may have a theory,” Trent says with an infuriating smirk, setting the drawing aside with some reverence. Ted suspects it will earn a place of pride on the fridge, if not in an actual frame on the wall. “But my lips are sealed.”

“You probably know more about my players than I do without even tryin’, and that irks me,” Ted informs him, mock-annoyed.

“I take issue with that; I do try. But the rest of it is true,” Trent replies, still smug.

And he’s just bantering, but there’s truth in it. He does try. Ted’s seen him making an effort, in his own way, to get to know the players. A repurposing of his journalistic ability to dig up dirt. It’s no small part of the reason the team has grown to like him—because he pays attention, makes each of them feel understood and listened to. It’s something Ted has always strived to do himself, and so he admires it. 

But after spilling his guts earlier, he feels the need to rein himself in, so he doesn’t say all that. “I know you do,” he settles on instead. Trent smiles a little, like he can tell Ted means it. “And the boys do, too. If this ain’t proof of that, then I don’t know what is.”

Trent’s expression warms. Ted likes the way the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle as it does. “Yes,” he agrees. “I’m… truly touched. I didn’t mean to downplay that, before. Please pass my thanks along to them, and my congratulations about the game.”

“I will, but you’d better do all that yourself too, once you’re back,” Ted remonstrates. “Better to hear it straight from the greyhound’s mouth, like I always say.”

“That’s not how the…” Not his usual sharp self, it takes Trent a moment to get the joke. He grins reluctantly. “Yes, well. I’ll try, but it might still be some time before I’m able to return. I’m concerningly exhausted just from sitting on the couch talking to you.”

“Exhausting, now that’s one I’ve heard plenty before. I wear it as a badge of honor,” Ted quips. 

Trent rolls his eyes fondly. “Not you, Ted. …Although it’s not the least apt descriptor I’ve ever heard,” he adds, like he can’t help himself.

“There’s the Trent Crimm I know and love,” Ted says without thinking. 

And he doesn’t mean anything by it, or he doesn’t mean to mean anything by it, and hell, he’s even made similar jokes in the press room before and thought nothing of it. But for some reason it lands differently this time. The atmosphere shifts, Trent’s eyes flicking to him for one startled moment before he looks away, licking his lips, tense again. Too much, too much. Ted kicks himself. 

Luckily, a distraction comes in the form of Trent’s phone vibrating. It takes him a few moments to find it where it’s fallen deeply down into the couch cushions, but when he checks the text he’s just received, he makes a face Ted’s never seen before, one he doesn’t know how to interpret. And is it Ted’s imagination, or have Trent’s ears turned faintly red?

Ted doesn’t mean to look, he really truly doesn’t—but he catches a glimpse of the screen, making out the contact name (Colin Hughes) and the message Trent has just finished sending: Did you do this on purpose?

Ted desperately wants to know what that means, but he can’t ask. Trent tucks his phone away quickly, maybe sensing Ted’s curiosity. “Sorry,” he says.

“What for? I’m the intruder here, you got a right to check your own phone in your own home,” Ted says. “Ooh, phone in your home. Like E.T., right? Phone home?” Trent just gives him a long look that makes him wilt. “Okay, nevermind.”

He really feels like he’s overstaying his welcome now, but for some reason, Trent still isn’t kicking him out. “Tell me it’s a bad idea to have another,” he says instead, gesturing to his glass.

“Hey, mi bad idea es su bad idea.” 

They down another drink together. “Was Richard right? Is his magical elixir healing you of your ailment?” Ted asks. This stuff is potent—he’d been teetering on the line between tipsy and drunk, and has now landed with both feet firmly on the latter side, his head full of a pleasant swimminess. 

“Well,” Trent has to think about that one for a while. His glasses are askew and he’s not fixing them, which is the best indicator the alcohol’s affecting him, too. “I suspect what it's actually doing is suspending it temporarily, and all of it is going to come back to fuck me in the morning.”

Ted nods sagely. “Been there, Care Bear. But hey, the goldfish metaphor can extend here too, methinks.”

“The goldfish—?” Trent cocks his head, then remembers. “Ah. Yes. I thought that was more about a short memory, though. Avoiding dwelling on the past, and all that.”

“I figure goldfish don’t spend much time worryin’ about the future, either.” Ted winks.

Trent actually snorts, an undignified and terribly charming little sound. It makes Ted’s heart leap, every time he gets as much as a tiny smile out of the man. He wants to keep doing it, again and again, as many times as it’ll take to smooth out that wrinkle from between Trent’s eyebrows, to drive away the blanket of weariness that seems to drape over him.

Without realizing it, he’s leaned closer to Trent. Their knees are touching now. “You’ve got a darn nice laugh, you know,” Ted says, the alcohol—or something else?—loosening his tongue. “You ever considered letting it out more often?”

