Archive of Our Own

congratulations on your jubilation

our hearts are breaking underneath all the applause

this devastation is of our own making

but we've never tasted this much bitterness before

They win the whole fucking thing.

Her heels sink into the pitch when she runs out onto the grass, the ground damp from the light drizzle that blanketed the evening, a misty haze hanging low in the air. Still, she presses her way forward, past the reporters and through the players, focused on the figure sprinting his way towards her.

She meets him halfway.

The hug he pulls her in for feels like a lifeline, and she’s grateful the grip he has on her is so crushing because she’s sure his hold on her is the only thing holding her upright, keeping her from collapsing in on herself.

And when he pulls back, leaning his head to get a better look at her, there’s this look on his face; a melancholic glint in his eye that’s highlighted by the small flicker of a smile that graces his lips. 

“We did it, Boss.” 

She can’t bring herself to find the words, instead bringing a careful hand to press gently against his cheek, allowing herself a moment of private intimacy before placing it chastly on his chest. 

“You did it, Ted.” 

There’s a shift in his expression, a look that gives her brief pause before he’s whisked away, pulled into the arms of his players, enveloped into a circle of press.

When he hoists the trophy above his head, red ribbons fluttering in the wind, she can’t help but fight the feeling that she’s lost everything.

—

go take a bow

your audience is waiting

we'll take the shadows since the limelight isn't ours

He’s going to say something to her, she’s sure of it.

They walk slowly through the hallway, their journey cloaked in a comfortable silence as they take a moment to savor the last moments of quiet before the storm that inevitably awaits them in the press room.

He keeps opening his mouth in her periphery, taking a breath in, poised to speak – yet he remains silent, opting to steal subtle glances in her direction instead.

She probably wouldn’t have noticed if she wasn’t watching. 

Their shoulders keep bumping, fingers brushing as they keep pace with each other, taking their time to savor these fleeting moments of time together. The entire night really, he’s been no more than an arm’s length away from her, neither of them having it in themselves to be any farther apart.

It’s then that his fingers brush over the back of her hand, his touch lingering; for a moment she thinks he might grab her hand.

He doesn’t.

When they reach the doorway they pause, taking a moment to face each other before facing the chaos on the other side. 

“Once more unto the breach,” he jokes, gesturing vaguely towards the room with his chin. 

She doesn’t laugh.

He opens the door for her, ushering her through the doorway with a hesitant hand barely ghosting over her lower back.

The room immediately lifts into a roaring round of applause and shouts of jubilation, flashes accosting them from all angles; she can't make out any of the words of praise being shouted in her direction over the ringing in her ears.

She pulls away from him, tripping slightly over her heeled feet as she takes up her customary spot on the side of the room, slotting in against multiple reporters that have resorted to standing.

By the time she’s able to get her breathing under control Ted's already seated, a slight flush spreading high on his cheeks as he waves his hands dismissively, urging everyone to take their seats.

“Oh boy, it sure is packed in here tonight, ain’t it?” he comments as he regards the room, a gentle laugh bubbling up from his chest as he takes in the number of microphones arranged around him on the table. From this distance she can see the hint of awe in his eyes, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as his hands settle in his lap.

“Congratulations, Coach!” Someone shouts, a smattering of murmurs echoing around the room, corroborating her sentiments.

“Oh, thank you Sarah – I appreciate you.” Ted replies, hand coming up to shield his eyes from the harsh overhead lights as he acknowledges someone in the sea of press, tone gracious as ever.

“I think that you fine individuals might have some questions for me, amiright? Yes, okay – that’s what I thought.” He chuckles as the room erupts into noise, eyes scanning the crowd. It’s not long before his gaze rests upon the second row.

“How’re you doin’, Marcus?”

“Excellent, thank you,” Marcus replies, springing to his feet. “Congratulations on the win tonight, Coach Lasso – I think everyone in the room would agree with me that it is well deserved.”

A rush of murmurings confirms his statement, and Ted smiles leaning forward to get closer to his mic. “What’ve you got for me tonight?”

