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He walks into the pub--his local, Coach Beard keeps telling him--and spots her sitting at the bar. That ramrod straight posture gives her away, and there’s that little wisp of a ponytail he wants to reach over and tug like he’s still a schoolboy.
Mae gives him a look as he approaches the bar, Ted only shrugs, but on the train out to Brighton, he’d seen a headline in The Sun about Rupert Mannion.
Yet Rebecca hadn’t gone to Keeley or anyone else for solace, she’d come here. A giddy sort of warmth floods through him, thrilled that she trusts him in some small way.
“Glad to see you here, boss.” He says it gently, as if maybe they really did just bump into each other at the pub.
“You really don’t have to call me that when we’re outside of the club.” Her tone is business-like as always, but her eyes are soft.
“Aren’t you here to ask me about the kid we went to see in Brighton?” Those green eyes fall to the beautiful wood of the bar. Clearly not why she’s here, but he already half knew that.
“Right, Brighton. How was it?”
“Oh, it’s a lovely little town. You been there?”
“Of course. It’s the only place I wanted to go on a seaside holiday as a little girl.” She always drops these hints about herself into conversation and he wants to know more. “How was the recruit?”
“He was great. Not sure he’s right for the Richmond family, though, boss.”
“You really needn’t call me ‘boss’ all the time, Ted.”
“I wouldn’t know what else to call you.” Mae sets down two pints in front of them even though they haven’t even ordered anything. He watches her take a sip, her eyes closing in pleasure, the long column of her throat bobbing as she swallows, a satisfied sigh passing over her lips. “Ms. Welton?” Her eyes snap open at that. The way she searches his face feels like an assessment. He wants to straighten up and make some joke about whether she likes what he sees, but there is a pinch at his elbow and he realizes it’s her hand gripping his arm.
“Rebecca suits me fine,” she replies brusquely, but there’s a hint of a smile at the edge of her mouth before she glances away again.
“Whatever you say, boss.” He raises an arm, signaling to Mae who is at the other end of the bar by now. “I’m starving. You starving?”
“Rebecca.” Her request is a whisper, but he hears it all the same. “Please.”
He convinces her to split a chicken pot pie with him. Mae’s son-in-law made them and the crust is deliciously flaky and crispy on top, crackling as they dig their forks into it, both of them making indecent noises after tasting the first bite.
They have another drink.
She tells him some ridiculously complex story from college, but by the end, both of them are laughing, only to look around, discover the pub has cleared out. He leaves a big tip for Mae and Rebecca insists on leaving more on top of that.
The night air cools his cheeks as they step outside. The street is quiet, save for the odd cab passing by on the main road. Her heels echo against the cobblestones as she follows behind him to his door. He’s got the key in the lock and is turning to say something to her about how he enjoyed spending the evening with her, but he never gets the chance because her mouth is on his.
His keys clatter against the pavement. She’s already started to pull away, but he tugs her back into him, nearly laughing when he has to press up on his toes.
They stumble up the stairs, his backpack falling to the floor with a thunk once they are inside his apartment (flat, Coach Beard’s reminder rings in his ears.)
When he wakes in the middle of the night to the empty mattress beside him, it’s clear what it was. Two lonely people taking solace in each other.
*
The next evening, he boards a flight for the States. Two months of staying in some temporary apartment while he and Michelle divide up the things they gathered over twelve years of marriage. He and Henry go to get barbecue, visit the aquarium, and play for hours in the park.
He thinks about her occasionally, mostly at night when he’s alone. Sometimes tries to dredge up a modicum of irritation at her lack of communication, but is never capable of it. They’re both adults. If it was a one time thing, it was a one time thing. He respects her too much to push.
One afternoon, he and Henry have made a pit stop for ice cream when his phone buzzes in his pocket. When Henry goes to the bathroom to wash off the chocolate around his mouth, he checks his phone.
Hope you’re enjoying time at home with your son.
He’s not sure how to respond to that, so he sends her a picture of the two of them at the aquarium, in one of those hallways that has floor to ceiling tanks, fish swimming over their heads.
Her response comes almost instantly: He’s lucky to have you.
When he gets back to his empty, quiet apartment that night, he knows it’s too late to text her. Instead, he finds some old movie on TV, the technicolor flickering off the bare walls. Crawling into bed, he can’t resist typing a few words for her to wake up to: Wish I was there for biscuits with the boss.
Upon waking, the first thing he does is reach for his phone. The club’s been blissfully quiet without you. There’s not an emoji or anything else to signal that it’s a joke, but he recognizes her dry sense of humor, chuckles to himself as he tucks his phone against his chest and burrows back into bed.
Their texts are sporadic after that, mostly him sending updates about how many pounds of barbecue and coleslaw and ice cream he’s consumed. I’ll ask Coach Beard to integrate some drills for you to run when you get back.
He dreams about her that night, a bite in her voice as she orders him around the pitch, and god, he loves it.
One day, he wakes up to a text from her that simply says: Call me.
She sounds nervous when she answers, or maybe just distracted. He can imagine Higgins hovering in the background as she picks up the phone.
“Everything alright?” His tone is as friendly and genuine as always, but he can feel himself holding back a little, the uncertainty fraying his nerves.
“We need to talk about Roy.”
It’s not what he was expecting, but it makes him breathe a little easier. “How’s his rehab going?”