Trent’s face falls. He closes his eyes tightly, as though pained, and takes a breath through his nose. “Ted,” he says unsteadily. “You don’t know… what you’re doing.”

Now he’s really gone and done it. Ted immediately defaults to humor, as is always his strategy in desperate times. “Oh, you’ve got me there. I don’t know what I’m doin’ most of the time. Not quite sure what you’re referencing right at this very moment, though.”

“And that’s the problem,” Trent mutters, more to himself than to Ted. 

He rakes a hand through his hair, not looking in Ted’s direction, and Ted looks at him, a sick feeling of guilt settling in his stomach.

Because he does know what he’s doing. He’s known for a long time, in fact. He’s just—nervous. What’s in front of him is starting to solidify into something terrifyingly tangible and real, something that exists outside of his own thoughts. He hasn’t done this in a long time, and never quite like this before. 

But what he’s doing right now is unfair, he knows. He’s here to bring comfort; the last thing he wants to do is make Trent even more miserable. So he’s got to stop toeing the line and either step over it or take several steps back from it. 

He means to do the latter. He really does. Means to put some space between them; direct the conversation somewhere easier, maybe have one more drink and then make his excuses and head on home like he should have ages ago. It’s probably the smarter course of action, and undeniably the easier one, down the road. 

What he does instead is put his hand on Trent’s thigh.

Trent takes in half a breath, going very still. For a long moment, both of them just stare down at Ted’s hand. Ted can feel the warmth of Trent’s skin through the fabric of his pants, and it’s all he can think about. 

Trent finally finds his voice. “Ted…”

Ted can’t look at him. He knows what comes next. Excuses under the veil of logic. A million reasons why this, whatever it is, can’t be anything. “Yeah.”

But then a hand settles on top of his—warm, soft, dry. Ted looks up. The glasses are off, and Trent’s looking at him hard, squinting, like he’s trying to read fine print written all over Ted’s face. He’s sure it is written all over his face. He’s never been any good at hiding what he’s feeling, as much of his life as he’s spent trying.

Whatever he sees there seems to give Trent the answer he was looking for. The scrutiny gives way to something else, a heat in those ink-dark eyes that makes Ted’s throat go dry all of a sudden. Trent’s gaze is fixed on Ted’s mouth when he speaks. “Tell me this is a bad idea.”

Ted doesn’t repeat his earlier joke. He wets his mouth. “I think—”

“Tell me,” Trent repeats more forcefully, “that this is a bad idea.”

Ted gets the picture. He meets Trent’s eyes, as steady as he can manage, lets a tiny smile curl his lips, and stays deliberately silent.

Trent kisses him, a hot, hungry mouth on his for a split second before it’s gone again, leaving him dazed. He lurches forward with it, gasping, his body flooded with adrenaline like a dousing in ice water. 

When his eyes flutter open, Trent… is staring at him like a deer in the headlights, as though the realization of what he just did is slowly dawning on him. “That was,” he says. His gaze darts around the room, a little frantic. “I need to. Slow down.”

Ted feels about as rattled as Trent looks, his alcohol-muddled brain a whirlwind of Trent Crimm just kissed me and and I liked it so much and I haven’t kissed a man in decades and what the hell am I doing?

And yet, for whatever reason, Ted has always had an easier time being calm when someone else is panicking. He reaches for Trent’s hand and holds it firmly between both of his, steadying them both. 

“Hey,” Ted says. “If you’re sayin’ that ‘cause that’s how you feel, then of course. But if you’re sayin’ it ‘cause of me… then let me assure you there’s no need.” He lets a hint of playfulness come through in his voice. “I wouldn’t mind if you sped up a little, to be totally honest.”

Trent’s chest rises and falls rapidly. “I am so fucked,” he says out loud, drops his glasses on the floor, and pulls Ted into another kiss.

They take their time on this one, getting to know the shape of each others’ mouths. Ted finally gets his hands in Trent’s hair, which is even better than he expected—not just because of how the lush strands feel sliding between his fingers, but also because of the sound Trent makes into his mouth when Ted’s nails gently rake his scalp. Trent’s hands find Ted’s waist, fumbling, but before long they migrate up to his face. Ted tries to memorize it, the feel of Trent’s palm cupping his jaw. It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. He wants it to last forever. 

“I can’t believe—” Trent is thoroughly winded when they separate. He’s ostensibly not an athletic man to begin with, and several days in bed surely doesn’t help. He breaks off to cough into his sleeve. “Now of all times. I haven’t showered in four days, Ted. My hair is disgusting.”

“Don’t even say those words in front of me. That’s gotta be some kind of blasphemy.” Maybe Ted just hasn’t quite processed it yet, but he still feels bizarrely calm about this. “Not how you imagined this happening?” he teases.

