Archive of Our Own

Roy missed this a lot.

He has to keep reminding himself to focus on Keeley’s words as she sits across from him in the weak sunlight of the window, gesticulating animatedly, the flowy sleeves of her mauve blouse embellishing her gestures. It’s not that he doesn’t care what she has to say. He cares so much. He’s just… caught up in it, in the glow of her presence. It’s hard not to be distracted.

It doesn’t help that the current topic of conversation is one Trent Crimm, formerly of The Independent.

“…So we ended up grabbing lunch together while we were out,” Keeley is saying. “We went to this little salad bar place, kind of a build-your-own sort of deal? Lots of toppings. It was really good—I’ll have to take you there sometime.”

“Mm,” grunts Roy.

“Anyway, we chatted a bit, off the record, while we ate. It was actually really nice. Trent’s a good conversationalist.” She smiles that mischievous, foxlike little smile that Roy can’t get enough of. “By which I mean he’s gossipy as hell. Now there’s a man that knows how to do girl talk.”

Can we talk about literally anything else? Roy thinks but doesn’t say. “Mm,” he grunts instead.

“Honestly, the whole time I was thinking to myself…” Keeley pauses and purses her lips as though considering her words. “Roy, if I say something that’s gonna make you mad, will you promise not to get mad?”

“That makes no fucking sense,” Roy objects, feeling this question calls for more than an ambiguous grunt by way of response. Then, because it’s Keeley and he’s never been able to hold out against her for more than five seconds, “Yeah, fine.”

“I think you and him have a lot in common.”

It takes Roy a moment to realize what she’s even talking about, but once he does, he bristles all over. He may have made amends with Trent, but he’s still far from the point of not taking offense to that comparison. “What? Me and that fucking prick? You’re joking.”

Keeley’s green eyes are warm with mirth. “Roy, affectionately, you’re a prick too. I know you know that.”

“Not like he is,” Roy growls, not denying the general truth of the statement.

“Come on, Roy, he really isn’t so bad. I thought you’d made up with him, didn’t you? Or was that Ted just being optimistic again?”

“I can still think he’s a fucking prick. I’m supposedly best friends with Jamie fucking Tartt now and I still think he’s a fucking prick.” It was supposed to be a joke, but it comes out a little more awkward, a little more transparent, than Roy had hoped. 

Keeley giggles. “And I love you and I just called you a prick. Maybe you’ve gotta be at least a little bit of one to be associated with Richmond.”

Roy shakes his head. “Sam.”

“Oh fuck, good point. I stand corrected.”

But Roy’s smiling now, which is a point for Keeley. As established earlier, he can’t hold out against her. “Fine. What do you think I have in common with Crimm, aside from both of us being pricks?”

Keeley ponders, drumming her perfectly manicured nails on the side of her glass with a satisfying clinking noise. “You’ve both got this kinda tough-guy exterior, you know? People are intimidated by you.”

Roy interrupts her to snort. “No one in their right mind would be intimidated by that ridiculous little man.”

She gives him a disapproving glare. “Roy, you’re not listening. I know you know what I mean. Obviously he’s not, like, physically intimidating the way you are. But he’s got a different kind of power, and he’s not afraid to use it.”

Roy knows. Of course Roy knows. That article burned a hole in his pocket for years, and while he’s aware his own insecurities are largely to blame for that, they were also delivered in a vehicle carefully crafted to do as much damage as possible on the way in. It’s an undeniable fact; Trent himself had admitted as much.

But he doesn’t want to admit that Keeley’s right, because her words have suddenly made him realize something he hadn’t until then, a small but jarring epiphany like a static shock. His antagonism towards Trent at the beginning, his refusal to let the team speak around him, every subtle little action he’d taken to make Trent feel as uncomfortable and unwelcome as possible—they hadn’t just been driven by anger. There was anger there, of course. (It was Roy, there was pretty much always anger.) But there was also, well… fear. 

Because Roy loves AFC Richmond. He always has, but this specific version of AFC Richmond he loves so much it scares him sometimes. He loves the culture. He loves the players. He loves, against his better judgment, Ted fucking Lasso.

So when Trent showed up to write a fucking book about them… Roy was scared. Scared that the journalist was going to destroy the culture they’d painstakingly built up. That he was going to misunderstand and misinterpret the bizarre, incredible, perfect mess that was this team. That he was going to hurt Ted. That he was going to hurt Roy. 

Roy has always been terrible with words. Trent wields them like a weapon. In that respect, Trent is maybe one of the most intimidating people Roy knows.

“Fuuuck,” he mumbles under his breath.

Keeley’s glance is questioning but also sort of knowing at the same time. “Roy?”

“Nothing,” he grumbles. Having emotional revelations is so annoying. “Okay, so we’re both intimidating. Is that it?”

“What I was gonna say is that under that outer shell, you’re both big softies. He has a little girl, did you know that? Alia. She’s four.” Keeley shakes her head, smiling. “You should’ve heard him talk about her, Roy. He got all… melty.”

“Gross,” Roy says.

Keeley just stares at him. “On an unrelated note, how’s Phoebs doing?”

“She just won second place in the science fair. Basically first place, ‘cause the little fucker who came first had his mum build him some fucking functioning solar system model bullshit. Phoebe did all the work herself. I’m so fucking proud of her.”

“Uh huh,” Keeley says blandly.

Roy scowls. “Fuck off.”

“Anyway.” Keeley hesitates. “We, um, talked about you. A little bit.”

How does she expect him to react to that? “You talked about me,” he repeats, deadpan.

“Not, like, in the gossipy way. Trent was the one who brought you up, actually. Saying how it’s clear you being on the coaching staff has had a big impact on the team; that you know how to strike the right balance between being respected and feeling like one of them. Talking about how he’s genuinely honored to be sharing an office with you. He really wants you to like him, Roy. It’s kind of sweet.”

“He’s just sucking up to make up for all the shit he said about me back in the day,” Roy grumps, trying not to feel flattered and not quite succeeding. “…He really said that? About my coaching?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Roy. He’s not a bad guy. He loves Richmond a lot, and he would probably take a bullet for Ted, which makes him OK in my book.”

“I’d take a bullet for Ted too,” Roy mutters. Which is embarrassing in its own right, but he’s not going to let himself get one-upped by Trent fucking Crimm.

Keeley laughs, standing and leaning over the table to kiss him on the cheek. She smells like passionfruit and pineapple, her lips soft and warm against his stubble. “I know you would. Me too. Just another thing we’ve all got in common, yeah?”

“Whatever.” Roy squeezes her hand, seizing the opportunity to change the subject. “Are we still doing movie night at your place on Saturday?”

Keeley brightens. “Yeah! Did you talk to Jamie? He was saying we might have to start later than usual ‘cause he’s got some dinner thing that goes until eight. I think that was this week, at least. My calendar’s a fucking mess, I can hardly remember what I’ve got planned for the afternoon when it’s morning.”

“We can start without him.” He’s not serious; Keeley doesn’t even have to give him a look for Roy to amend, “I’ll talk to him. I’ll be dropping off Phoebe anyway, so I can give him a ride if he needs.”

“Perfect. I’m looking forward to it.” Keeley gives him that glowing smile that makes his whole body feel lighter. “See you later, Roy.”

“Bye.”

Roy watches her go, feeling… complicated. He hates when his feelings do things that he can’t slap an easy name on, like angry or happy or sad or even jealous. He likes that he and Keeley and Jamie are all friends now, even if there’s no romance involved for any of them. He shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, or however that stupid saying goes. Name for it or not, he shouldn’t be having a bad feeling about it.