Marcus smiles, taking a deep breath before he starts. “You’re an American that had never set foot in England, whose coaching credentials surrounded a completely different sport – a collegiate post at that – and was charged with the leadership of a Premier League football club despite clearly possessing little to no knowledge of the sport.

“We laughed at you,” he continues, “we crucified you in the press. And yet, despite all odds, you’ve led your team to the top, winning over our hearts and turning AFC Richmond into an underdog success story.”

Ted smiles as he considers his words, tilting his head in agreement before shifting forward in his seat. “You got a question in there, Marcus?”

He smiles sheepishly, tapping his pen against his notebook before pressing forward. “It seems you’ve made it to the top of the mountain, Coach Lasso – why leave it all behind?”

Something flashes in Ted’s eyes, something achingly desperate yet subtle enough she’s not sure anyone caught it but her; in an instant the expression is gone, his gaze controlled as it focuses on something in the back of the room.

“Well, you know what they say,” he replies after a long pause, his eyes flicking to her place at the side of the room. 

“There’s no place like home.” 

—

we wanted it so bad

gave it all we had

oh, but wanting, it doesn't always make it yours

She attempts to catch her breath on the steps leading up to her office, pressing forward through the overwhelming ache in her chest. The euphoria of the changing room had been absolutely smothering, pressing in on her from all angles until she felt ready to scream. It’s an odd feeling – the jubilation coursing through everyone’s veins, masked by the bitter taste of sorrow that’s been coating her tongue all evening. 

She seems to have reached her breaking point.

Leaning against her desk she braces her arms behind her, crossing her legs and turning her gaze towards the floor.

For a moment she just tries to breathe.

The quiet knock on her door – cadence in a familiar rhythm – alerts her to the fact that he’s followed up after her.

“Oh Ted,” she starts, clearing her throat. “Did you need something?”

“Oh nah…” he starts, rocking back on his heels as he stalls in the doorway. “It’s just – I brought you somethin’.” 

He takes a moment to step into the room, sliding his backpack around to his front on one shoulder before rooting around in its contents. A flash of a smile graces his face as he finds what he’s looking for.

“One last time,” he starts, holding out a pink box, “for old time’s sake?”

Her breath stalls in her chest for a moment, eyes stinging with unshed tears. She takes a deep breath, her eyes focused on his hand, straightening her spine resolutely before she can look him in the eye.

“I’ll have to save them for a rainy day,” she whispers, her fingers brushing over his as she reverently takes the box from his hand.

He chokes out a laugh, nodding his head towards the window. “Plenty of that goin’ on around here, Boss.”

“Rebecca,” she murmurs under her breath.

“What was that?”

Her head snaps up, sheepishly realizing she’d been louder than intended. She struggles for a moment to find the words, her mouth falling open as she considers her options.

“Rebecca,” she sighs, her eyes drifting closed for a brief moment. “It’s just – I’m only…”

He sucks in a deep breath, his brows pulling up in understanding. “Rebecca.”

It feels as though all the air has been pulled from her lungs.

She sets the pink box down on her desk with shaky hands, pushing past him in favor of the refuge of her bar cart, pulling out two champagne glasses for good measure.

The champagne bursts out of the bottle in a rush, her movements too hasty as she all but rips the cork from the glass neck; she hisses slightly when a good amount of it ends up dripping onto her heeled toes, the remnants seeping into the carpet below. 

“Would you like some, Ted?” she asks as she pours herself some, the bottle heavy in her hand.

“You know I’d love some,” he replies, and she starts pouring him a glass.

His hand on her elbow stops her. “But I really shouldn’t,” he continues, fingers dusting lightly over her bicep as he pulls away. “I’ve gotta be up real early tomorrow.”

“Ah, that’s right – you’re packing up the flat.”

He nods, grimacing, before blowing out a harsh breath. 

“Your flight’s on Monday?”

“Monday, yeah,” he nods slowly, shoving his hand in his pockets and trailing his gaze down to the floor. 