“Hardly—” Trent realizes too late what Ted’s just tricked him into admitting, and scowls, just on the edge of a pout. “I can’t stand you.” He looks up to the ceiling as though asking for help. “And I don’t understand you. I was so sure—I mean, yes, there were moments when I wondered, and certainly moments when I hoped, but I thought… well, have you ever, before? With a man?”

Isn’t that the million dollar question. Being married to a woman for so many years had been convenient in that respect. It had made it so effortless to tamp down that facet of Ted’s identity, enough so that he’d almost forgotten about it for a time, almost tricked himself into believing it had just been a young man’s passing fancy and not an indelible truth about who he was. That his memories of making out with a boy in a sun-soaked Kansas bedroom, heart pounding in terror and something worse, didn’t mean what they obviously meant.

Separating from Michelle, moving out of Kansas, meeting Trent—all of these things had brought the matter of his sexuality closer to the forefront of Ted’s mind. But it still wasn’t like he’d been actively thinking about it. He had plenty else to focus on, and a lifetime of practice carefully pushing that one particular item to the bottom of the list, and it just hadn’t been relevant enough to overcome all that.

…Obviously, it’s become relevant now. Ted supposes he will have to do some soul-searching on that topic down the road—but now isn’t the time. “Well, not since high school, but you know, I figure the basics still apply, right?” he jokes weakly.

Trent makes a face that indicates that is a subject he will be very keen to interrogate Ted about further in the future, but for once in his life, he lets it drop. “...Even so. I’m a complete and utter mess, Ted. Why me? Why now?”

And boy, if that word doesn’t make Ted smile. He’d had to fake it, before, when Rebecca made nearly the same quip he’s about to make, but he gets it now. “‘Cause you’re in good company there,” he replies easily. “Mess to fellow mess. Maybe it was meant to be.”

Trent huffs in acknowledgment. His features are soft with affection and fatigue, and Ted can’t resist adding, “...Also, as sorry as I truly am about you feelin’ under the weather, you look breathtaking like this and I’m tired of pretendin’ otherwise.”

Trent puts a hand over his face. “The worst part is, I really believe that you really believe that,” he says, muffled, raw with embarrassment.

“Somethin’ about what you just said sounds mighty familiar to me, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Trent smiles from between his fingers. He finally looks completely at ease, and Ted wants to kiss him again, and again and again and again until he’s memorized exactly what it feels like, and then do it some more. 

And he may have done just that, had he not caught Trent clenching his jaw against a yawn, eyes watering and tendons in his neck straining. He looks thoroughly wiped, scrubbing a hand over his face and swaying slightly where he sits. Taking pity, Ted instead reaches for him and pulls him close, even as Trent twitches in surprise at the arms wrapping around him. “Here,” Ted says, patting himself on the shoulder.

“Ted,” Trent protests, although his face is betraying him. He’s really slurring his words now, although Ted is inclined to chalk that up more to exhaustion than alcohol. “You can’t. It’s late. You need to go home.”

“Need is an awful strong word.” Ted pats his shoulder again, more emphatically. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now, alright?”

Reluctantly, Trent rests his head on Ted’s shoulder, finding a space in the warm crook of his neck. Ted slots one arm around his waist and uses the other to grab the blanket from the armchair and drag it over the both of them. “Ain’t this cozy?”

Trent hums wordlessly. He’s already mostly asleep. After a couple of minutes, moving as little as he can, Ted finds his phone and extends his free arm to take a clumsy picture—the two of them bundled up in a blanket together, a soundly-asleep Trent Crimm curled up at his side, hair going every which way. He doesn’t send it to anyone, nor does he particularly plan to. He just wants to have it, to remember. 

Not that he thinks he’ll ever forget this night. He gets the feeling it’s going to be one of those that stay perfectly clear in his memories forever, crystalline as a gem.

Tucking his phone away, he closes his eyes and lets the quiet, the alcohol, and the warm weight of another person next to him lull him into sleep.

*         *          *

When Ted wakes up, gray morning light is filtering in through the blinds. They have the day off today, so he doesn’t need to be worried about being late to anything, but he’s still surprised to have slept so soundly through the whole night. 

…And he’s not the only one, either. Trent is still dead asleep, slumped over on Ted’s shoulder. He’s drooled all over Ted’s shirt, and Ted’s arm is completely numb under his weight. Ted doesn’t bother trying to parse the confusing multitude of emotions he feels at the sight, affection and giddiness and terror and dread and hope. There will be time for that later, when he isn’t drowsy and hungover and sweating through yesterday’s clothes. He hopes.

By some miracle he manages to extricate himself without waking Trent up, and is brought back to Earth immediately by the ache that seizes every joint in his body as he stands, gritting his teeth against a groan. It doesn’t help that his head is pounding and his mouth is cotton-dry. He now completely understands what Trent meant about this coming back to fuck him in the morning. Joys of growing old.

