Chapter Text
Now, no one was happier than Ted Lasso that Roy had managed to hash it all out with Trent, that was for sure. It was maybe a bit strange of him to admit given how far up in the years Roy was getting, but Ted was proud of him for managing to find a measure of peace.
There were plenty of times that Ted admired Roy's tenacity and ability to avoid blinking for long periods of time and growling and all that. He was a man quick to swing the axe but just as quick to accept an apology. It reminded Ted of back home, the way the farmers along I-70 would take chainsaws and tractors, felling the trees every couple of years before lighting the field on fire.
The very first time he saw it from the backseat of the car, he'd gasped and pointed. Then, his uncle had explained about controlled burns, how you had to let the field go to smoke sometimes. It kept the whole farm from burning down if someone threw out a lit cigarette from the car window into a drought-stricken grass.
Roy's anger was a hatchet, cutting down everything in range.
But the next time they were all in the office together, when Trent cautiously stepped up to lean on the doorframe, Ted saw the way Roy looked at him, how the fire had burned out, how only smoke remained.
It was a relief, because as Ted admitted to Beard later, "I was startin' to get real concerned, like I was gonna have to step in there and convince the team to roll out the welcome mat."
"Which obviously could have backfired," Beard continued smoothly, immediately understanding. "High-risk maneuver, coach."
"You know that's right. If I pulled it off, I was gonna call name it, you know like how gymnasts get to name skills if they land 'em off."
Beard gave him a withering glance. "Gotta pull them off at an international competition, coach."
Ted frowned. "Well, I'm an American and this here is England, so--" Already, Beard was shaking his head. "Well, shoot, coach, I was real lookin' forward to the Biles-5 or whatever we're up to now."
"You can't decide to name it for someone else."
"You know I'm startin' to feel a bit like Streisand in '64 and '68."
"Sorry for raining on your parade twice."
The particulars of the gymnastics Code of Points aside, things were looking up for the team and their new bespectacled chronicler. Forget the parade, it was all feeling right as rain.
Well. It did at first, anyway.
Ted was very used to the overlap of Biscuits With Boss and Girl Talk O'Clock. He'd made a game attempt in the past to try and figure out Keeley's schedule so he could double-stock on biscuits, share the love a bit whenever Rebecca had company. Since Keeley had kicked off her own jam, though, her visits had only gotten more sporadic, so Ted accepted the hospitality loss there.
The stars did occasionally align, though, and Ted could hear the telltale signs of the celestial convergence as he climbed the stairs. Bright laughter was echoing out from the office upstairs.
"Oh, I bloody love you," Keeley crowed just as Ted ambled in. "What else do you got, please, I must know."
Trent was sitting with Rebecca and Keeley, wedged into the corner seat. One of his legs was stretched out across a cushion, the heel of his well-heeled boots conscientiously nudged off the edge. As Ted stood over them, Trent's breath caught.
"No, no, it's all good," Keeley said, putting a hand on Trent's thigh and giving a squeeze that was clear in how her red-lacquered nails dug just a bit into Trent's jeans. "Ted comes up here every morning to give Rebecca homemade biscuits."
"He certainly does," Rebecca said from Keeley's other side, flashing Ted a grin. "Good morning, our esteemed gaffer."
Keeley's hand was still on Trent's thigh. "Good morning, Coach Lasso," he greeted. "How long have you been plying your employer with treats?"
"Since day one," Rebecca supplied easily, holding out her hand. Ted obligingly set the pink box there to be whisked away as she gracelessly thumped backward onto the sofa.
"Hm." Trent eyed her as she broke open the treats and bit into one. "Do you believe this little routine engendered some... additional patience when Coach Lasso's tenure began?"
Pursing her lips and letting her eyes narrow, Rebecca made a show of looking Ted up and down (Ted immediately grinned at her) and then over at Trent. "He's on a season-by-season contract, actually."
"I knew that already," Trent stated flatly. "Four-point-seven first year, a surprisingly merciful cut to three-point-five despite relegation." He flicked some of his hair out of his eyes. "Increase to just under ten this year."
"Wow, you just have that off the dome, huh?" Ted asked. "Not sure how I feel about that."
"Oi, we're getting off topic! He can't have any juicy goss without contributing his own first." Keeley, with zero compunction at all, wrapped her arm around Trent's, her cheek on his bicep. "Whisper something scandalous to me. Something not fit to print."
Ted looked at Rebecca, feeling his eyebrow migrating north to his hairline.
She was busy eating a cookie and just gave him a wink.
"I don't know what to offer up," Trent said, ducking his head a little. "There's enough drama to rival Herodotus' histories, but as with much history, I'm not sure how interesting you'd find it. Just as it's hard to get someone who doesn't care for sports to give a shit about the drama in this industry."