No, not bad. His sister would say that no feelings are objectively bad, what matters is the context they’re in and how you choose to act on them. 

Roy’s choice for how to act on this unnamed feeling is to shove it down and ignore it until it hopefully goes away. He doesn’t bother contemplating what his sister would have to say about that.  

*          *          *

Monday morning, Roy is sitting in his chair in the office, reading emails and half-listening to Ted and Beard bickering about something in the other room. He’s vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps entering from the hall, but doesn’t pay much attention until he hears something being set down on his desk.

He turns to look. It’s a take-away cup of coffee. He swivels his chair further to see Trent with a drink holder in hand, smiling cautiously at him. “I wasn’t sure about your order, so I went for black with a dash of sugar. I hope that’s not too far off.”

There are three other drinks in the holder, presumably for himself, Ted, and Beard. Roy wrinkles his nose. Suck-up. “Leave out the sugar next time,” he growls ungratefully, turning back to his chair.

“Noted,” is all Trent says, voice a little subdued, and Roy refuses to feel guilty about that. 

When Trent crosses into the other half of the office to deliver Ted and Beard their drinks, Roy reluctantly lifts his coffee to his lips. He’s not one to let a good beverage go to waste, no matter its origin.

“Fuck,” he sighs. It’s good, a rich and hearty roast—whatever shop this came from must be higher-end than anything Roy ever goes to. And Roy actually does prefer his coffee with a dash of sugar. Keeley used to joke that it was like him, dark and bitter with a hint of sweetness. But he’d rather die than let Trent know that, not when this is such a transparent attempt to worm his way into Roy’s good graces.

The players have started to filter in by now. Roy glances up, for no particular reason, and makes eye contact with Jamie through the window into the locker room. Jamie waves and sticks his tongue out. Roy rolls his eyes fondly. In recent days, Jamie has gained this magical ability to improve Roy’s mood just by being in his general vicinity. It’s fucking annoying and Roy is helpless to fight it.

A memory returns to Roy unbidden—Jamie from a year ago, freshly returned from Manchester, standing in the locker room in front of everyone, apologizing earnestly for his behavior, asking the team’s forgiveness. Roy had hated him, then. The apology had only incensed him more. He’d been positive the whole thing was an act to get everyone to forget how much of a prick Jamie had been so they’d pass to him. He could only think about how Jamie had treated Sam, had treated Nate, and it made him see red. He was convinced: even if Jamie fooled absolutely everyone else, Roy was never going to fall for it.

It feels like another lifetime now. It didn’t even take that long, all things considered, for Roy to realize how wrong he’d been. Looking at Jamie now, seeing the real, close friendship between him and Sam, the way the other boys elbow him and tease him and congratulate him, acknowledging the warmth he feels in his own chest at the sight of him… Roy knows none of that was fake. It had been a genuine attempt at connection; at making amends. A person has to start somewhere.

“Fuuuuuck,” Roy whispers once again.

Coffee still in hand, he rolls his chair back to the doorway, where the other three are chatting around Beard’s desk. “Oi! Crimm!”

Ted and Beard are unperturbed. Trent jumps and sloshes hot coffee onto his hand. “Y…yes?”

Roy gestures at his own cup. “Where the fuck’d you get this stuff?”

“Oh, er—it’s from Interlude. Thank you,” Trent adds as an aside to Ted, who’s just handed him a napkin. “Little place a bit south of here. It’s somewhat out of the way, but I don’t get my coffee from anywhere else.”

“It’s good,” Roy says gruffly. “Thanks.”

He expects Trent to either be smug about it or to act shocked, and both options are going to piss Roy off, so it’s a pleasant surprise when the man just smiles. “I’m glad you like it. Always happy to draw more business to my favorite café.”

…Actually, that pisses Roy off too. “Don’t actually leave the sugar out next time,” he adds, rolling his chair back to his desk.

“Noted,” Trent says again, an audible smile in his voice.

Roy spends the rest of the morning sipping his coffee and fuming over the concept of personal growth.

*          *          *

“You were right about that fucking book,” Roy says, folding his arms where he stands at the edge of the pitch. “A Wrinkle In Time.”

“I know I was.” Trent closes his notebook and tucks it under his arm, propping his elbows on the railing. “Madeleine L’Engle didn’t win the Newberry Medal, the Sequoyah Book Award, and the Lewis Carroll Shelf Award for it for no reason.”

“Did you just know that off the top of your head?” Roy demands.

“Yes?” Trent blinks at him like he doesn’t see the problem.

“I don’t even know why I’m surprised,” Roy mutters. Fucking nerd. 

…But maybe he’s one to talk. “I read the others,” Roy confesses. “In the series. My niece liked them fine, but that was mostly an excuse for me to read them.”

Trent doesn’t tease. “Which was your favorite?”

“Gotta be the first,” Roy says decisively. “It’s a fucking classic. Second one came close, but the ending pissed me off.”

There’s a quaver of amusement in Trent’s voice. “I do remember the resolution of that one being somewhat bittersweet.” He clicks his pen a couple times. “I don’t know if I could choose a favorite. I was intrigued by the setting and lore of Many Waters, but I think its views on gender may have aged a bit poorly.”

“The twins are fucking boring main characters, too.”

“They don’t have much on Meg and Charles Wallace, I’ll grant you that.” Trent smiles wryly. “This probably won’t come as a surprise, but I related most to Charles Wallace when I read them as a kid.”

“Didn’t realize they came out that long ago.”

Trent puts on an expression of mock affront. “Roy, I’m hurt. I’m less than ten years your senior, you know.”

Roy snorts. “Yeah, whatever. We’re both old farts, let’s just be at fucking peace with it.”

Trent makes a coy little toasting gesture. “Well said.”

They lean on the railing and watch the boys start to filter out onto the pitch to warm up. “You know,” Trent says. “I could come up with some book recommendations I feel fairly certain you would like, now that you’ve dipped your toes in the world of fiction.”

“I can find my own fucking books, thanks,” Roy says, though there’s no venom in it.

“Suit yourself,” Trent says in a tone that says you’re missing out. 

When Roy gets to work the following morning he finds a folded up list of titles on his desk anyway. He makes a stop at the library on his way home and checks the first one out.

*          *          *

“Would you take a bullet for Ted?” Roy asks, out of the blue, into the quiet of the office.

“Oh, in a heartbeat,” Trent answers without hesitation.

Roy grunts. 

“So would I,” he adds, after a few seconds have gone by. Because he still can’t bear the thought of being one-upped by Trent fucking Crimm.

“I know,” is Trent’s only reply.

*          *          *

Roy doesn’t actually intend on staying late. He’s working on the dull but frustratingly time-consuming task of transferring a bunch of video clips for strategy study onto a flash drive, and he’s the kind of person who, once he starts a task, can’t stop until it’s done. 

So the next thing he knows, all the players are gone, and so are Ted and Beard, and Roy was too caught up in his work to notice. That’s the reason, and it definitely has nothing to do with the moping journalist sitting across from him with his elbows on his desk and his hands buried in his hair.

Roy transfers another batch of videos, stares at the crawling progress bar for a moment, then gives up with a sharp exhale, spinning his chair around. “Oi. What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

It takes Trent a moment to even react. He turns, pointing questioningly at himself. His hair’s a mess and there are fingerprints on the lenses of his glasses. All in all, he looks like shit.

“Yes, you, you fucking muppet. Is there anyone else here?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Trent says unconvincingly.

“Bullshit. You’re sighing every thirty fucking seconds. You sound like an old dog.”