Wandering into the kitchen, Ted pours himself a glass of water, taking a moment to reflect on how surreal it is that he now knows precisely which cabinets Trent Crimm keeps his dishes in. He sips it slowly, looking around the flat a little as he does. The lights had been low last night, and he’d been too distracted to pay much attention to his surroundings. 

It’s messier than he would have expected, and there’s a charming contrast between the many bookshelves crowded with dense-looking books about football tactics and the art of journalism, and the Golden Girls posters and framed finger-paintings and piles of crayons and the bespectacled elephant plush perched proudly on the mantelpiece. It feels lived-in in a way that Ted’s own flat doesn’t, another little peek into the life of a man that Ted is deeply curious about. 

There’s a framed photograph of a little girl who could only be Trent’s daughter, Alia, on the kitchen ledge. Ted hasn’t met her yet, and studies her face, her bright dark eyes and wild black curls. She looks nothing like Henry, but Ted can’t help but draw the comparison anyway. He wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind, if they’d get along. Henry’s always been good with younger kids.

At some point what he’s doing starts to feel like it’s bordering on snooping, so Ted retreats to the kitchen and starts making eggs instead. He’s alerted to Trent’s awakening, a few minutes later, by a groan as he shuffles into the kitchen, clutching his back. “Ted,” he croaks. He has the most tremendous bed hair Ted has ever seen. “We are too old for this. Why did you let me—are you cooking?”

Ted flips an omelette with a gratifying sizzle. “Tell me about it. I ain’t been this sore since I got thrown out the back of Uncle Jim’s truck right in the middle of the cornfield. You probably don’t know this, but you can get some mighty nasty paper cuts from corn husks.”

Trent just stares at him drowsily. Ted steers himself back on track. “But that’s beside the point. Hey, you feelin’ any better?”

Trent stretches, arms above his head, and his back makes a series of noises that make Ted wince sympathetically, although his focus is split by the strip of skin that’s briefly visible below the hem of Trent’s shirt. “Aside from the… everything… I am, actually,” Trent admits. “I suppose you can tell Richard he was right all along. Ted, you really didn’t have to stay.”

“Feel free to kick me out anytime. Just figured I might as well put myself to use while I was here.” Ted drops the omelette onto a plate and holds it out. Trent takes it, but makes no move to sit down. He’s fiddling with his glasses in his other hand, which is a clear sign he’s thinking hard about something. “What’s on your mind, bacon rind?” Ted prompts.

“Are we going to…” Trent gestures between them with his glasses. “...talk about this?”

Ted shrugs, doing his best to exude a casual aura. He suspects he’s failing. “If you want to.”

Trent squints at him. “You don’t think we need to?”

“Need is a—”

“A strong word, yes, got it,” Trent sighs. Ted’s glad to know he still has the power to elicit that expression from him. He’d miss it if he never got to see it again. “Alright, fine. I’m not awake enough for this yet, anyway. I’m going to sit down and eat. Feel free to join me.”

Ted lets out a half-breath, pushing around eggs in the pan. He’d forgotten he was making an omelette, and subsequently ended up with scrambled eggs instead. “Yeah, okay. I’ll be over in a sec.”

They sit together at the kitchen table and eat in silence for nearly five minutes. It’s tense, and awkward, to be sure, but there’s also something almost cozy about it. Ted missed this, he realizes—waking up to a house that isn’t empty, having someone else to cook for and eat alongside. 

Trent eats hunched over his plate, lacking the energy to do much but focus on his food. Ted can’t help but steal glances at him as he does so, tracing the lines of his face with his eyes, taking note of little details—the way he holds his fork like it’s a pencil, the way he pushes up his glasses with the back of his wrist, the way his hair curls a little at his neck. Somehow, this moment alone feels more intimate than anything Ted has experienced in years.

They don’t speak until Trent has mechanically cleared his entire plate, not leaving so much as a single crumb behind. Ted—who’s picking at his own, his stomach a bit unsettled—breaks the silence by commenting, “Well I’m always flattered when someone Clean-Plate-Clubs my cooking, even if it’s just a humble scavenged breakfast.”

Trent looks mildly amused. “It was good. Thank you.”

“Aw, it’s nothin’. My pleasure.”

Trent wipes his mouth and pushes his plate back. “So,” he says.

“So,” Ted echoes, nerves jumping like crickets in his stomach. As always when he gets anxious, the desire to start babbling rises up in him, but he can tell that Trent is composing something in his head which will undoubtedly be much more coherent, and manages to keep his mouth shut. 

Trent speaks carefully, his tone even and his words measured. “We were both drunk last night,” he says. “Drunk people are not known for making their best decisions.”

A younger Ted—even the Ted of just one or two years ago—would have immediately assumed this was Trent’s way of letting him down gently. Insinuating that there was nothing real between them, that he had only played along because he was drunk and lonely and not because he really felt anything for Ted.