"Oh, stop being such a tease and spill," Rebecca said.
"Now, ladies," Ted started, "We shouldn't pressure our guest to divulge all of his secrets, as I'm given to understand that's how you keep hair all voluminous and big."
Trent and Rebecca looked confused. Keeley beamed. "Oh, I love Mean Girls!"
"The chivalry is noted," Trent said, darting a glance up at Ted, quick as a cat's tail. "Alright. Do you remember The Tenth Elm, that online magazine that spun up out from Arthur's distributor back in 2017, 2018?"
"I did a spread for that one," Keeley said. "It took them seven bloody months to pay me, it was awful."
Trent's smile went a little flinty, a little mean. "Oh, I can tell you why. The whole thing was spun up by Arthur McNaulty's mistress, because she thought shagging the owner of a newspaper made her a potential celebrity--"
"Oh, lord. Oh." Rebecca placed a hand over her chest with a frown of deep pity on her face. "I bet I know how this one goes."
"Well, no spoilers," Ted said, because he did not and felt in the tall grass a bit. He'd been standing there for a while, but unlike most days he hadn't become the center of attention nor been shooed out. It was a weird Limbo. Maybe he should have taken the sliver of seat that wasn't occupied by Trent's little boot.
Keeley shushed them both and managed to lean even further against Trent, kicking up her feet to rest on Rebecca's lap. Looking upward, she fluttered her lashes up at him.
"Yes, well." Trent ducked his head again, clearing his throat. "The whole thing was a rather expensive venture. And Amelia, the mistress, made it a little too public that she was running the shop as a catch-and-kill for any stories or photographic evidence of the whole affair. So." He lifted his eyebrows.
"Catch-and-kill, y'all need a fishing license for that?" Ted asked. Deep-sixing his career had not changed the fact Trent was a master of those long, expectant looks that hit the target like a length of rope. When he aimed one at Ted, he folded in two seconds. "Sounds like the flip of catch-and-release."
"Essentially, yes," Trent said. "Catch-and-release would be buying the rights to a story or photo and running it. Catch-and-kill on the other hand is when a publication buys the right to be the first to run a story and then..." He airily waved the hand that was not supporting Keeley. "Doesn't."
"Paying for a scoop and just leaving the Ben and Jerry's untouched doesn't seem very journalistically sound." He met Trent's eyes, assessing. "Lemme guess, Phish Food? You seem like a man who enjoys a marshmallow ribbon after a rough day."
Trent's leg bounced once, and he tugged the glasses off his face, a funny little bit of business to cover up his reaction. "No comment." As Ted grinned, Trent explained, "Anyway, it's a way to cover up evidence and silence witnesses. If you believe a specific person is the primary source, the person who makes or breaks a story, then you pay for exclusivity and thus: catch-and-kill."
"It's very common practice," Rebecca added.
"Like all gag orders, it should be illegal," Trent countered.
Ted frowned, tucking his hands into his pockets mostly to have something to do since he didn't have a former-journalist to drape himself over and he didn't think he and Rebecca had the sort of relationship where she'd be fine with his sketchers on her nice dress. "Right, right, so if I'm understandin', then this big rich guy's mistress was spinnin' up this whole magazine to do the catch-and-kill about any stories about herself. And if she was making all that clear, that's a bit conspicuous. I mean, I'd expect some unsavory types to hear that and..." As Ted spoke, Rebecca grinned, nodding. "Oooooh."
"In-un-dated," Trent said slowly. "She essentially put a bounty on herself. As soon as people heard about the easy payout, people followed her and her beau everywhere. Doesn't take long to realize where the fire is with all the photos of smoke being bought up. The affair was in The Sun before the end of the year. Tenth Elm was done by Valentine's Day."
"How did I not hear about this?" Rebecca asked.
"Because it didn't exactly make the front page," Trent said.
"Oof," Keeley said. "Imagine goin' through all that and you don't even make it above the fold."
"Well." Lifting his arm, Trent shifted so he could pat Keeley's elbow, his arm almost around her. "Given the tardy paycheck, I suspect it's what they deserve."
"True," she agreed. "Fuck 'em!"
It was quite a whole little scene, with Trent somehow sinking sideways into the corner, Keeley amiably weighing him down, and Rebecca patting Keeley's ankles as she laughed.
"Well, I'm gonna head down to the locker room," Ted said, rubbing a bit of pocket lint between two fingers. "The team tends to file in 'round ten if you want to come down and regale them with the hot goss too."
"Maybe we'll give him back in a bit," Keeley said. "I'm quite comfortable."
"I'm not," Trent said. "Could you move your arm either forward or back--? Yes, thank you."
"Have a lovely day, Ted. Let me know if you need anything," Rebecca said, warm and kind. It was not a dismissal so much as permission to escape.