“Thank you, Roy, what a flattering comparison,” Trent says dryly, taking off his glasses and polishing them on his shirt.

Roy ignores that, enunciating his words. “So. What. The fuck. Is wrong?”

Trent hesitates, eyes still fixed on the glasses. “I don’t want to trouble you.”

“I’m asking, aren’t I?” When Trent still doesn’t elaborate, Roy adds, “Why didn’t you bring it to the Diamond Dogs? You know those bastards would be foaming at the fucking mouth to help you with something. Especially Ted.”

Trent makes a face that Roy doesn’t know how to interpret. “Well, about that…”

“Oh, does it have to do with Ted?”

Trent’s eyes jump to Roy’s, startled and maybe a little alarmed. “What? Why would you think that?”

Roy files that reaction away for future consideration. He doesn’t know exactly what it means, but it seems significant somehow. “Because that would explain why you wouldn’t want to talk about it in front of him,” he says, a bit impatiently.

“Oh.” Trent relaxes slightly. “No, it’s not about Ted. Er, not… mostly. It’s about my daughter,” he rushes on quickly, as though hoping Roy won’t notice what he just said.

“Alia.”

“That’s right,” Trent says, surprised. “How did you know that?”

“Keeley mentioned it,” Roy grunts.

Trent half-smiles. “Good memory.”

“Is she… okay?” Roy hazards.

“Yes, it’s nothing like that. She’s fine. I… hope.” Trent stares at the floor, threading his fingers through his hair again, and Roy sees the moment he gives in. “I sometimes worry I’m a shit father,” he admits.

Roy grunts again. It’s a grunt of the encouraging variety, though, this time. He’s feeling charitable like that.

“Alia is incredible. She’s four and she’s already smarter and better than I’ll ever be.”

Roy nods; this is something he can get behind. “Little girls are fucking awesome.”

“They really are,” Trent agrees. “Remind me, how old is—Phoebe, right?”

“Nine. And you said my memory was good,” Roy says, grudgingly impressed.

“I’ve met Phoebe, remember,” Trent points out. “You’ve never met Alia.”

That’s right—that school visit back in Ted’s first year at Richmond. Roy had quite honestly forgotten all about it. “That was ages ago.”

“She left something of an impression when she nearly broke Ted’s nose,” Trent says with a sparkle in his eye.

Roy can’t keep the fondness out of his voice. “She’s a fucking monster.”

“I suspect she and Alia would have a lot in common.” Trent clears his throat. “Anyway. Long story short, last night an acquaintance made a comment implying I’m doing a poor job raising Alia, and while I know they were speaking out of judgment and ignorance and I shouldn’t take it to heart… in a way they were voicing all my own doubts about fatherhood, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. I hardly got any sleep last night because of it. A little pathetic, isn’t it?”

“Your own dad a piece of shit?” Roy asks bluntly, because he recognizes this, and he sees no point in beating around the bush.

Trent grimaces. “Well—”

“The answer is obviously yes, so let’s not fucking waste time.”

“Oh, yes. He’s a small-minded blathering idiot who uses shouting and drinking to cope with the astonishing concept that other people in the world might be different from him.” Trent smiles in a tight, wry way that says that despite the humor in his words, he was very much not joking.

“Phoebe’s dad’s the same,” Roy says. He doesn’t usually talk about it, both out of respect for his sister’s privacy and a general sense that the scumbag doesn’t even deserve the honor of being a topic of conversation. But he feels like now is the time to offer up that piece of information, and by the look on Trent’s face as he nods, empathy and understanding and a bit of relief, he was right. 

“It’s not that I worry I’m going to become like him. It’s the opposite thing,” Trent says. “I worry I’m trying so hard to be as unlike him as possible that I’m making completely new mistakes.” 

He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth, eyebrows drawn together. He looks frayed, vulnerable in a way Roy hasn’t seen before. For some reason, for just a moment, he pictures Jamie, standing in the middle of the locker room with a paper-white face and bruised knuckles. He remembers what Keeley had said, about both of them being soft under a hard outer shell. He sighs deeply. Fuck it. 

He gets up and steps over so he’s standing in front of Trent’s chair. Trent blinks up at him. “Get up,” Roy commands.

Trent frowns, but does as he’s told. Without another word, Roy folds him into a hug. 

Trent startles, going stiff in Roy’s arms. He doesn’t try to pull away, though, so Roy tightens his arms around him, wrinkling the back of his blazer, his nose in Trent’s hair. It takes a while, but eventually, Trent relaxes into the embrace, his arms coming up to hug Roy back, pressing his face into Roy’s shoulder. A faint shudder travels through his body. Roy rubs his back a little.

They stay like that for a while before Trent pulls back. His face is dry, but Roy doesn’t miss the faint redness to his eyes. “Thank you,” he murmurs, folding his glasses. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Obviously not,” Roy grouses.

Trent smiles weakly, understanding what’s unsaid. It’s quiet for a moment, and to ward off the imminent awkwardness, Roy says, “I think you should talk to Ted.”

There it is again, that little flicker of something, that slightly too-fast reaction. “What?”

“About whatever the fuck that is, probably.” Roy does them both the favor of moving on without elaborating. “But I meant about your kid. Ted’s a divorced single dad too. He’d probably have good advice, or at least be able to commiserate about, like, hoping you’re not irreparably fucking up your child, or whatever.”

“I worry he’ll judge me,” Trent admits, giving his glasses one last polish and putting them back on.

“That’s fucking stupid,” Roy says bluntly.

Trent raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t seem offended. “How so?”

“Because he’s Ted fucking Lasso,” Roy says, exasperated. “The wanker has never judged anyone for anything in his damn life.”

Trent makes a fair enough face.

“Besides,” Roy adds, “he of all people’s in no place to judge you. His kid’s a fucking ocean away. You haven’t been here for as many Diamond Dogs meetings as I have. He’s always beating himself up, thinking he’s not doing enough. You’re probably doing better than him. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“Objectively speaking, I know you’re right. But it’s hard for me to rationalize that, the idea that he might be a less-than-perfect dad, with the Ted Lasso I know. The…” Trent makes an irritated gesture. “The fucking miracle worker who turns everything he touches to gold. Don’t tell him I said that.”

Roy snorts, amused. It’s not like he doesn’t know what Trent means. A part of him idolizes Ted in exactly the same way, despite everything. The man is magnetic, and the better you know him the more incredible it becomes, knowing that relentless optimism and kindness is a difficult and conscious choice he makes every single day, even when he’s at his worst.

“Different when it’s your own life, I think,” he says.

“Yes,” Trent hums thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

For some reason, Roy thinks of Jamie again. He shakes his head to clear the thought. 

“Your daughter’s going to be fine,” he says. “You’re here and you love her. You’re trying.”

“That isn’t always enough.”

“It’s more than a hell of a lot of people can say. You and Phoebe included. And you turned out alright.”

“My father gave me complexes they haven’t even invented names for. He’s the reason I spent nearly thirty years in the closet making a career out of bringing other people down. I don’t know that you can really call that ‘alright’.”

“Just take the fucking compliment,” Roy grumps.

Trent gives in, smiling and looking at the floor. “Thank you,” he says. “Phoebe is lucky to have you.”

“I’m lucky to have her,” Roy responds, without having to think about it. Sometimes he thinks she’s done more for him than he’s ever done for her.

By Trent’s expression, that’s a feeling he’s familiar with, too. “I should go,” he says. “Have a good night, Roy.”

“Yeah. Night.”

That nameless feeling is back, that swirl of something melancholy in his chest. Alone in the office now, Roy leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling for a long moment. Then he swivels back to the computer and drags over the last set of files.