But the Ted of now knows with surprising certainty that that isn’t what this is. Trent isn’t rejecting him—he’s giving Ted an opportunity to back out. An easy opportunity, where all he has to say is that he does dumb things sometimes, when he drinks, and how about they never speak of this again? And Trent would never speak of it again, Ted is sure of that. The secret of what had happened between them last night would go with them to their graves.

Ted considers it, because he feels like he has to. Once again, the easy way out has been placed in front of him. He shouldn’t be impulsive here. He’s not naive, either. He’s under no delusions about what would lie ahead of him, if he takes the other path.

But doesn’t it all come back to the same thing they’d talked about the night before? Ted has spent so long molding his life around appeasing other people. Jumping when they say “jump”, doing everything he can to put them first, even when it feels like a hundred knives stabbing into him all at once. Putting their wants before his needs, and letting his wants fall by the wayside completely. It’s one of many things Doc Sharon has been doing her best, slowly but surely, to train him out of. 

And he wants this, he realizes. Wants it badly enough that it sits in his stomach like a crackling ball of electricity, demanding his attention. 

“Ted, just looking at you is making my already considerable headache worse. Care to share some of those clearly plentiful thoughts with the class?”

Trent looks nervous, fidgeting with his glasses again, which strangely puts Ted a bit more at ease. He forces his face to relax. “Sorry. I just don’t wanna say anything without really thinkin’ about it first, you know? This matters too much for me to mess it up like that.”

Trent’s face visibly softens at the words, which is a good sign. “I understand. I don’t mean to rush you.” Then, with an injected but not inauthentic touch of humor, “This isn’t a press conference.”

Ted smiles in acknowledgment of the joke. “And I’m sure glad it ain’t. Not that I didn’t always—”

“—love our chats,” Trent finishes for him, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Got it in one, James Dunn.” Ted clears his throat and forges ahead. “Alright, here’s where I’m at. Nothing I said and did last night was on account of bein’ drunk, you understand? They don’t call it liquid courage for no reason, so more than likely it put my nerves to rest a smidge, but… I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean, and I don’t regret any of it neither.”

He looks Trent in the eyes as he speaks, needing him to know he’s serious. Trent looks back, nodding slightly. His face is fairly impassive, but he’s white-knuckling the glasses now—Ted’s almost afraid he’s going to break them. 

“I don’t wanna get ahead of myself, ‘cause I know it takes two to tango, and I haven’t heard your piece yet,” Ted continues. “We don’t gotta make this some big thing if you don’t want to. I came here last night because I was worried about someone I care about. A friend. That’s all.”

Trent’s eyebrows turn up at that. He looks faintly dismayed by Ted’s words. “I know, Ted. I’m under no impression that you came here with some kind of… sinister ulterior motives, if that’s what you’re implying. I just…” 

He swallows. Impulsively, Ted reaches out and uncurls his hands from his glasses. Trent starts, not expecting the touch, but relaxes once he realizes what Ted’s doing. “Didn’t want you to break ‘em,” Ted explains.

“Thank you.” Trent runs his thumb pensively over the arm of his glasses, calmer now. He opens his mouth as if to say something else, then squints and tilts his head, reconsidering. Instead, voice level, he says, “Ted, I would very much like to kiss you again. Would that be alright?”

“Yes,” Ted says immediately, almost before Trent has finished speaking, a tremendous rush of relief crashing over him like a wave. “Please, yes.”

Trent stands, and Ted nearly topples his chair in his urgency to meet him. Trent takes a step closer, closing the gap between them, and lifts a hand to the side of Ted’s face, his fingers tracking down Ted’s jaw before settling on the side of his neck. Moving cautiously, telegraphing his every action as though he’s still afraid he’s going to startle Ted. Still giving him room to back out. 

And it’s considerate, and Ted realizes suddenly that he hates it. The hesitation, the little space always left between them, plausible deniability born of uncertainty—he’s done with it. He doesn’t want to play this game anymore. Before Trent can do anything more, Ted grabs him by the front of his shirt and kisses him firmly on the lips.

Trent makes a startled noise into his mouth, his fingers losing contact with Ted’s neck and instead fluttering down his arm, like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. Ted pulls back for a moment, checking in. “Okay?” 

Trent looks the most frazzled Ted has ever seen him, his eyes wild and hungry. “Fuck, Ted,” he manages. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Yes, yes, yes. The word resounds in Ted’s head, loud enough to crowd out everything else. He kisses Trent again, and this time Trent kisses back, deep and easy, sliding his hands up Ted’s shirt to find the bare skin of his back. It makes Ted realize how long it’s been since he kissed someone, and how much longer it’s been since he kissed someone like this, passionate and new, learning how they fit together. It buzzes through his whole body, intoxicating. 

They stumble through the kitchen, off-balance, until Trent’s back hits the fridge, and his head bounces off with a loud thud, wrenching them apart. Fridge magnets clatter to the floor around them like confetti. Ted hisses in sympathy. “Ooh! Sorry ‘bout that. You okay?” 

