Work Text:
“Crimm.”
Trent holds up his index finger, typing one-handed until he gets to a period. His boss is more of a manager than a journalist, his shirt two-sizes too small and his voice two decibels too loud, and Trent doesn’t need his glasses to see the jovial expression on his face.
Trent slides them out of his hair and onto his nose, anyway. “Here.”
“So I see.” His boss chuckles as if his whole body finds Trent amusing. He holds up a thick envelope. “I have an assignment for you.”
Trent raises an eyebrow. In his experience, nothing good comes in thick, cream envelopes with artfully torn edges. His wedding invitation had come in an envelope like that. Looking back, that probably should have been Trent’s first hint that he and Sarah weren’t on the same page about, well, much of anything.
“The Independent has a seat at AFC Richmond’s Annual Benefit for Underprivileged Children and I’m sending you.”
“Me?” Trent holds his hand to his chest. His heart flutters unpleasantly under his fingers.
“You are our Richmond reporter.”
“I am your AFC Richmond sports reporter.” Trent waves his free hand, wishing he had a pen to gesture with. Gesturing was always more fun with a pen. “Brad is your leisure reporter, have him go and report on the color of Ms. Welton’s shoes.”
“If I wanted a report on this season’s fashion, I would be sending Brad. I am sending you.”
“And what-” Trent starts slowly, regretting the question before it’s fully out of his mouth- “do you expect me to write about?”
“You’re my best reporter, Crimm, you figure it out.” His boss pushes off the door jamb, stepping carefully around the piles Trent has stacked on every available surface, including the floor. He drops the envelope on a precarious stack of Richmond game stats. “The readers loved your last piece. Give them more Lasso fever.”
Trent flinches. He’d meant every word in that article and he regrets having written it less than he regrets the attention it’s gotten. More or less the same as he regrets that dinner, regrets the way Ted’s face had looked flushed with the heat of their food, regrets the way Ted had talked as if the world has returned every favor Ted has given it, regrets-
“I chose the chicken for you, hope that was alright,” his boss says as he steps back out of Trent’s office.
Trent sighs. He would have preferred the steak.
***
“Trent Crimm of the- Don’t tell me now, I know this one. The Sun? No that’s not it. The Daily Mail? No, not that one either.” Ted snaps his fingers and Trent can imagine the exaggerated tilt of his eyebrow and crook of his lips. “Oh, I’ve got it. The Metro. I got it, didn’t I?”
Trent finishes reaching for a bite-sized toastie masquerading as a French baguette before he turns around. He takes a bite as he does, pasting on a thoughtful expression as he chews. “You know an awful lot about British tabloids.”
Ted shrugs, his shoulder pulling at the handsome navy suit hugging his torso. “No better way to learn about the people. You’d be amazed by the stories you read. There was this one the other day …”
Trent swallows his last bite and cleans the grease of his fingers with his napkin before he freezes.
Ted- Coach Lasso, in a handsome navy suit. A handsome navy suit that clings to his frame, flaring at his hips and pulling at his bicep. His bicep that is getting closer and closer until-
Ted’s fingers clasp around his shoulder and he drops his chin so that he’s looking up at Trent with concern. Trent’s life would be an awful lot easier if Ted was less good at this coaching thing.
Ted’s voice is soft around his name. “Trent? Crimm, you okay there, buddy? You spaced out for a bit.”
Trent shakes himself, reaching for another appetizer from a passing tray to cover his momentary distraction. A toastie with a shrimp on top. Trent takes a bite. “You should try a toastie.”
Ted stares at the toastie. The toastie that’s hovering by Trent’s mouth. His neck flushes a ruddy pink above the collar of his impeccably-pressed shirt. “Oh, I can’t. Shellfish allergy. It’s a shame.”
Trent finishes the toastie. Ted doesn't look away.
Ted breaks first. “Kansas City is landlocked, of course,” he says, words tripping over each other and eyes darting to a point over Trent’s shoulder. “I was sixteen before I tried any. Still don’t know if that clam was bad or if my stomach was bad, but, better safe than sorry, right?”
“Right,” Trent nods, absently. He’d lost track of the thread at Kansas. He reaches into the inner pocket of his herringbone sports jacket and pulls out his notepad. “While we’re on the topic of bad stomachs, do you have a comment on the weekend’s clout.”
“Hey, now, clout is a strong word.” Ted holds up his hands. His wrists look longer under silver Richmond cufflinks than they do under his normal elastic tracksuit. “Besides, we’re at a gala to help underprivileged children, I’m not answering questions about football tonight.”
“Very well.” Trent taps his pencil against his notepad. “Tell me, Coach Lasso, how do you feel about being up for auction tonight?”
“Me?” Ted splutters, holding his palm to his chest. The suit pulls across his chest. “Oh, no no no. This is about the team tonight, I’m just here for moral support. No one wants to bid on little ole me.”
Trent hums. “I don’t know about that.”
Ted slides his hands into his pockets and shrugs his shoulders to his ears. “I really appreciate everything you said in that article, and I never got a chance to tell you that. But I know what most of this town thinks of me.”
Trent doesn’t have an answer for that. He’s seen the comments section of the article as clearly as Ted has.