Monday.

She hums and takes a sip from her flute, the taste acrid on her tongue. 

“Well, I better get goin’,” he grimaces, shoving his hands in his pockets as he gestures his head towards the door.

She swallows past the lump in her throat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ted,”

“Oh, nah, you don’t have’ta–”

“I want to.”

He takes a moment to regard her with careful eyes before he nods solemnly, not quite meeting her eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Rebecca.”

Her heart skips a beat as he pivots, his back to her as he starts making his way towards the door.

“Oh, Ted?”

He pauses, turning half towards her, an eyebrow quirked in question. There’s almost something hopeful in his eyes, she thinks.

and you may win this battle but you’ll never win the war

She swallows, her head at battle with her heart, waging war over her tongue. 

She wants to tell him to stay. 

She doesn’t. 

“Thank you… for everything.” 

Something in his expression shifts, an almost imperceptible drop in the lines of his face as he swallows and nods solemnly, turning back towards the door.

He taps his knuckle on her coat rack on his way out. 

—

oh, and your tears fall as your world is crashing down

It may be too early for champagne, but that doesn’t deter her from showing up on his doorstep with a nice bottle from her wine fridge, the disesteem of indulging in early-morning libations softened with the jug of orange juice she stopped to pick up on her walk over.

As she rounds the corner to Paved Court she pauses for a moment in surprise, met with the sight of Beard waiting outside the door to Ted’s flat.

She thought they’d be alone.

“Ah, good morning,” she greets him as she approaches, watching with curious eyes as he pulls his mobile from his jacket. “Everything alright?”

“Ted’s not answering the door,” he replies, bringing his phone to his ear as he presses down firmly on the buzzer again.

She shuffles the bottles in her hands, listening to the quiet sound of the ringback tone before it shifts into the opening lines of Ted’s voicemail. Beard immediately dials him again.

“Don’t you have a key or something,” she asks him, gesturing vaguely with her bottle. “Just let us up.”

Beard hums in response, sighing before digging around in his pockets, phone still pressed firmly between his shoulder and his cheek.

The stairs creak as they climb them, the wood worn and heavy underneath their feet. Beard’s keys rattle as he pushes them into the lock, the door giving with no resistance when he presses inward. He immediately pauses in the doorway, his shoulders sagging and head falling to the side as he takes in the sight in front of him.

“What?” she asks urgently, struggling to push past him and force her way into the entryway. The moment she catches sight of the interior her heart skips a beat in her chest, the next thud almost painful as it slams into her ribs. 

The flat is completely empty, save for the corporate furniture that came with the lease.

All remnants of Ted are gone.

The pained noise that falls from her lips aches as it tears through her throat, a hand coming up to plaster itself over her mouth.

“That bastard,” is muttered behind her, the words echoing in the vacant expense of the space, reverberating off the hollowness that seems to have carved its way into the center of her chest.

When pivots on her heel, taking a moment to face Beard, he regards her with the most profound sorrow in his glassy eyes, jaw clenched as he swallows past the thickness in his throat.

She walks through the hallway, a hand trailing against the wall for support and stops abruptly in the doorway.

It’s in the kitchen that she finds his keys, resting neatly on top of an envelope that’s addressed to her, her name printed in large letters on the back.

Inside she finds a takeout menu from their favorite cafe, the one that they sometimes ordered lunch from on particularly quiet days. She flips it over, breath stalling in her lungs as she takes a moment to read over the hastily written scrawl on the back.

She’s unable to press down the sob that tears itself from her chest.

—

Fuck you for leaving without saying goodbye

Thank you for everything

I wanted you to stay 

I don’t know how to do this without you

I love you

She deletes every text before she can send it, tucked haphazardly onto the floor of her kitchen. When she finishes the bottle of champagne they were supposed to share she breaks the gin out of her freezer, stumbling over her hastily kicked off trainers before sliding back down against the cabinetry.

She deletes every text except for one.

