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The day after Coach Lasso made the bold and startling decision to bench Jamie Tartt should—for everyone except Jamie at least—be a day of giddiness and celebration. They won the game, and the team is all rowdy excitement during training. But Lasso himself seems… off.
Not just off, Roy realizes. Sad. He's not sure why he's so confident he's reading the man right. Lasso wears that same dorky smile all day, and no one else seems to notice anything amiss. But the expression doesn't sit right on his face. There's something missing, something insincere in the way the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, something just plain wrong in the tense posture with which he holds himself.
Roy knows a thing or two about squashing an emotion down where it can't hurt you, because life just keeps going even when you need a second to breathe.
He admonishes himself not to stick his nose in other people's business. But after training, Roy loiters instead of hurrying through a quick shower. It's not his day to pick up Phoebe from school. He's got time. When he finally finishes showering and changing back into his all-black ensemble, the rest of the locker room has emptied out—and when he pokes his head into the manager's office, he finds Lasso sitting there alone, staring morosely at his phone—no Coach Beard in sight.
"Oi," Roy says, soft but apparently still startling, as Lasso fumbles his phone onto the desk with a thump. "You alright?"
"Yeah, Roy." Lasso stares at him. "All good." It's an obvious lie, and the smile he plasters on his face is way less convincing than the ones he spent all day hiding behind. Maybe he's too tired to keep up the false front, or maybe he's even more down than he was before.
Roy doesn't really know him—can't fucking tell what's going on in Lasso's head—and he is perplexed to realize he wants to know.
He can understand being sad about family flying back to America. Roy can't imagine being so far away from Phoebe and his sister; his whole chest goes tight and cold at the thought. But Lasso seems more fucked up right now than simply missing his family can explain, considering he's had plenty of time to get used to it. Especially considering he chose to work in England in the first place.
None of this is any of Roy's business, but damn it, he wants to know what's going on. He gives a shit about Ted Lasso, and he's not sure when that happened—probably somewhere on his journey to grudging admiration—but he's here now, and he does care, and there's no walking any of it back now that he's thoroughly invested.
"Come on, then," Roy growls. "You're coming back to mine, to drink expensive alcohol and tell me what's wrong."
Lasso blinks at him, and while he doesn't look offended, he does protest, "I just told you nothing's wrong."
"Which was clearly a lie." Roy crosses his arms over his chest in a gesture that most people find intimidating, but Lasso doesn't even seem to notice.
"Roy—"
"Stop arguing with me. I'm Roy fucking Kent. I know what I'm about." He arches an eyebrow pointedly. "You coming or not?"
If Lasso says no, he'll walk away. He's not actually interested in bullying someone who doesn't want to accept his support, and if this ridiculously stubborn man doesn't want to talk about whatever's gotten under his skin, then Roy's got no business pushing.
Coach Lasso looks a little squirrelly now though, and he says in a completely different tone—one that is no longer pretending to be okay—soft and uncertain, "I appreciate the offer, but I don't think it'd be appropriate. And I'm pretty sure pouring my guts out over fancy booze ain't a recipe for professionalism and mutual respect."
"Agree to disagree. I already respect you even though you know fuck-all about football. Doubt there's anything you can say while wankered that'll change my mind." Roy shrugs. "But suit yourself. Not really my business if you'd rather be sad alone than sad with company."
Lasso gapes at him without answering.
"See you 'round, Ted," Roy says as he turns for the locker room. Ted. Not Coach. Because his whole point here is that they're both just people, and if Lasso wants to lean on Roy, he absolutely can and it's no big deal. "If you want to change your mind, you've got 'til I get in my car."
He's pleased—not that he has any intention of showing it—when Lasso catches up with him just as Roy reaches the car park, and slips wordlessly into Roy's passenger seat.
* * *
"Whiskey okay?" Roy asks, leading the way through the ground floor of his house, into the kitchen. Lasso isn't even pretending not to snoop, sticking his nose through doorways and studying every framed anything hanging on the walls. Roy doesn't actually mind; he expected nothing less from this overly friendly American dork.
"Sounds great," Lasso says, then stands there with his hands in his trouser pockets and a serene expression on his face, while Roy collects a couple of tumblers and a bottle of Macallan single malt from the cupboard above the fridge.
"Living room's that way." Roy gestures with the hand holding the glasses, and follows as Lasso meanders the direction indicated.