*          *          *

“The Giver was fine, but it had nothing on the Hunger Games.”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“I can say whatever the fuck I want. The movies were kind of shit, but the books were fucking stellar. It doesn’t get better than that.” Roy sets his jaw stubbornly.

“Alright, yes, I can acknowledge that they were quite good, but,” Trent gestures a bit desperately with his glasses, “The Giver came out in 1993. Nearly everything that modern young adult dystopian fiction is doing, The Giver did first. That’s not to say it wasn’t derivative of other works in its own time in its own way, of course, but it was arguably the first to be aimed at a younger audience. Not to mention the brilliant color symbolism and the startlingly relevant critiques of—”

“Okay, but have you considered that Katniss is way cooler than fucking Jonas.”

“I—okay, she is. Obviously. There’s no point in arguing that.”

“Good,” Roy says smugly. “Also the ending of The Giver fucking sucked.”

Trent tries to hide a laugh behind his mug. “I think I’m learning by now that you’re not a fan of ambiguous conclusions. I’ll have to adjust my recommendations accordingly.” 

His eyes flick up and he startles, Roy following his gaze to see what he’s looking at. Apparently, absorbed in their discussion, they had failed to notice that Ted had entered the room, and is now standing in the doorway looking between the two of them with an expression of nearly gleeful disbelief on his face. Instinctively, Roy looks to Trent, and the two of them roll their eyes in unison—which in hindsight is probably the worst thing they could have done, because Ted’s delight practically doubles, pouring off of him in waves.

“Wowza!” he exclaims. “When I pulled Roy aside to encourage the two of y’all to make up, I had no idea this’d be the result. Since when did y’all get so close?”

“We’re not,” they respond, synchronized once again. Ted raises his eyebrows. Trent sighs and drops his face into one hand. 

*          *          *

Another week goes by, another match, and then it’s Saturday movie night again. Roy would never admit that it’s become the highlight of his week, especially not to Jamie, whose turn it is to host. 

But he suspects he gives himself away. He’s the first to arrive, a hassled and typo-riddled text from Keeley just having come through in the group chat:

Keeley: boys iam runnning late, wrapping somethign up atthe office it has just been riduculous toda yBE THERE AS SOON AS I CAN so soory <3 <4 <3 love u both 💿

(Roy suspects that wasn’t the emoji she’d intended to use.)

In any case, Roy had contemplated waiting so he’d get there around the same time, but between sitting around alone at his place and sitting around with Jamie at his, well… Roy was chagrined to realize the decision had already been made.

“Heyo, Coach. Right on time, aren’t we?” Jamie greets him at the door in tiny shorts and a T-shirt that’s at least a size too small, clinging to his torso in all the right places. Roy has to make a concerted effort not to stare at his nipples, which is a fairly severe blow to his sense of self-respect.

“I like to be fucking punctual. And don’t call me that here. Move over.”

“Okay, okay. Grandad.” Jamie backs out of the doorway, hands raised in exaggerated surrender. He must have just come out of the shower, because his annoying floppy bangs are damp, and he smells fragrant and soapy. 

Roy tromps through the doorway, kicks off his shoes, and makes a beeline for the sofa, dropping into it with a deep sigh and stretching out his leg onto the ottoman. His knee is acting up again. These days it’s acting up more often than not, but still. It’s a fucking nuisance, is what it is.

Jamie putters around in the kitchen somewhere behind him, humming tunelessly to himself. Roy hears the clink of ice in a glass, but doesn’t pay much attention beyond that. He lets his eyes slide shut for a while, feeling the tension in his body slowly release. “This sofa is comfortable as shit,” he mutters aloud.

“I know, right?” The cushions dip as Jamie sits down next to him. Roy cracks his eyes open to see he’s brought a tray with what looks like a fairly expensive scotch, and pours one for Roy without needing to be asked. 

Roy tries to say thank you and what comes out instead is “No fruity rubbish cocktails tonight?”

Jamie pouts. He’s so good at that, his lips just the right shape to puff up in childish unhappiness. Roy looks at them for a second too long. “I was savin’ ‘em for later. Keeley doesn’t like this stuff anyway, so I thought we might as well drink it before she gets here.” Then the pout is gone, replaced by an equally habitual sparkle of mischief as he pours another glass for himself. “What, were you looking forward to one?”

“Hardly,” Roy scoffs. He takes a sip of his scotch. It’s good, rich and smooth. “Do you even like this stuff?” he asks suddenly. He usually sees Jamie drinking either fluorescent cocktails or, like, straight vanilla vodka or some shit. He doesn’t exactly have him pegged as someone with a refined palate. 

Jamie shrugs and takes an ambivalent sip of his own. “S’fine. But you like it.”

He got this for me, specifically. The scotch seems to stick in Roy’s throat a little, and he swallows hard. “Yeah. …Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

They sit in unusual, comfortable quiet for a while, sipping their drinks. Setting his down on the tray, Roy lets his eyes close again. It’s been a long week. Getting through this movie might be a bit of a challenge.

Then he jumps, eyes flying open, at the feeling of a warm hand on his leg, just above his bad knee. Jamie yanks his hand back like he’s been scalded. “What the fuck?” Roy asks, baffled.

Jamie looks… weirdly uncomfortable, almost upset. “Geez, talk about an overreaction. I forgot about the whole ‘elderly people being skittish ‘cause of the war’ thing. Guess that’s on me.” 

He brushes his bangs back from his face, which Roy recognizes as a nervous habit. He squints at Jamie, trying to understand his odd behavior and failing. “What were you doing?” he asks.

“Your knee’s bad, ain’t it?” 

“Yeah,” Roy says suspiciously. “Has been for ages. You know that.”

Jamie rolls his eyes, making an impatient gesture. “I mean right now, you dense old bastard. That’s why you’re acting like an invalid, ain’t it? ‘Cause it hurts?”

He pronounces ‘invalid’ wrong, but the point comes across. “It’s fine,” Roy grouses, still suspicious. “It’s not that bad.”

Jamie throws up his hands. “Suit yourself.” He settles back into the sofa, sipping sullenly at his scotch. 

Roy stares at him. There’s something here he isn’t understanding, and he can’t figure out what it is, and he needs to, because it’s bugging him like a scratchy tag on a soft T-shirt. “What—” he starts, but Jamie’s already talking, not looking at him, gesturing at thin air.

“Just thought I’d give you a wee massage. Thought it might help. That’s all.”

“Why?” Roy blurts without thinking.

“Dunno,” Jamie says, a bit sharply. “Guess it was a stupid idea. Forget it.”

Roy has fucked this all up somehow. He doesn’t quite get what’s happening, but he knows two things: He’s upset Jamie, and he also—thinking back, now that the surprise has worn off—really liked the feeling of his hand on his leg. He wants to tell him to put it back. He doesn’t know how.

“Well, go on then,” he grunts.

“Huh?”

Roy gestures to his knee. “The massage. Didn’t say you couldn’t. Just warn a bloke next time.”

Jamie gives him a curious look. “Okay,” he says. Moving with exaggerated caution as though not to spook him (Roy snorts), Jamie puts his hands back on Roy’s knee and starts gently massaging it, kneading the muscles of his lower thigh and upper calf. It feels… nice. Really nice. 

Jamie is focused on what he’s doing, his silly slitted eyebrows furrowed and his tongue poking between his lips. It gives Roy an opportunity to stare openly at him, at the angle of the bones in his thumb as his hands move over Roy’s leg, at the flutter of his surprisingly long eyelashes when he blinks, at the way the tendons flex in his tattooed forearm.