Which was fine. Ted was no good at Girl Talk and gossip, and he wouldn't fit onto the sofa anyway, not without squeezing in pretty close.
"Later, gators," Ted said, and am-scrayed out of there.
The team was out on the pitch, chattering amiably together as they stretched and warmed up. Roy and Beard were deliberating what drills to start with as Ted checked his work email on his phone.
It was just them out on the sideline, until it was not; Ted spotted Colin lifting his arm in a little wave of acknowledgement, which Dani saw and copied with all the eagerness of a windshield wiper in a downpour.
Glancing back, Ted smiled as Trent waved back to the team, manning his post at the smooth, enamel-painted fence. "Nice of you to join us," Ted greeted. "The symposium finally release you?"
"Keeley had a prior engagement, events coordination at the Olympia," Trent said, his little book spread open across his arm.
"Shame. You looked super cozy. Nice to see the bygones have truly metamorphosed into bygones."
Trent gave a tight-lipped smile. "Yes, well. It's nice to be invited to morning tea, though I'm..." He lifted his hand again, waving at someone else on the team. "I'm having trouble with the role of silent observer."
Beard glanced over. "What happened?"
"Found Keeley using Trent as a teddy bear while she and Rebecca rolled him for some journo bee-tee-ess. Wish I took a picture, it was real cute, like a kitten trying to scale a L'Oreal model."
Eyes still on Trent, Beard said, "We don't have the soil or weather to cultivate erysimum here. Hope you're adaptable."
Tucking his book into his elbow, Trent retrieved his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen, then clearly said, "Erysimum." A slightly robotic voice said, Displaying results for erysimum cheiri, and he looked at the screen. "Ah. Duly noted, Coach Beard."
"Can we stop talking about plants and play some fucking football?" Roy asked loudly. "Oi! Eleven on eleven, same formation as last game. Let's figure out where we fucked up!"
Ted took a step forward, ready to get in there and observe, but paused to look at Trent, lowering his sunglasses enough to clearly lift his eyebrows.
"Hm? Oh. Scientific name for the common wallflower," Trent explained.
"I didn't know those were an actual flower. Learn somethin' new every day."
"Indeed."
Making sure Trent was settled in and that the bad blood between him and Roy was settled made for a much more peaceful atmosphere around Nelson Road. The sense of all things finding their pace brought a comforting sort of human feng shui to the club.
Ensuring the team was all aligned with the new energy was a whole other ball of wax that Ted was concerned about. Most of the players had some antagonistic interplay with the press in the past, so even if Ted made a show of talking about how he appreciated Trent's handling of The Article with the door wide open and his voice carrying out into the locker room, the mysterious and checkered history between each player and the local journalists was too much for one manager to keep track of. He'd have to put out fiery tempers as they flared up.
That was Ted's intention, anyway, but as the team filed out towards the carpark after an exceptionally cloudy day of training, the foyer bottlenecked, stacked full of footballers as they peered out the open doors into the rain.
"It's the closest car, and has heated seats," Colin said, bright as a penny. Or pence coin. He pointed to the lurid orange contraption in the closest slot. "I can get you home in five minutes with how fast it goes."
"I appreciate the offer," Trent said, situated at the center of a little huddle of players. "But I have reported on your driving record and am aware you are on your second sports car, Colin, and will respectfully decline."
While Colin made some indistinct whining noises, the Footballer Formerly Known As Zoreaux smiled. "I could help out if you need."
The glasses came off to tap against Trent's lips; some serious thinking as going on. "Hmm. Ah, no."
"Ha!" Colin crowed joyfully.
Van Damme's face fell like an ice shelf. "What, why not?"
"Canada is a right-lane drive country," Trent explained. His audience let out collective groan before a few hands shot into the air. "Uh. I could simply call a rideshare." His arms were tucked close to his body, and a curious mixture of alarm and amusement flitting over his face.
Sam raised his arm, and Trent pointed at him, as if he were conducting a press conference. "I have an Telsa!" Sam offered.
"I'm acquainted with far too many tech reporters to trust a Tesla, I'm afraid," Trent declined, then pointed again to another person.
"Have you ever had the opportunity to ride in a Lotus?" Richard asked.
Isaac shook his head, getting that look in his eyes like he was going to begin wrangling the team. Man had an aura of Captain these days. "Bruv, that thing is the size of a shoebox. Just getting in it with you's like a come-on."
"I have always wondered about that," Sam said thoughtfully. "If you are always dating two people, why do you drive a coupe? Where does the other woman sit?"
Richard draped his arm around Sam's shoulders with one of his most French, most roguish grins. "Perhaps you'd like to come along and see for yourself?"
Suddenly, the hallway was full of shouting as the boys continued volunteering, because that kind of competitiveness didn't clock out at end of day.