Here too Lasso wanders around like a nosy puppy, delightedly studying the forest of photo frames on Roy's mantel. Most of the pictures are of his family. Roy's sister and niece—especially his niece—and some old photos of his grandparents. But there are football photos too. Friends and teammates and moments of victory.
Roy folds himself down onto his creaky leather couch. He lets Coach Lasso snoop unimpeded, while Roy sets everything he's carrying down on the low coffee table and focuses on pouring two extremely generous measures of scotch. Neat, because who the fuck has time for ice when the goal is to get thoroughly pissed?
"Here." He holds out one of the glasses, and Lasso takes it without sitting down.
"Thanks."
Roy watches him wander and deliberately doesn't say anything, just sips slowly at his drink and lets his eyes follow Lasso through the room. Besides the photos, there's not much to see. Heavy blue curtains block the windows along one wall, the color an almost perfect match for the accent wall across the room. All of his furniture is perfectly matched too, because Roy hired someone to make his space look presentable while still being somewhere he can stand to exist.
He doesn't spend a lot of time here lately, even so. Between the club and his niece, he's almost never home except to sleep, and even then he's more likely to be sweating in the home gym than lounging on the couch.
Roy's never been great at the whole concept of work-life balance.
"You got a nice place here, Roy," Lasso says approvingly, after silently and steadily draining about half his glass. "Spacious. I like your furniture."
"Mmm," Roy rumbles.
Lasso finishes the rest of his drink just as slowly—respectful of the quality alcohol—and then wanders back toward the coffee table and proffers his glass for more. Roy obligingly pours another measure of scotch, meeting his eyes like a challenge the entire time. He refills his own drink too, which is not quite empty but close. Roy can already feel the buzz of intoxication starting to tingle across his senses.
"Thought you were getting me drunk to interrogate me about my woes," Lasso murmurs, peering at Roy curiously and taking an appreciative sip.
Roy shrugs. "I am getting you drunk. Up to you whether you want to actually talk. I don't give a fuck one way or the other." This is a lie. He cares a hell of a lot. But he's already made the offer; from here on out, it isn't up to him.
Lasso snorts and wanders off again, crossing the living room to study an especially lovely watercolor that Roy spent a lot of money on a few years back. Sunset over a river that could be the Thames, could be somewhere else entirely, he doesn't actually know. His guest is quiet for so long that Roy starts to think maybe they won't be talking about Lasso's woes after all.
Then, still staring at the watercolor, Lasso takes a long swallow of his drink and says, "My wife and I are separating. We're gettin' a divorce."
"The fuck?" Roy stares, uncomprehending. Michelle Lasso was literally here yesterday, and she and the coach seemed fine. Better than fine. They were friendly and warm anytime Roy bothered to take notice of them together—which was admittedly only a few moments here and there—and Lasso doesn't talk about his family like a man who wants a divorce.
Then Roy remembers the weird detour in the middle of Lasso's halftime speech yesterday. Lady Football. Right. Even at the time, Roy sensed that was bullshit somehow.
Lasso doesn't expound now that he's said the words out loud, and Roy could let it go. Just pour the whiskey and keep his mouth shut. But the fact that Lasso is here in Roy's space, practically vibrating with tension, suggests he does in fact want to talk.
So Roy takes a bracing swallow of scotch and asks, "You don't want it? The divorce?"
"Heck no." Lasso wanders away from the framed watercolor and finds another piece of art to pretend to study. "I've done everything I can think of to make our marriage work. Everything she's ever asked. But you can't force someone to keep loving you, if their heart's got other plans."
Roy chews on this for several seconds. "Not to fuckin' quibble, but… If you were trying so hard to make it work, why'd you fuck off all the way to England?"
Lasso's shrug looks like his shoulders are carrying the weight of worlds. "Her idea. Said she needed space. I… may have gone a little overboard. But in retrospect, I probably could'a gone all the way to the moon, and it still wouldn't have been enough."
"I'm so sorry, Ted," Roy says, hating the way the words make Lasso flinch.
"Is what it is."
"It's still shit," Roy growls, and this time Lasso huffs a wry laugh and—miraculously—wanders back across the living room to plop down onto the couch beside Roy. He's drained his glass again, so Roy tops him off, albeit with a less generous quantity than before. They should probably slow down if they don't want tomorrow to be an agony of matching hangovers. Roy certainly feels the thrum of inebriation now, a glass and a half in.