It’s too much. It feels dangerous somehow. Not dangerous in that Jamie might catch him staring—even if that would be embarrassing—but dangerous like he’s standing on a cliff’s edge and if he’s not careful, he might topple over. 

So he closes his eyes again, tilting his head back against the top of the sofa cushion. The heat and friction of Jamie’s massage is almost overwhelming on its own; at least he’s shut out some of the stimulus.

Eventually—it could have been two minutes or twenty—Jamie lets up. Roy cracks his eyes open. “Feel any better?” Jamie asks.

The answer, if Roy’s being completely honest, is… not really. While he definitely has some muscle tension going on as well, the core of the issue with Roy’s knee is unfortunately something too internal for a massage to reach. 

But he doesn’t want to tell Jamie that. Doesn’t want to disappoint him. Doesn’t want to remove the chance that he might do this again sometime. 

“Yeah,” he lies. “A bit.”

“Knew it. I’m ace at massages.” 

Jamie smiles at him, a bright and fragile thing, and something inside of Roy twists itself up into knots. But then Keeley is there, crashing through the door in a whirlwind of crinkling bags and jingling keys and complaints about phone calls that last too long, and Jamie gets up to start making those fruity rubbish cocktails, and the present turns into the past, leaving the moment behind.

That night in his bed, when Roy closes his eyes, he still feels the phantom touch of Jamie’s hands on his leg. 

Fuck.

*          *          *

There are four people in Roy’s life who he knows for certain are queer.

Number one: Keeley. She’s open about her bisexuality; has been for as long as Roy has known her and longer. She has the kind of personality that makes no one question it, with the possible exception of conservative old farts who probably have a long list of reasons for disapproving of Keeley that would come first. Even them, she’s impressively capable of winning over.

He can’t talk to Keeley. Not because he doesn’t want to. He does. In many ways she would be the perfect person to talk to about this. But she’s… too close. Too related. This is about her, in a way. Besides, he doesn’t want to unload his burdens onto her. He’s made that mistake before and he doesn’t want to repeat it.

Number two: Martha from yoga. She’s a sixty-eight-year-old divorced lesbian who makes the most delicious quiche Roy has ever tried. He’s not desperate enough to go to her. At least, not yet.

Number three, a very new addition to the list: Colin Hughes. Absolutely not, under any circumstances.

So all that really leaves is—

“Somethin’ on your mind, Roy?”

Roy actually startles a little, so consumed was he in his thoughts. He’s sitting at his desk in the Richmond office, hunched over and staring blankly at nothing in the general direction of his laptop. “No,” he grunts unconvincingly. 

“You look like you’re tryin’ to melt that computer with your eyeballs. What’d the poor thing ever do to you?” 

“Nothing,” Roy growls. 

“Uh oh. Is it holding you hostage and you’re trying to send me a secret coded message to ask for help?”

“No.”

“No. Awfully mysterious. I wonder what that could mean. I think—”

“I think I’m having a sexuality crisis at the age of fucking forty and you are the last person I want to fucking talk to about it so if you could kindly fuck off and leave me alone, that would be great,” Roy finally snaps out, losing patience.

Ted is silent, and Roy immediately feels guilty. “Sorry,” he mutters after a moment, dropping his head into his hands. “That was fucking rude. I shouldn’t be taking out my feelings on you.”

Ted’s tone is as light as ever when he responds. “Apology accepted, Roy, no harm no foul. I am a little hurt, though, if I’m bein’ totally honest.”

Something in his voice makes Roy look up at him. Ted is smiling, leaning casually in the doorway, but there’s an unusually keen glint in his eyes. “You… are?” Roy asks slowly.

“It ain’t that I expect you to come and spill all your personal beeswax to me, no sir. We’ve all got our own beeswax, don’t I know it, and it’d make a real sticky mess to go swappin’ it all over the place. But I want to make sure you feel like I’m a safe person to talk to about matters like these. I hope you know I’d never judge a guy for who he loves. Or who he takes to bed, for that matter.”

Oh. Roy suddenly feels vaguely sickened at himself. “No,” he says quickly. “No. No. It’s not that. I know you wouldn’t. Fucking hell.”

“Okay.” Ted smiles at him, apparently placated.

“It’s just—if I was going to talk to someone about it, which I wasn’t, I would want it to be someone with fucking… experience. You know. Someone…”

He trails off. Someone like me. He can’t quite say it yet. 

Ted nods thoughtfully, like he understands. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his khakis, he drops into the chair across from Roy—Trent’s chair—and leans back with a thoughtful sigh. “Well, let me tell you somethin’, Roy. In the year of our Lord 1993, a young man called Theodore Lasso got broken up with by his girlfriend of three months because she thought he was gay. His momma sat him down and gave him a talk—told him it was okay to like boys, but that he had to be real careful, to stay safe and stay healthy. He told her she didn’t have to worry, because his girlfriend had been wrong—he didn’t like boys like that, no siree. He liked girls for sure, so he couldn’t like boys too, right? Well, five months later she caught him smoochin’—snoggin’, as y’all would say here—a boy called Mitch Anderson under the deck. And you know somethin’? She didn’t even say I told you so.” Ted grins, his eyes twinkling. “How’s that for experience?”

Roy stares at him numbly. He would be inclined to not believe it, but somehow he does believe it, completely and fully, and if anything that makes the shock worse. “Shit,” is all he says. Then, “Ted, I didn’t—”

Ted shrugs, unbothered. “I know you didn’t know. I ain’t talked about it much, but it’s hardly a secret, especially nowadays. Seemed like it might be relevant now.”

Roy nods slowly, still struggling to come to terms with what he’s just learned. “How did you know?” he asks suddenly. “Is it the same, when it’s a bloke?”

“See, that’s the thing they don’t tell you, Roy.” Ted drums his fingers thoughtfully on his thigh. “There ain’t no one way things work. It’s different for everyone.”

“For you, then,” Roy asks impatiently, throwing tact out the window. He doesn’t care if he’s overstepping. He has to know. “Was it the same?”

“No,” Ted answers simply. “It felt real different. Half the reason it took me so dang long to see it for what it was.”

Roy is silent for a long moment. Then he releases an emphatic “Fuck!”, slams his laptop shut, and walks out of the room.

*          *          *

The next morning, Roy starts the day off by grabbing Trent by the elbow, dragging him bodily into their shared office, and slamming both sets of doors. It’s really a testament to how far their relationship has come that Trent looks at worst mildly surprised by this. 

Roy had vaguely imagined a logical trajectory for how this conversation would go, but all of it seems to have deserted him in the moment. After a furtive glance around to ensure there really are no listening ears (he knows better than to use the boot room now, Will), he blurts out, “Did you know Ted Lasso is bisexual?”

Whatever Trent may have been expecting, this clearly was not even close to it. “Did I—what?” he demands, flabbergasted. “What are you—no, I didn’t—did he tell you?” His eyes get very round behind his glasses. “Wait, Roy. You can’t just out someone like that.”

“It’s fine,” Roy insists. “He said it wasn’t a secret.”

“That doesn’t mean—” Trent rakes a hand through his hair, aggravated. “He told you that?”

“He told me this whole fucking story about snogging a boy in nineteen ninety-whatever. Said just because it feels different from when it’s a girl doesn’t mean it isn’t the same thing.”

Trent looks overwhelmed. “Okay,” he says after a bit of processing. “Okay. Putting a pin in that. Why was he telling you any of this to begin with?”

Roy releases a growling sigh. “Because I think I might be bisexual too. Or fucking… something. And I was actually going to talk to you about it, but he got there first.”