“I appreciate the challenge,” Ted says, brightening with the same speed he’d deflated with. “I like a good challenge. We’d never grow if we stayed in our lane. Except on the road, stay in your lane then.”
“Ted, just the man I wanted to see.” Rebecca sweeps between two tables, her hand already raised to wrap around Ted’s shoulder. Her collarbone looks resplendent under her high neckline.
Ted doesn’t look at her twice. “Rebecca, hi. Have you met Trent Crimm, he’s a reporter at the-“
“There’s no time for that.” Rebecca pulls Ted into her side, turning them and already walking back to the stage. “Alan from Legal pulled out. You won’t capture what Alan was going to with all those tattoos but, well, you’re a man so you’ll do.”
Ted throws a pleading look over his shoulder, before he’s swept into the crowd.
***
The next time Trent sees him, Ted is standing on stage. His pristine suit is wrinkled at the elbows and knees and his brow gleams in the stage lights. He’s rubbing his fingers together at his side.
“Next up-” Rupert slaps his hand on Ted’s shoulder. Ted’s knees sink an inch. “Our fearless leader, Coach Ted Lasso. He’s funny, surprisingly buff-” Rupert runs his hand down Ted’s arm and squeezes- “and the most American man in football. Let’s start the bidding at a thousand quid.”
The room is silent.
“Oh come on, now. Ted isn’t that bad on the eyes.” Rupert gives Ted a once-over, then turns back to the audience with a wink. “And I’m sure anyone in this room can school him on his football deficiencies.
“Do I have a thousand quid?”
A middle-aged man at a table in the back row raises his paddle. “A thousand.”
The man is wearing an ill-fitting grey suit with a mismatched maroon tie. It’s not his normal uniform, but Trent recognizes him anyway. Trent’s seen him enough times at the Crown and Anchor, perched on the furthest corner bar stool with a Richmond jersey on one shoulder and a chip the size of Manchester on the other.
Another paddle goes up. “Two.”
The man in the grey leans back in his chair lazily. “Three.”
No one outbids him.
***
Chez Santino is a grubby French-Spanish fusion restaurant started by a German couple who either believe the myth that Brits have no taste or who have iron stomachs and outsized aspirations.
Trent nods at the waiter as he enters. “For one.”
The waiter - dressed in a three-piece suit, complete with pocket watch and top hat - shrugs and motions to the empty dining room.
Trent chooses a table in the far back corner. The tablecloth is red and white checkered plastic and his elbows stick to the top as he slides into his seat. He orders a glass of middling pinot noir to sip as he waits, then he orders the whole bottle.
Trent is two glasses in when Ted pushes open the door, a bright smile on his face and a swing in his step. The waiter meets him with a smile and two menus. “You must be Ted Lasso. Right this way, please.”
“First class treatment, what is this, the friendly skies?” Ted laughs.
The waiter nods at the menu in front of Ted and graciously doesn’t ask Ted for clarification. “I’ll leave you with the menu until your companion arrives.”
Trent is four glasses in when the waiter returns. He’s ringing his hands in front of his chest and his smile has been replaced by an apologetic grimace.
“I’m sorry, sir, but your companion appears not to be coming. If you’d like to order something, you’re welcome to stay, but-” The waiter’s eyes flick to the door.
Ted lets out a breath and closes the menu around his finger. “You know, Marvin-” His eyes flick to the nametag on the waiter’s chest- “I think you might be right. And that’s a darn shame, I was really looking forward to tasting some of your fascinating food.”
The waiter grimaces. Trent’s pretty sure that it was meant to be sympathetic. “It’s just that it’s a table for four, and with the dinner rush-”
Trent reaches for the mostly-finished bottle and stands. He makes sure to bump a dozen of the empty chairs as he makes his way across the room.
“Excuse me,” he murmurs to the waiter as Trent turns his shoulder to get past him. He drops his glass and the bottle onto Ted’s table and pulls out the chair opposite of him. He reaches for the menu, scanning the page. “We’ll do the fondue.”
“Sir-” The waiter clears his throat, schooling his features. “The fondue can take up to an hour to prepare.”
Trent shrugs and looks across the table at Ted. “Better put in our order then. Oh, and another bottle of this awful pinot.”
“Better make it white,” Ted says, a flush rising to his cheeks.
“Bring both.” Trent leans forward, shrugging out of his suit jacket and slinging it over the back of his chair. “The fondue will take a while.”
Ted waits until the waiter has left in a huff before he leans across the table, lowering his voice. “That was awfully kind of you, but I was just going.” His smile twists. “Seems that I’ve been stood up.”
Trent nods. “It does seem that way.”
“The thing I don’t get-” Ted muses- “is the three thousand quid. I’ve been stood up on blind dates before, but this is by far the most expensive. Is this what Beyonce feels like?”
“I doubt it.” Trent reaches for his glass, nodding out the window. “Besides, that’s what they paid for.”
Ted turns his head and half a dozen phone cameras go off. “They wanted a picture of me, dining alone.”
Trent shrugs, lifting his glass. “Good thing you weren’t dining alone.”
“Yeah.” Ted’s eyes gleam as he lifts his water glass to Trent’s. “Good thing.”