“That’s why I wanted to talk. He hasn’t been going.” She sounds tired. “The doctors said he could make a full recovery over the summer if he wanted, but he hasn’t been putting in the work.”
“Have you talked to Keeley about it?”
“I have. She doesn’t want to push him. A word from you might make a big difference, though.”
“Alright, I’ll talk to him.”
“There’s one more thing. There are rumors he might be offered the Tottenham job. Keeley stayed mum about that.”
There’s a tightness in his chest, thinking about losing any of his guys, even though they are fully grown men. But they’re a team, and losing Roy would be a blow to all of them. “We won’t let that happen.”
“I don’t know,” she breathes. “Maybe it’s time to let him go, Ted.”
He’s seen how much Roy respects Rebecca. It was the first indication that he might be able to break through the man’s prickly exterior. “Let me talk to him and I’ll get back to you, alright?”
“Thank you.” There’s the tiniest hint of relief in her voice.
“Of course.” A beat. “You hanging in there?”
“Yes, yes, we’re all fine here.”
Her forced cheerfulness is not really the answer he’s looking for. A longing rises up inside him: for his flat in Richmond with the lovely afternoon light coming through the windows, for his guys (his team), for her. As nice as it’s been to spend time with his son, visit their favorite haunts, Kansas City scarcely feels like home anymore. “Say hello to Higgins and Nate for me.”
“I’ll give them your best. And thank you again, Ted.”
“No problem, boss.”
The next week, she sends him a video, clearly shot from her office window, of Roy on the pitch with about thirty kids. “Hey, wanker. Watch out what you’re fucking doing.” He’s wearing a black leg brace for his knee, but it doesn’t keep him from chasing down some boy, grabbing the kid’s shirt by the collar, setting him down an arm length’s distance away from a girl that Ted recognizes as Roy’s niece.
He calls her then, half expecting her not to pick up, but she does. “As you can see, we desperately need you here.” She so rarely admits to needing help and the honesty shocks him, even though he knows she’s joking.
“Is that so?” he drawls, teasing her right back, only when he does it, her end of the line goes quiet.
He doesn’t push and after a while she lets out a breath. The sound is comforting, even an ocean and a continent away. “There’s another camp next month. You’ll be back by then?”
After Fourth of July, Henry’s going to summer camp himself for two weeks. There’s no point in staying. “Yeah, I’ll be there, boss.”
The last week he’s stateside, he and Henry take a trip to St. Louis. They visit the Arch, go to a Cardinals game, visit the zoo. Henry falls asleep on the couch as they’re watching a movie. When Ted checks his phone, he has a missed call from her. He still isn’t the best about doing the time difference in his head, so he looks at his world clock app. It’s five a.m. there.
He texts first: You okay?
Can’t sleep. Call me?
His throat is thick. He might not know much about dating in 2021, but he knows enough to know this is perilously close to a booty call. (He wonders if the person who came up with the phrase butt dial also came up with booty call.)
The hotel room isn’t anything fancy, but it has a French door separating the bedroom from the work/living space. Double checking on Henry, Ted steps into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
“Hello.” It’s not a question, but a welcome, as if he was stepping into her home. Her voice is particularly low and husky. He can barely ignore what that does to him.
“You alright?” He says it partially because he doesn’t know what to say, but also because he really does want to know how she’s doing, even though she has a particular habit of talking around it.
“It gets light so early here now. You haven’t been here to see it, but at four a.m., the sun is already starting to come up.”
“Well, that sounds kinda nice. Maybe not the four a.m. part, but watching the sun rise. You been up all night?”
“No, I slept for a few hours.” Her end goes silent and for a second, he thinks he’s lost the call, but then she takes a deep breath. “Ted, I don’t want to--what happened…” she trails off, and despite the distance, her frustration flows down the line.
“Can I say something?”
“Please.”
“I don’t want it to put a strain on our working relationship. If you want to pretend it never happened, I understand. But if you don’t want to pretend that, well...that would be okay, too.”
She laughs, a light sound with rawness at its edges. “Ted Lasso, you are truly too good for this world.” There’s a pause and an exhale. “I don’t want to forget it.”
He drops down onto the mattress, hands trembling. “Alright then.”
*
When he steps out of customs at Heathrow, there’s a man holding up a board that says “Lasso”. He wasn’t expecting a car. Ted holds out a hand for the driver to shake, introducing himself. When they depart the international terminal, the muggy air of the July heatwave blanketing London hits him in the face. There’s a familiar car idling at the curb, green eyes peering out from within.
“Boss?” his heart speeds up in his chest, hammering against his ribcage.
“I swear to god I’m going to start calling you Mr. Lasso if you don’t-” But he’s already sliding across the leather backseat towards her, his hand coming up to cup her chin and kiss her. It’s a gentle, sweet kiss, but the moment his lips meet hers, he’s not sure it’s the right move, after all, a momentary panic rising up in his throat. “Welcome home,” she breathes when he pulls back, and it’s such an incredible relief, hearing her assent, he beams like a little kid.
Her eyes scan his face, a smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth. She’s at least five steps ahead of him, always, and it’s just so damn fun trying to keep up with her. Lord knows they both need a little fun right now.
“You didn’t have to come pick me up. I’m sure you had better things to do.” His heart is still pounding, but somehow it’s easy to reach over and take her hand.