“Okay.” Trent seems considerably less shocked by this revelation. Roy doesn’t know how to interpret that. “I’m… touched, I think? But I don’t exactly think I have any actionable advice for you on the subject. I was married to a woman for years and I fucked up the process of coming out so badly that she didn’t believe me the first time. I’ve sort of been stumbling my way through it ever since.”

It’s actually reassuring, in a way, to know that Trent doesn’t really have his shit together any more than Roy does. “I guess it just helps,” he mutters. “To know I’m not….”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but Trent smiles anyway, sad and knowing. “There are more of us than we would ever guess.”

There’s a moment of quiet. Trent fiddles with his glasses, so Roy isn’t surprised when he asks cautiously, “Am I allowed to ask what may have triggered this epiph—”

“No,” Roy grouses, less because of the journalistic probing and more because admitting it to Trent would mean admitting it to himself and that’s worse, actually. “Go away.”

“If you remember, this is in fact my office too, and you did in fact drag me in here.”

“Fuck off,” Roy mutters, dropping into his chair in defeat.

Trent opens the doors cheerfully. “Always lovely chatting with you, Roy.”

*          *          *

Roy desperately needs a drink.

To his credit: he’s been getting better at managing his emotions lately. At actually processing them and acting appropriately on them rather than beating them away with a stick (or drowning them in booze, as the case may be). 

But this week has been a perfect storm. Phoebe has been in hospital with pneumonia and is only just starting to feel better, the weather has been dreadful, and Roy’s knee has been worse than ever, barely permitting him to walk at all at times.

And that’s not to mention the Thing that has been on Roy’s mind, the Thing he has been trying so hard not to think about. It’s getting harder by the day. It feels like it’s catching up to him. He’s not sure he’s going to be able to keep outrunning it for much longer. 

Hence the desire to get pissed out of his mind.

“Come out for a drink with me?” Trent offers after training as he slides his laptop into his satchel, leaning his hip against his desk. 

Roy hesitates to take him up on the offer, suspiciously convenient as it is, less because he’s actually opposed to the idea of getting drinks with Trent Crimm and more because tonight he’d been imagining a drink alone. Partially because he wants to wallow by himself, and partly because he grudgingly feels it would be unfair to drag anyone else under the cloud hanging over him. “I’m going to be poor fucking company tonight,” Roy tells him, which is the most diplomacy he can muster.

Trent smiles wanly at him, and only then does Roy notice the shadows under his eyes and the tension etched into his face. Clearly he’s not the only one having a rough go of things. “Well, I’m not exactly in a shining good mood either. And misery loves company, or so they say.”

“All right,” Roy acquiesces, surprising even himself by giving in so easily.

So, half an hour later, they find themselves sitting at the end of the bar at the Crown and Anchor, sharing a greasy basket of chips. Trent had proposed a different bar, one filled with less familiar faces, but in truth they would have had to go quite a long way to get somewhere Roy wouldn’t be recognized, so Roy had decided it wasn’t worth it. (Besides, no one else’s chips were quite like Mae’s.)

They eat in companionable silence for a while, both lost in their own thoughts. Roy lets himself stew for some time before his mind finally wanders to the man slouching despondently next to him. Trent isn’t sighing this time, but there’s a sort of faraway resignation in his eyes.

“Do you wanna… talk about it?” Roy asks reluctantly as Mae sets their drinks in front of them, giving the pair a curious look but leaving them be. Trent invited him here and even paid for his first round, so Roy supposes asking is the least he can do, even if the idea of talking about someone else’s problems right now makes him feel like he’s going to break out in hives. 

“I would much prefer to get so spectacularly drunk I forget all about it,” Trent replies.

“A-fucking-men,” Roy says with feeling, relieved. Trent grins wryly, clinking their glasses together, and they both drink deeply.

They do talk, though. At first it’s surface-level stuff. Football, movies, books, the awesome little girls in their lives. Roy is aware he and Trent have become closer over the past weeks, but this night drives it home, that against all odds this has become an actual friendship. He’s seeing sides of Trent he had never imagined existed—painfully soft over his daughter, excited about football to the point of tripping over his words, drippingly sarcastic as a cover-up when he gets embarrassed about something. It’s strange to watch someone he’d been aware of for so long go from a 2D concept he thought he’d known (and despised) the shape of, to a real 3D person that doesn’t fit in such a neat box. Roy wonders if Trent feels the same about him.

The conversation becomes less predictable as both of them become more intoxicated, working their way through drink after drink. They gossip about the players, discuss Beard and Jane’s fucked up relationship (Trent: “I can’t figure out if it’s some kind of poorly-negotiated 24/7 BDSM dynamic or just outright abusive”). They talk shitty dads, toxic masculinity, how Ted’s mental health seems to have been better lately. 

“That fucking article,” Trent mumbles, clenching his fingers around the outside of his glass, slippery with condensation. “That fucking article.”

Roy doesn’t need to ask which article he means, especially given what they were just talking about. “D’you regret writing it?” he asks, the alcohol loosening any inhibitions that might normally have kept his curiosity quiet.

“No. If I didn’t do it someone else would have, and they’d have done a worse job of it. It was just… the tipping point.” Trent’s eyes are unfocused behind his glasses, staring dazedly at nothingness. “Point of no return.”

“Oh,” Roy says, because suddenly things make sense. “You’re in love with him.”

“Yeah,” Trent agrees. Roy is unsure if he’s actually that open about it or simply too drunk to realize what he’s just admitted to. He kicks the heel of his trainer petulantly against the leg of his stool. “It’s also a little bit your fault,” he adds suddenly, turning to Roy with an almost accusatory look. 

“How d’you fucking reckon that?” 

“You told me he was bisexual. So now I don’t have the excuse of telling myself he’s probably straight.”

That actually makes a lot of sense to Roy. “You ever wish you could unknow something?”

“All the time.” Trent pauses. “But I don’t know if I’d do it, here, even if I could. As much as I tear myself up over it, I like living in a world where there’s… a possibility. Even if I never act on it.”

Roy nods. That makes sense, too. “Sometimes I wish I could unknow about Jamie,” he says, after a moment. “About his shit dad, and all that. Made it so much easier to hate him when I didn’t.” He takes a swig of his beer. “And then sometimes I think about Keeley. Like, would I be happier if I could fucking… forget that we were ever together. Because it fucking hurts when I think about those memories. But also, I don’t want to lose them. I don’t think I’d actually do it, in either case, either.”

Roy knows he’s rambling—that he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve, that this is probably the most Trent has ever heard him say at one time—but he’s too drunk to really care. Trent studies him for a long moment, too intense through the film of alcohol, and Roy wishes he knew what Trent was seeing with that keen journalistic gaze. He’d like to know so he could figure it out, himself.

“Maybe it’s good we can’t unknow things,” Trent says after a while. “So the only way out is through.”

“Doesn’t stop us from…” Roy casts around for the right word. “Dwelling.”

“No,” Trent agrees, heavily. “No, it doesn’t.”

*          *          *

The next morning, Roy gets to the office early and finds that Trent is already there, looking as disheveled as Roy feels. He promptly hands Roy a coffee. “Black with a dash of sugar,” he reports.

“You’re a fucking godsend,” Roy mutters, accepting it gratefully and immediately burning his tongue on it.

“I know,” Trent says, sipping his own coffee. Insufferable man.

“Why did we do that on a fucking work night?”

“Because despite our best efforts, we are both imbeciles.” Trent hits enter decisively on whatever he’s writing on his laptop, then closes it. “What brings you here so early?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Then I suspect it’s the same reason. You know you have my number, right?”