They don't stop drinking, but they pace themselves better. Now that Lasso has started to open up, he just keeps talking. About his wife, his failing marriage, his kid. More than once he tries to turn the conversation back on Roy, ask probing questions, but Roy doesn't let him get away with it.
Tonight isn't about Roy Kent.
"No," Roy declares abruptly, when both their glasses are empty again and Lasso reaches for the bottle. Roy screws the cap back on instead, the task remarkably difficult with his current lack of coordination. With how much Coach Lasso has been talking, Roy has more than managed to keep pace with him—they're not that far into the bottle, but they're far enough—and Roy doesn't know exactly how much they've had to drink. The last thing he wants to do is give his gaffer alcohol poisoning.
"Spoilsport," Lasso retorts, but he says it cheerfully. Clearly he is willing to defer to Roy's better judgment here. He leaves his empty glass on the coffee table, right next to Roy's, and leans into the back of the couch with a lazy stretch that has absolutely no business catching Roy's attention the way it does.
Fuck. Does he fancy Ted Lasso? Is that why he fucking cares so much? Is he really this stupid and oblivious and horny?
He cannot suddenly be considering the merits of seducing his coach. He's not that stupid. No amount of abruptly wanting to shag Lasso will make Roy reckless enough to actually do it, even with both of them pissed off their heads.
But a heartbeat later, Lasso stands up from the couch—probably for another aimless and nosy tour of Roy's ground floor—and when he stumbles, Roy reaches out to steady him and ends up tugging him down instead. His fingers tangle in Lasso's belt loops, and he doesn't mean to pull him even closer, but somehow he finds himself with a lap full of stunned coach. Lasso stares down at him, brow furrowed and expression adorably confused, like he's trying to figure out how the fuck he got here.
"Sorry," Lasso says, sounding unsure, shaking his head a little as though the small movements can possibly clear things up. "Didn't mean to… What was I…?"
"Shut the fuck up," Roy growls, senses humming as he grabs Lasso's face between his hands, and kisses him so hard they're both breathless in seconds.
"Oh," Lasso gasps when Roy finally lets go, sounding shaky but pleased. His mouth is bright red beneath his mustache, and his skin looks a little raw from the scrape of Roy's beard. He looks unreasonably tempting, with his eyes wide and his arms wrapped around Roy's shoulders.
Roy wonders if he's noticed the effect he's having right now, if he can feel Roy's arousal trapped between them. Lasso is heavy on his lap—Roy hasn't hooked up with a man in ages, isn't used to partners who are just as tall as him, just as solid—and Lasso's physical presence is a torment, making Roy want to indulge all sorts of bad ideas.
"Roy." Lasso is staring at him, searching and intense. "We shouldn't."
"Probably not," Roy agrees, voice gritty and low. "But do you want to?"
Lasso breathes a needy sound—fucking hell, it's obscene—and crashes into him for an even messier kiss, all pleading chaos and desire. It's a yes, in the language they're both speaking right now, and Roy does the only thing that makes sense.
He takes Ted Lasso to bed.
* * *
It makes a lot less sense the next morning, when Roy wakes with an inevitable hangover and his coach asleep in his bed.
Here in the sex-mussed and the sleep-tousled light of day, Lasso looks impossibly soft. Roy mutters a whole string of curses under his breath as he carefully, carefully eases out of bed without waking him.
Fuck this.
Fuck this hangover, and Roy's good intentions, and every stupid decision that brought him to this stupid fucking moment. Lasso will wake up any second now, and the spectacular awkwardness of their fuckup will be the stuff of nightmares.
The worst part is, Roy had a really good time last night—jumbled though his memories are by too much alcohol—and this can never happen again.
It's cowardly of him, to get dressed and sneak out of the bedroom in overcautious silence, but fuck the alternative. He can't be here to see a sleepy Ted Lasso wake up in his bed, probably all sweet and adorable. Probably smiling, half-conscious and hazy, before remembering where he is and why. Roy doesn't want to see the moment of horror break across his face.
He doesn't want to be something Lasso feels guilty about.
Which is not something he has any control over, but at least he can make himself scarce and not be there to see it. Plus this will give Lasso a chance to wake up and get dressed, to get his brain in order before they need to face each other. Discretion and valor and all that.