Trent winces, rubbing the back of his head. “Fine. I think the adrenaline numbs it.”

They stare at each other a moment. Ted can’t keep the words from bubbling up this time. “You know, it’s been an awful long time since I’ve done anything like this. I mean, especially not—and I fooled around a little bit with—well, but it wasn’t really the—oh, nevermind about that—I hope it was alright,” he finishes lamely. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” Trent says blankly.

“Is that a ‘you have got to be kidding me, it sucked’, or a—I’m joking, I’m joking.” Ted grins at Trent’s expression.

“I can’t stand you,” Trent says, but he’s smiling like he can’t help it and kissing Ted again, and the words feel like a way to say something else he can’t say quite yet. 

They clean up breakfast (Trent fighting Ted off almost physically when he tries to do all the dishes himself), pop two ibuprofen apiece, and retreat back to the living room sofa. Trent reclines, draping himself over the arm in that way he has, and props his feet on the coffee table. He’s put on stripy socks patterned with little birds, which is distractingly cute. They sit in comfortable, drowsy quiet for a while until, out of the blue, Trent asks, “What if I do?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“You said earlier that we don’t have to make this ‘some big thing’, if I didn’t want to. Well, what if I do?”

His tone is so casual, but he’s not looking in Ted’s direction, his expression unreadable. “Uh,” Ted says. “Well. What kinda big thing did you have in mind?”

And Trent, like the dog he is, turns his head slowly to give Ted the filthiest smirk he’s ever seen in his life, one that makes a burst of heat explode in Ted’s core. “Oh,” he manages, mouth suddenly dry. “Oh,” he adds, because that’s all he can think of to say. 

Trent bites his lip, laughter dancing at the corners of his mouth. “Couldn’t help myself,” he says apologetically. “Although that’s not really what I meant. Not exclusively, at least.”

“Not exclusively?” Ted gets little warm fizzies from that, starting in his fingertips and zipping up his arms. It’s like the perfect antithesis to the cold numbness he gets when he has a panic attack.

“I would like to see you again, like this,” Trent says softly. “If… if you would be amenable to that.”

He’s such a puzzle, Trent Crimm. So eloquent and so self-assured, and yet an inch below the surface is someone flighty, overenthusiastic, awkward, pedantic, strange, soft, and wonderful. Ted is so glad he gets to know him. 

“Well, yeah. I think I made it pretty clear already how I feel about you,” Ted says. “I’m just startin’ to get used to the idea that it might be a two-way street.”

Trent shakes his head, disbelieving. “Ted, what could have possibly given you the idea that I was anything short of—” He breaks off for a moment, tinged with embarrassment, but finishes the sentence anyway. “—short of crazy about you?”

The phrase makes the warmth running up Ted’s arms pour into his chest and settle in his heart. He doesn’t know how to respond, unsure how to begin, how to breach the chasm of everything with Michelle and everything before that, everything that resulted in a man who would sooner believe in ghosts than believe that another person genuinely likes him for who he is. Unsure if he even should.

“Well, I suspected you were warmin’ up to me, sure,” he waffles. “But, you know, you’ve never gone easy on me. Tearin’ me to shreds in the press room, and all that. I guess I thought your affection was more of the ‘well maybe this clown ain’t quite as bad as I first thought’ sort, and not the. Y’know. Other sort.”

Trent stares at him for a long moment, wild-eyed, before blurting, “Ted Lasso, I have been hopelessly, pathetically in love with you ever since you took me to that godforsaken Indian restaurant and nearly died of capsaicin overdose.” He gestures unintelligibly with both hands, voice rising in pitch. “I blew up my entire bloody life for you. I’ve been in journalism for over two decades, and in that time I’ve written cruel things about good people more times than I could possibly count without having a crisis of conscience over it. Why were you different? Why were you the one and only exception?”

Ted is going to need about a hundred years to process all of that. “W—well, I was hopin’ it was because my philosophy of selflessness just inspired you so darn much,” he jokes feebly, his brain stuck like a skipping record on the phrase hopelessly, pathetically in love with you.

Trent isn’t done. “I was so catastrophically obsessed with you that Maxine thought the only explanation for how often I talked about you was that we were fucking. That first press conference after I left, I waited for you in the car park for eighty minutes, and got so flustered over our thirty second conversation that I locked my keys in my car. Just the other day Jamie told me to stop making eyes at you if I didn’t want everyone to know.” He repeats, pained, “Jamie Tartt.”

Ted suddenly recalls Trent’s response to the mysterious text from Colin, and well, that’s one mystery solved, he supposes. “Ooh,” he says. “I really need to work on my powers of observation, huh?”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m frankly shocked we’ve even made it this far.” Trent clears his throat, continuing with the cadence of someone who is reading off the final slide of their PowerPoint presentation. “And most recently, I texted you six times at two in the morning in a delirious haze brought on by fever. Can you guess what, approximately, those texts might have said?”