Roy wrinkles his nose. “I’m not going to fucking text you about it. That feels… wrong, somehow.”

“Fair enough.” Trent gives him a weary look. He must be as hungover as Roy is, if not worse. “Let’s get it over with, then.”

“There’s nothing to get over with. We had the conversation last night. I just wanted to say I’m not gonna fucking… tell anyone. What you told me.” Roy scratches his nails along the edge of the coffee cup, frustrated and embarrassed. “I know I fucked that up last time, telling you about Ted. That just because he said it wasn’t a secret didn’t mean I should go around telling whoever. So I didn’t want you to think I’d go telling everyone your business too.”

Trent’s half-smiling, and it’s a little condescending, but Roy is also glad enough to see it that he’ll let it slide. “I didn’t think that, Roy. But thank you for saying it anyway. And, for what it’s worth, I won’t tell anyone about you, either.”

“Tell them what?” Roy asks, suspicious. Had he confessed something to Trent yesterday and forgotten about it?

Trent just sips his coffee. “Nevermind.”

Roy frowns at him for a couple long moments before grunting and turning to his computer screen. But he can feel Trent’s eyes on his back, so he isn’t surprised when the other man clears his throat, and swivels back to face him questioningly.

“Roy, have you…” Trent’s mouth twists a little, like he thinks what he’s about to say is a bad idea and he’s going ahead with it anyway. “Have you ever heard of polyamory?”

“Yeah,” Roy responds uncertainly, off-balance at the turn the conversation has suddenly taken. “That’s when one person dates a bunch of other people, right?”

“Well, not necessarily a bunch,” Trent says. “It could just be, for example, two. And they could be involved with each other, as well.”

Roy just stares at him.

Trent sighs heavily, taking off his glasses apparently for the express purpose of having access to the bridge of his nose so he can pinch it wearily. Roy feels oddly chastised by the gesture, like he’s back in grade school watching the teacher become more and more frustrated with his inability to spell. “What am I doing,” Trent mumbles under his breath.

“I’d like to know that too,” Roy says gruffly. He’s blustering and he knows they can both tell.

“Just, uh. Something to think about,” Trent says with a wave of his hand, turning back around. “Just something to think about,” he repeats.

Roy doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think about it during practice. He doesn’t think about it in the shower. He doesn’t think about it that night, when the team goes out to Ola’s for dinner. Dani Rojas is there with his two girlfriends, and the three of them look disgustingly happy, holding hands and sharing food and teasing each other. 

He thinks about it.

*          *          *

Ted Lasso is like a ray of sunshine. It’s a cliché, one Trent—writer that he is—would probably hate, but Roy can think of nothing more apt. He draws attention, immediately changing the vibe of a room as soon as he enters it. He’s so bright it’s a little hard to look at him sometimes.

“Ahh, what a gorgeous morning,” he declares as he strides into the office, swinging his backpack off his shoulder and tossing it onto his chair before stretching widely, arms reaching towards the ceiling. 

“It’s pouring,” Trent deadpans, crossing his legs and twiddling a pen between his fingers.

“And? These things ain’t mutually exclusive, my friend,” Ted says effusively. “Perfect weather for sitting by the window reading a book and drinking tea. Or so certain people might say. I could do without the leaf water part of it, but we’ve all got our vices.”

Trent looks startled. “I can’t believe you remembered that.”

“What, you don’t have all your favorite people’s favorite weather memorized?” Ted winks at him.

Trent tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, which has gone a little pink. “I can’t say I make a habit of it. How long is that list? I need to decide how flattered I should be to be on it.”

“Are we talking favorite people or people whose favorite weather I have memorized? ‘Cause I never said they were one and the same.” Ted grins, leaning on the back of his chair. 

“Good Lord. I regret asking.”

Ted leans in conspiratorially. “Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret: you’re near the top of one of them.” 

Trent’s whole face flushes. Ted apparently doesn’t notice, because he’s already wheeled to face Roy, who has been silently observing all this. Confidently, he states, “Seventeen degrees Celsius and partly cloudy with a tiny hint of a breeze.”

Roy just grunts. He got it right, of course.

“And there you have it.” Ted claps his hands. “Alright, I’m heading up to chat with Rebecca. Coach Beard should be here in a few if you need anything, but feel free to come up and bug me. You know the drill.” 

And, as quickly and as cheerily as he arrived, Ted vanishes out the door.

“Don’t,” Trent says, the instant he’s out of earshot, before Roy can get a single word out.

“Can’t believe I didn’t notice before,” Roy says, amused. He gets to be a little mean about this, he’s decided, after everything Trent’s put him through. “You’re not even fucking subtle about it. You need to get your shit together.”

Trent groans, massaging his temples. “I know. Doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

“So just tell him.”

Trent lifts his head to give Roy a scathing look, like he thinks Roy is tremendously unintelligent. “Tell him,” he echoes flatly, disbelieving.

Roy throws up his hands. “What the fuck do you want me to say, you fucking muppet? It’s never gonna end if you don’t end it. Worst comes to worst he rejects you and it’s shit and you move the fuck on. Don’t just sit here day after day torturing yourself.”

Trent scoffs, taking off his glasses to glare at Roy more forcefully. “As though you’re one to talk,” he says, snide.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Roy snaps, immediately on the defensive.

Trent jabs a finger at him, aggrieved. “That’s what I mean! That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You act like you have no idea what I mean, but you clearly do. You’re pretending you don’t so you don’t have to deal with it.”

“Deal with what,” Roy says bitterly, daring Trent to say it.

But he doesn’t. “I’m not going to make it that easy for you,” Trent retorts. “If you want to hear it, then say it yourself. And until you do that, you aren’t entitled to a single opinion on my situation.”

They glare at each other for a long moment in silence, hackles raised, fuming, neither willing to back down.

“I’m in love with both Keeley Jones and Jamie Tartt,” Roy says without breaking eye contact.

Trent holds his gaze for three more seconds before turning and slamming his coffee into the rubbish bin so forcefully it tips over, spilling trash all over the floor. “Fuck!”

Roy expects to feel different, now that he’s finally said the words aloud, now that he’s finally let himself think them. But he doesn’t, and it’s that above all else that makes him realize how long he’s known, deep down. “There goes your excuse,” is all he says.

Trent wilts into his chair, anger completely deflating. “There goes my excuse,” he agrees, running a hand through his hair.

There's another long silence as they both ruminate. Trent gives Roy a sheepish look. “Sorry,” he says finally. “I’m acting… completely insane.”

“Yeah, you are.” Despite his words, any anger Roy might have felt is gone, too. “…Guess I am too, so.”

“I say again: Two imbeciles.” Trent gives Roy another fleeting look. “Just so you know, you didn’t have to tell me that, and you don’t have to act on it if you don’t want to. It’s inappropriate and frankly embarrassing for me to be this invested in your personal relationships to begin with, nevermind trying to tell you what to do. I suppose I’ve just been… taking out my frustrations about my own stagnancy on you.”

“I know,” Roy says. He knows he’s guilty of the same, so it’s strangely easy for him to admit, “You weren’t wrong, though.”

Misery loves company, Trent had said that night they went out drinking—and Roy has to admit it helps to be mucking his way through this alongside someone who gets it, someone else who’s straggling through the very same mud. But he thinks there’s something else that loves company, too. Something that’s starting to sound a lot nicer than misery.

After a few moments have passed, he points at the mess on the floor. “You gonna clean that up?”

Trent rolls his eyes and slides out of his chair to start tossing rubbish back into the bin.