"Alright-alright-alright!" Isaac hollered, dropping his bag to the floor decisively. Unzipping it, he dug around briefly inside and lifted out a deck of cards. "We're gonna solve this fair. Who wants to draw on this? Colin, put your hand down, no one wants a ride in your car."
"Nah, mate, leave 'im in," Jamie tossed in from the sidelines, grinning. He had not volunteered, but seemed happy to commentate anyway. "A joyride in Colin's Lambo is like the bad end in one of them choose-your-adventure books."
Trent had graduated to covering his entire mouth with his hand, aghast as all of this happened around him. His eyes were darting around, bouncing between the rambunctious bunch hemming him in, then outward.
The second Trent caught Ted's gaze, Ted could read the S-O-S blaring out from his eyes. Biting down a grin, he sauntered in for the assist. "Hey, fellas, anyone mind if I invoke a sort of coachly Right of First Refusal here?"
"Please," Trent huffed immediately with a welcoming wave of his hand. "Always a fan of your specific brand of ingenuity."
"I don't got a fast car, but I got a plan to get us outta here." He held up his umbrella. "Ain't no dinky petrol station brollie either, got a portable canopy here. I can keep your feathers dry all the way to the station."
It'd probably even be fun; having Trent around had brightened the place up, but Ted had been disappointed to learn this didn't automatically mean more opportunities to pick Trent's brain or line up more of their little chats. The season was in fuller swing than the pendulum in the literary pit, and the most he'd managed was interrupting Trent's chats with other people and a few short dalliances over tea and coffee.
Point being, Ted reckoned a rainy stroll to the Underground would hit the spot right now.
Trent seemed to be considering that, ignoring the sulks of the grown men that'd inexplicably decided he was a decent stand-in for the Bill France Cup. Ted was feeling confident enough that he unbuttoned the little strap around the umbrella, ready to waltz out into the rain and swing it open. It'd be a nice bit of drama to end the day with.
Instead, Higgins squeezed into the group, compressing everyone even further. "Ah, Trent, glad I caught you. I need to get your signature on that wavier paperwork if you're still planning on coming along to Amsterdam."
"Ah, of course. I meant to swing by earlier." Lifting an arm, Trent slipped past Isaac and Richard. "Thank you, gentlemen, for the... myriad offers. Please get home safe, all of you."
Bumbercatch heaved a sigh. "I was going to offer a rain slicker and a ride on my motorcycle."
"You own the Enfield out there?" Trent asked. "Well, you should have said so earlier. No contest, you'd have won."
"Well, shoot," Ted said, putting on a pout. "I didn't know I was competin' with a bike. That ain't fair."
"You're right, Coach Lasso, it really isn't fair," Trent said sympathetically.
"What was this all about then?" Higgins asked, watching as the team finally began filing out, hurrying to their cars as they were robbed of their impromptu little competition.
"I truly do not know," Trent said honestly with a dazed shake of his head. "That was... unexpected. But very kind?" His lips curved up as he met Ted's eyes again. "Do you really mean to walk in this deluge?"
"Oh, it won't be that bad," Ted said. "I could wait for you? Mostly I was hopin' to clock a little more time with you. Trying to level up our friendship enough you'll stop calling me 'Coach Lasso.'" He grimaced. "Always makes me feel like I'm getting called up to the principal's office."
"You know that I could call you a car..." Higgins said slowly, in case his offer was somehow off-limits in some way he couldn't foresee.
"Do I get to pick what car you call me?" Ted asked. "Gotta be Ford Prefect."
Like a god-ray cutting through the clouds, Trent laughed, tilting his head to hide behind his hair. "Someday, we should discuss how a man from the American heartland crosses paths with one of the most seminal pieces of English comedy."
"Happy to tell the story, next time you can spare me some of your time." He saluted with the umbrella. "Night, Trent, Higgsy."
"Goodnight, Theodore."
Behind Trent's back, Higgins widened his eyes at Ted, inquiry sketched across his face.
It was a question Ted did not have an answer for. No one had called him Theodore since he was still getting dragged to church on Sundays. And it sure felt different than when the old pastor had said it. Trent Crimm had some kind of way with words, and the more syllables in his mouth, the better.
Ted was still lingering there, telling himself that he was waiting for the players to clear out of the parking lot before hoofing it on foot. The press would have a field day if the manager of the Greyhounds got taken out by one of his own team's cars.
How long did it take to sign a waiver, anyway?
Eventually, Rebecca descended the stairs to her office and walked briskly in his direction, her long coat already pulled on and primly belted to keep her tidy and dry.
Her eyes skated over Ted and his umbrella and she said simply, "Absolutely not, no. Come along."
"Appreciate you, boss," Ted said, letting Rebecca whisk him away in her Rolls.