So Roy runs away and drinks an enormous glass of water, takes a couple of painkillers, then plants himself in the kitchen with a mug of tea while he waits for Lasso to wake up. All the while his nerves are jangling, even as his pounding headache grudgingly fades and his stomach gradually stops roiling. He feels guilty now. Even if his motives last night had nothing to do with seduction, he still invited his coach here for the express purpose of getting Ted drunk—he still did that exactly as he intended—and maybe it doesn't matter that they were both equally knackered last night. Maybe Roy still took advantage.
Shit. Of course he took advantage. Even if he subtracts the alcohol from the equation, Lasso was an open book last night, vulnerable and hurting. The man just found out he's getting divorced for fuck's sake. Christ, Roy is an unmitigated asshole.
By the time he hears footsteps approaching, he's worked himself up into a froth of self-recriminations—but Roy makes himself look toward the hall anyway. Lasso steps into the kitchen wearing yesterday's clothes, fabric rumpled from being left on the floor last night. His hair is a mess, flopping over his forehead in charming disarray. The stubble along his jaw is equal parts brown and gray, and his expression is bleary with sleep.
He looks unreasonably appealing. Roy fights to keep his expression blank, and realizes only when Lasso flinches that the result probably looks like a glower.
"Want some tea?" Roy asks, in an effort to ease the moment into something less agonizing.
"Hell no," Lasso says immediately. Roy blinks at him, surprised at the brusqueness, and a moment later Lasso shakes his head and offers a rueful fragment of a smile. "Sorry. That was rude. Tea brings out the worst in me, can't stand the stuff."
"Coffee?" Roy offers instead.
Lasso still looks a little squirrelly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he's considering making a run for it, but finally he stills and gives a nod. "Yes, please. That'd be lovely." All polite and formal, like he's overcompensating for his previous rudeness.
Roy grunts and goes about filling the fancy machine he keeps on his counter. He barely uses the thing—Roy loves his tea—but he's got plenty of counter space, and his sister prefers coffee. Lasso stays uncharacteristically silent behind him while he works, but Roy is confident he hasn't run away. The sound of the front door would signal his departure if nothing else.
"You hungry?" Roy asks, playing host on autopilot because what the fuck else is he supposed to do?
"Not really." There's a wry edge to Lasso's voice. And when Roy turns around, finished loading the coffee machine with grounds and water, he finds his coach wearing an expression that's impossible to decipher.
"Alright?" Roy asks carefully, leaning his hip on the counter and crossing his arms.
Lasso stuffs both hands into his trouser pockets and murmurs, "You tell me." When Roy only arches an eyebrow at him, he exhales slowly and says, "I'm sorry, Roy. Don't know what I was thinking, coming here last night, or doin' any of that other stuff I did."
"Ted," Roy growls, exasperated, because calling him 'coach' now feels even more messed up than it did last night. "You didn't do anything."
Now it's Lasso's turn to arch an eloquent eyebrow, and Roy huffs a dry scrape of laughter.
"Fine," Roy concedes. "You did plenty. But it weren't… You don't get to martyr yourself about it, alright? We were both drunk. We both made choices. And I'm about ninety-percent sure I kissed you first."
Lasso actually offers him a small, genuine smile at that. "Wasn't sure I trusted my memory on that score."
Roy does not point out that their first kiss wasn't the only part of last night's adventure where Roy was more aggressive. He doubts Lasso would let him get away with shouldering all the blame he probably should be shouldering, what with how pushy and demanding Roy was. Then again, it's not like Roy didn't meet with eager encouragement every step of the way. He wouldn't have been so pushy if Lasso hadn't been right there with him, begging for more.
Still. It's a right mess. Roy can't just decide not to feel like a monster about it, especially considering the whole adventure fell into place like dominos from the deliberate decision to get his coach drunk.
Finally, letting the tension slump out of his shoulders into a posture that looks too much like defeat, Lasso pulls out a chair and sits himself down at Roy's kitchen table.
"The thing is," Lasso says, suddenly not looking anywhere near Roy, "it don't really matter who started it. I still messed up. I'm your coach, and I crossed a line last night. By all rights, I should march my butt into Rebecca Welton's office and turn in my resignation."
"Don't you fucking dare," Roy snarls, and the words come out so sharp and wrathful that Lasso visibly startles, jerking his head up to stare at Roy.
Silence strains between them for several beats too long. Roy wants to scream, but he settles for clenching his jaw and swallowing his frustration back down.