*          *          *

After training, Roy calls Keeley.

“Hey, babe! What’s up?” Her familiar voice comes through the tiny speakers. 

“Have you ever heard of polyamory?”

She appears at his doorstep eight minutes later.

*          *          *

“Ice cream?”

“You heard me. Or do I need to say it a third fucking time?”

“Ice cream?” Jamie repeats, leaning towards Roy with giant sparkling eyes, oozing incredulous delight.

Roy shoves him away, fighting off a smile. “Say ice cream one more time and we’re turning the fuck around.”

“Yes, Coach, sorry, Coach, won’t happen again, Coach,” Jamie says immediately, clasping his hands in repentance. He’s joking, but—

“Roy,” Roy corrects. “Not Coach.” Then, “Please,” he adds more softly, in a gruff attempt to make it sound less like an order.

Jamie bounces on the balls of his feet, not all that put off by this. “Okay, Roy,” he says easily, and Roy’s stomach does a stupid little flip.

They walk side-by-side. It’s a pleasant evening, cool and partly cloudy with just a touch of a breeze. The city is bustling, many people out and about enjoying the weather, but in a sort of leisurely, quiet way that doesn’t feel chaotic or overwhelming. Roy breathes it in, unhurried.

“Not that I’m complaining, ‘cause I ain’t,” Jamie says carefully, “but what’s the occasion? I do something good? I mean, ‘course I did, I’m me. But, you know. Something more good than usual?”

Everything you do is good. Roy bites his tongue against the words. But he doesn’t really have a better reason—at least, not one he can tell Jamie right now—so, well. “You’ve been fucking incredible on the pitch lately,” he says. “You’ve been working really fucking hard and I wanted to do something nice for you. Spend some time together that isn’t training. You deserve a break.”

Jamie’s jaw drops open. The look he gives Roy is nearly awestruck, like he hung the stars in the sky, and Roy knows right then he has absolutely nothing to be nervous about. Jamie’s mouth works briefly as he struggles to come up with a response, which is unusual and quite satisfying. “Gee, grandad,” he says finally, trying to joke but obviously a bit off-balance. “You going soft in your old age?”

Roy grabs Jamie and scrubs his knuckles hard across the top of his head, making the younger man yelp in protest. “This feel soft to you? Huh?”

“Let go of me, you bloody brute.” Jamie pushes him away, but he’s grinning now. “What flavor you getting, anyhow? Probably some old people shit. Rum raisin? Oh, or what’s that one with the bits? Butter pecan, innit?”

Roy opens his mouth for a retort, but whatever he was about to say is instantly forgotten, his steps slowing suddenly. They’re walking past a cute little restaurant on their left, and through the window Roy can see two deeply familiar people sitting at a table just inside. 

What are the fucking odds? Roy quickens his pace, but thankfully the pair are too absorbed in their conversation to notice who’s just spotted them from outside, and Jamie doesn’t appear to see them either, still yammering on about ice cream flavors. Roy can’t help himself; he slides his phone out of his back pocket and sends a text.

Roy: How’s your date going?

The reply doesn’t take long to come. Roy smirks, picturing the look of barely restrained alarm that must be accompanying it.

Trent: What??

Roy: Just walked past and saw you in the restaurant

Trent: Okay, first of all, that’s terrifying; never do that again.

Roy: The fuck do you want me to do, walk around with my eyes shut? It’s not like I went out today hoping to see your stupid hair.

(That gets soundly ignored.)

Trent: Second of all, it’s not a date. It’s just dinner.

Roy rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts, stopping in the middle of the pavement. “Tartt, take a picture of me.”

Jamie blinks at him, a couple steps ahead. “Huh?”

“You heard me. Just fucking do it.”

“Uh. Okay.” Jamie looks at him like he’s lost his mind, but he obligingly takes Roy’s phone and, as directed, snaps a photo of just his face—giving the camera a steely, unimpressed glare with one bushy eyebrow arched. Perfect. Roy sends it to Trent.

After a moment, the response comes.

Trent: You absolute wanker. You just made me choke on my drink and now Ted’s all worried about me.

Roy: That’s what you get for being fucking dense.

Trent: Fuck off and let me get back to my date.

Roy’s smile grows to a full-on grin.

Roy: That’s more like it.

“Roy?” Jamie waves a hand in front of his face, clearly peeved at being ignored.

Roy looks up at him fondly. He’s in a great mood all of a sudden. “What, you need my attention on you all the time?”

Jamie sticks his tongue out, although he seems pleased by the teasing. Or just by the attention, considering he doesn’t even deny it. “Who’re you texting, anyway?”

Roy glances back down at his screen. “A dense bastard,” he says, and even he hears how affectionate it sounds. He clicks the screen off, but not before shooting off one last text.

Roy: I should get back to mine.

*          *          *

Trent’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re inviting me to your polycule’s movie night?”

Roy growls, feeling his face flush with heat. So maybe he didn’t think this all the way through. “Shut the fuck up. It’s not like that. We were doing it before we were… that.”

“Mmhmm,” Trent says, judgmental.

“Just come. It’ll be… fun, or whatever,” Roy snaps. “I know you love Princess Diaries, so don’t even try to lie about that. We’ll have drinks, and probably food. Jamie makes fucking banging cocktails. Don’t tell him I said that.”

Trent thinks about it. A smirk grows on his face. “Is Ted invited?”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Trent shrugs, unapologetic. “Seems only fair.”

The idea of having Ted Lasso of all people at the polycule movie night—fuck, now Roy’s calling it that too—is absurd and laughable and annoying and hugely awkward. It makes Roy cringe just thinking about it. He’s also positive Ted will talk through the entire movie and Roy will spend the whole time trying not to strangle him.

“I’ll… consider it,” Roy grates out, because friendship.

“Then I’ll consider it, too.”

*          *          *

Roy invites Ted. He doesn’t even talk to Keeley or Jamie first—if they’re doing this, they’re doing this. He’s committed.

He texts Trent an uncaptioned screenshot of his text conversation with Ted, which reads,

Roy: Keeley and Jamie and I are having movie night Saturday at mine. You should come.

Ted: Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit! Roy, I would love nothing more than to join y’all for a movie. Truthfully, I’ve been wound tighter than a banjo string this week, so a chance to kick back and relax would be much appreciated. I’ll bring along some goodies for my favorite throuple!

Roy: Trent will be there too.

Ted: Even better! I hear he’s got the Crimmlet this week, so I’ll whip up an extra batch of snacks. Looking after a preschooler is hungry work.

In response, Trent simply sends him back a three second audio message of him sighing, exasperated and just a little bit fond. For some reason it’s that, more than anything, that makes Roy understand what Keeley meant that one time. He and Trent really are kindred spirits.

Roy: You were right.

Keeley: About what?

Roy: Doesn’t even matter.

Keeley: I usually am 😘 

Ted doesn’t talk through the movie. He turns up in a cozy cable-knit sweater, plies them all with unfairly delicious biscuits, sits a little too close to Trent on the loveseat, and—at the very end of the movie, around when Mia and Michael finally kiss—puts his arm around him. Trent goes very stiff, and then slowly relaxes, melting into Ted’s side. 

Just when Roy is realizing his attention is in the wrong place, Trent’s eyes find his, and he smiles, a vulnerable little expression in the dimness, illuminated by the light of the TV. And if Roy smiles back, small and genuine—well, it can be their little secret. No one has to know. Wrapping one arm around Jamie and the other around Keeley, he mouths to Trent, now look at us.

And Trent grins so widely that Roy can see the white flash of his teeth in the dark.