Ted’s jaw drops, his thoughts coming to a screeching halt. “No way,” he blurts.

“Whatever you’re imagining, it’s ten times worse. No, make that twenty. The fact that I was able to delete them before you woke up is possibly the greatest blessing of my life up until this moment.”

When Trent had said he’d “mistakenly” texted Ted, Ted had assumed—as he was probably intended to—that this meant Trent had been intending to text someone else. It had never even crossed his mind that he may have been the subject of those unknown messages, that Trent had just not intended for him to ever actually read them. What would have happened if he’d woken up that morning not to a handful of mysterious deleted texts, but to an addled love confession?

…Ted suspects the outcome might not have been as bad as Trent seems to think. He doesn’t say that, though. “You’re making me awful curious about the exact verbiage of those messages,” he responds instead, a bit faint.

“And you’ll have to suffer with that curiosity forever, just like I will have to suffer with the knowledge of what I almost said to you completely unprompted,” Trent says loftily. He’s flushed, a little jittery after the flood of words that just came pouring out of him. “The point is, this is hardly something new.”

Ted reviews nearly three full years of footage in his mind, fast-forwarding through the many events in that span of time to pause on a little moment here or there, the full picture finally beginning to paint itself as he recontextualizes nearly everything about his relationship with Trent Crimm. It’s not that he was unaware there might be interest there. He’d certainly thought it was a possibility, or he wouldn’t have been nearly as forward the previous night. But he’d imagined it as more of a surface-level attraction—to know Trent’s feelings have run that deep for that long is almost dizzying to think about.

“Well gosh. I’m sorry,” he says.

Trent appears completely taken aback by this. “What? What for?”

Ted makes an aimless gesture. “For… not noticing, I s’pose,” he says. “For not lettin’ you know sooner that I, y’know, returned that interest. Or that I was even on the same playing field—pitch, that is. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own bullshit, these past couple years, I think I haven’t been payin’ attention to the people around me the way I should.”

“Don’t be fucking ridiculous,” Trent says emphatically. “You’re the most compassionate man I know. That’s half the reason I fell for you the way I did.”

“I appreciate that, I really do. But I don’t think they’re mutually exclusive, you get me?” Ted ponders how best to explain. “I cared about you, always, ‘course I did. But there’s caring, and there’s paying attention well enough to know the best way to care. They ain’t one and the same.”

Trent hums thoughtfully. “I see what you mean. I still don’t agree, that you weren’t doing that, but I see what you mean.”

It’s quiet for a while. Ted digests—or tries to. It all swims around in his brain, buzzing like a swarm of bees. Trent likes him. Trent wants him. Trent has known him through the three messiest, craziest years of his life and somehow was drawn in instead of deterred. It’s still a little hard for Ted to wrap his noggin around.

“So you don’t think I’m too much?”

The words come out of their own accord. Ted doesn’t even have time to regret them, time to wish he could eat them back up, before Trent responds. “Let me get this straight,” he says, a bit tartly. “I’m the one who just went on a lengthy rant about all the ways I’ve been infatuated with you for years despite the fact that we just kissed for the first time less than twelve hours ago, and you’re worried you’re too much?”

Well, it does sound a little silly when he puts it like that, but… Ted nods hesitantly. Trent looks him in the eye, realizing he’s serious, and after a moment, meets him with the exact same brand of hideous honesty. “God, Ted,” he says, a bit thickly, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t get enough of you. I would take more of you if you had more to give me.”

Ted swallows hard, eyes stinging. All his life, all forty-some years of it, and no one has ever said anything like that to him before. Not once.

Trent frowns suddenly, furrowing his brow. Ted recognizes it as a shift into journalism mode, a bloodhound sniffing out a scent. “Wait. Did your ex-wife say that? That you were too much? Or is that just one of those untrue things you think about on purpose to make yourself miserable?”

Ted tries not to let his hackles go up at that, but he must not quite be successful, because Trent amends wryly, “I only ask that as someone prone to doing much the same thing. You saw it happening earlier, so I figure there isn’t much use in pretending.”

“In that case, then yeah, it’s both,” Ted says with a touch of humor, letting himself relax. He gets it—this is reciprocal. Trent is intentionally being vulnerable with him, so the least he can do is give the same energy back.

“Well fuck your ex-wife, and fuck your brain, and fuck mine too while we’re at it,” Trent says with feeling, satisfied. 

“Ooh, baby. Talk dirty to me, why don’t you?” Ted grins, and the bees in his head are gone. It’s never been easy like this before. To say what he’s feeling out loud, and for those feelings to be quieted when they get too noisy.

“If by ‘talk dirty to you’ you mean reminding you how incredible you are and how categorically wrong anyone that might say otherwise is, then I am happy to talk dirty to you at absolutely any time.” Trent pushes his glasses up forcefully, hot with indignation.