"Look," he says through gritted teeth. "I'm not some barely legal up-and-comer with a career you could sabotage, even if you wanted to."
"That don't make it right."
"No. But it matters. To me, anyway. And I don't think anyone else gets a vote."
"Roy—"
"Shut up," Roy snaps. "I am not gonna be the reason you fuck off back to America just when you're starting to do some actual fucking good here. Richmond needs you."
Roy can't even look at the goddamn doe eyes Lasso is making at him right now, so he turns and checks on the percolating coffee. There's not really enough to make a serving, but there's a pourable quantity, so he pulls down a mug and pours it anyway. Then he puts the mug on the table, alongside milk and sugar, and watches in horror as Lasso mixes so much sugar into his coffee that there's no way it all dissolves.
Lasso freezes mid-stir, staring at his hands and looking suddenly miserable. Devastated and raw, so much worse than he looked a second ago.
Roy cannot fathom what happened to ruin his already dubious mood so suddenly. "Ted? What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Lasso says too quickly.
"Ted," Roy growls warningly.
"It's just… God, all that stuff we got up to last night, and I'm still married."
"No." Roy glares. "Fuck that. Fuck your martyr complex and your fucking guilt trips. You can't be unfaithful to someone who's already demanding a divorce."
"She ain't demanding. I offered."
Wow. Okay. Roy really does not know what to make of that information.
Or maybe he does, actually. Lady Football. Right.
"But it's what she wants, right?" Roy presses, because if anyone is entitled to stick their nose into Lasso's business at this point, it's him. "We're not talking about some hypothetical future decision. This is happening."
Which only makes Lasso look miserable in a slightly different way, and god damn it, Roy is completely fucking this. He just keeps making it worse. He's rubbish at all this feelings bullshit.
"Yeah," Lasso says finally. "It's happening. Ain't no un-ringing that bell. And honestly, give me a time machine and a chance to try again, and I wouldn't do anything different. If being with me makes her truly unhappy, the only thing I can do is let her go."
"She's an idiot," Roy blurts, mentally kicking himself when the statement draws Lasso's previously avoidant gaze right to him, putting a wounded new frown on Lasso's face. "Fuck, sorry. Not my place. Forget I said anything."
He meant it sincerely, though. Roy saw Coach Lasso with his wife and kid yesterday, and at training before that, and it's clear he adores them both. For fuck's sake, Lasso traveled all the way to England because his wife needed space, and it doesn't sound like he went too far for her in the end. How could anyone be 'truly unhappy' with a partner who—though wildly exasperating—is also this fiercely, genuinely kind?
Roy doesn't think he will ever understand.
Lasso is watching him with a complicated expression now, and he pushes up from the table again, leaving the coffee-and-sugar monstrosity untouched as he announces, "I uh… I should go."
"Ted," Roy tries to protest.
"Thanks for the coffee," Lasso forges onward, undeterred, heading for the hall and the front door.
"Ted," Roy says more urgently, crossing the kitchen quickly to intercept him, darting out a hand to wrap around Lasso's biceps and stop him short. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
He bites back the please don't go that wants to growl past his clenched teeth. If Lasso wants to leave, Roy won't actually stop him. And it's not that he wants Lasso to stay, either. It's not like they're going to settle in for a lazy morning together.
He just doesn't want Lasso to leave like this.
When Lasso doesn't immediately shake free of his grip, Roy gives in to the most bizarre impulse of his life and reels him in for a hug. Between one breath and the next, he's got Lasso squashed to his chest, wrapping both arms around him and holding on long enough to see what Lasso will do.
Somehow, it's no surprise at all when Lasso responds by hugging him back. The embrace is clingy and a little bit desperate, and if Lasso's breath goes shaky in the process, fuck it, Roy sure as hell won't call him out for it.
"You'll be alright," Roy says gruffly. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." Lasso nods, and the movement jostles against Roy's shoulder.
"And we don't need to make a whole ordeal out of this," Roy continues, instead of offering an apology he already knows Lasso won't accept. "It can just be a thing that happened, and we don't need to talk about it ever again. Deal?"
Lasso huffs a pained laugh, breath tickling warm at the side of Roy's neck. "Deal."
"Good," Roy growls, thumping him on the back and letting him go. Retreating an extra step for good measure. "Then sit down and finish your fucking coffee, because I'm sure as shit not drinking that abomination."
Lasso laughs again, less pained this time, and returns to the table to do just that.