“I like you so much,” Ted blurts, unbearably fond.

“Is that your brand of talking dirty to me?”

“...Is it working?”

“If I say yes, will you do it more?”

“Obviously.”

“Then yes.”

Ted knows there’s a lot left to talk about. But there will be plenty of time for that later. For now, Ted is more than content to sink into Trent’s arms, chasing the heat of his mouth, and forget that anything else exists.

*         *          *

It’s midafternoon when Ted finally finds himself on the front step, Trent leaning in the doorway to see him off. “Thank you again, Ted, for everything,” Trent says. “As much as I resisted it at first, your company was much appreciated.”

“Anytime,” Ted replies easily, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Trent lifts an eyebrow. “Anytime?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Ted replies, puzzled.

And Trent winks at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Ted wriggles, his face warming. Blushing like a middle school girl. “Ooh, that just gave me full-body tingles. Like butterflies, but everywhere, not just in my stomach.”

Trent huffs out a small laugh. “Yes, alright. Get out of here.”

Ted takes a step down, but hesitates. He knows it’s time to leave. They’ve just said a neat goodbye, and they’ve already spent an absurd number of hours together for what was maybe technically a very unconventional first date.

But Ted can’t squash down an odd feeling of nerves, a feeling that has him digging his nails into his palms, hidden in his pockets. Like a part of him thinks this was a strange, wonderful dream, or an illusion. Like it’ll dissolve as soon as he steps back out into the real world. He wants to touch Trent again, to prove to himself that he’s real, that this was real. 

His hands are in the air, reaching, before he stops himself. Even if they weren’t outside, where anyone could see them—he doesn’t want Trent to know how scared he is, how clingy he is, doesn’t want to ruin this new and fragile thing between them.

“Ted.”

Trent’s warm hands envelop his. Stepping down to meet Ted, he leans in and kisses him, gentle and lingering. Solid and tangible and real. “I’ll see you soon, alright?”

Ted takes a deep breath, and the world solidifies around him. He looks at Trent’s face and knows—a gust of wind isn’t going to blow this over.

“Yeah.” He gives Trent’s hands a squeeze. “Hey, you take care of yourself, alright? You gotta get fully healed up so I don’t gotta keep moping around the club ‘cause I miss you so much.”

“I’ll do my best,” Trent promises, squeezing back. “Now I’ll let you get back to watching American football, or whatever it is you do on your days off.”

“I resent that accusation, I’ll have you know. Soccer has my whole heart now.”

“The very fact that you still call it that proves your statement false.”

When Ted makes it back to his apartment at last, something feels different. He can’t put his finger on it at first, wandering aimlessly from room to room trying to pin it down. But then it comes to him: That familiar feeling of emptiness? It’s nowhere to be found. He may be alone in the space, but at that moment every quiet surface and corner seems to hold the promise of future company, of laughter and love.

He knows that feeling isn’t gone for good. It may never be gone for good. But for right now, it’s enough to have hope.

*         *          *

Two days later 

“Goooood morning, my handsome hounds!”

Ted strides through the locker room and into the office with a sunny expression, hopping up to slap the top of the doorframe for good measure. Beard salutes. Roy nods. Higgins, transparently here to hide from Rebecca this time, wiggles his fingers in a wave from the corner. 

…and in the other room, there’s a blur of motion, a bang, and a faint string of curses. Ted stops short for a moment, mouth open in surprise, feeling his face slowly light up. “Alright back there, Trent?”

Trent’s head pokes around the corner, hair mussed. “Never better, Coach Lasso,” he replies mulishly, adjusting his glasses. His voice still sounds a little hoarse, but much improved from how it was before.

Ted knows he’s telling on himself, but he can’t wipe the goofy grin off his face. “Good to have you back, Trent. This office just weren’t the same without you.”

“Yes, anytime I can hit my head on the filing cabinet to give you warm fuzzies. Stop looking at me like that,” Trent adds crossly.

“Okay,” Ted says agreeably, without changing his expression in the slightest. Trent actually sticks his tongue out at him, which is childish and critically adorable. How is Ted meant to hold his own against this kind of warfare?

Roy looks between them, his face twisted up into a mask of confusion and revulsion. “What the fuck?”

“That’s new,” Higgins agrees, owlishly curious from behind his glasses. 

Beard just rolls his eyes. He’s holding his book upside down, though, so Ted knows he’s listening intently.

“I’m positive I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Trent clings to his dignity, sipping primly from his rainbow mug. Ted looks for the telltale redness of his ears this time. Then, in the same lightly conversational tone, Trent adds, “Ted, if you call the Diamond Dogs, I’m going to fucking kill you right this very moment.”

Ted sighs dreamily. “When you say that with that voice, it don’t sound so bad.”

“What the fuck?” Roy repeats. 

And all is right in the world.