(09:27) Thank you for the biscuit recipe 💜

—

The Lasso Way climbs to the top of the bestseller list immediately, something she expects; everyone loves a good underdog story.

What she doesn’t expect is the forward, written by Ted, the final words of his passage dedicated to her:

There is no AFC Richmond without Rebecca Welton.

She carries a little thunder and lightning around with her wherever she goes.

—

September 13th falls on a Wednesday that year.

She calls in sick, opting to turn off her phone and spend the day in bed. It’s not until late that evening that she emerges from her bedroom, the pounding tension that’s settled in her temples forcing her into her kitchen for a couple of paracetamol and a glass of water. 

Her phone accosts her eyes when she finally turns it on, the glare of the screen harsh in the darkness of the room. One missed notification stands out amongst the rest.

Ted Lasso - 2 missed calls

He didn’t leave a message.

She doesn’t call him back.

—

She tries making biscuits once, carefully following the recipe written on the back of the takeout menu he’d left her. The writing is smudged in some places – the ink from his marker not agreeing with the glossy finish of the paper – but she makes them to the best of her ability

She follows his instructions to the letter.

When they come out of her oven charred and broken and wrong, she tosses the entire pan into the bin with a broken sob, crumpling up his recipe and tossing it in straight after.

That night, well after she’s gone to bed and spent far too long staring up at the ceiling, she pads down to the kitchen and roots through the rubbish and pulls it back out, taking a moment to smooth out the paper on the corner of her table. She tucks it in the back of her cupboard to be forgotten.

The burnt smell lingers in her kitchen for weeks.

—

They still celebrate their victories at the Crown and Anchor after every win at Nelson Road. 

She smiles, watching the boys fight over the pinball machine in the corner, their raucous laughter carrying their joy to her ears. She pauses, straw poised at her lips as she catches sight of Keeley pressing up on her tiptoes at the bar, poised to whisper something in Roy’s ear. Whatever she says causes him to grin, his arms wrapping around her waist as she presses a gentle kiss to his jaw. 

Rebecca’s hand clenches around the cool glass of her gin in tonic, condensation running down her fingers as she finishes her drink in one go.

She doesn’t order champagne.

She never does anymore. 

—

this time was ours to lose

but fortune favors those who ride the storm and make it through

A sharp knock on her office door startles her early that next Spring, her eyes peering over her reading glasses as she shuffles around the contracts she’d been signing.

“Rebecca,” Leslie starts one afternoon as he pokes his head through the doorway, a grin gracing his face. “You have a visitor.”

“Hey Boss,” is said with a grin as her former assistant coach appears behind him 

“Beard, my God,” she rounds her desk, crossing the room to pull him into a hug. She squeezes him tightly, taking a moment to run a gentle hand across his back before releasing him and placing her hand on his forearm, taking a moment to appraise his form.

“What an absolutely lovely surprise – please, come in,” she urges, ushering him towards her desk.

He laughs as he takes a seat. “It’s so good to see you, Rebecca. God, it’s been what – almost a year?”

She hums, making her way over to her kettle. “Yes, something like that,” she replies, flicking the switch. “I could absolutely throttle you for staying away so long.” She glances at him with semi disapproval, her gaze softening when he has the decency to look somewhat chastened. She presents her peace offering in the form of a tea bag, a quirked eyebrow asking her question for her – she busies herself with making two cuppas when he nods in response. 

“And how’s Amsterdam been treating you?” she asks as she pours the boiled kettle, watching color instantaneously seeping into the water as the tannins are released from the leaves – the process is mesmerizing. 

“It’s been an absolute dream.”

“Good,” she replies, nodding along as she brings him his saucer. “The shop’s doing well then?”

“Oh, it’s doing great… though I’m still baffled by the number of tourists that come through looking for a cappuccino.” 

“Not that kind of café,” she laughs, taking her seat.

“Not that kind of café,” he echoes solemnly, nodding along. 

She takes a small sip of her tea, the temperature still too hot and it scalds the tip of her tongue. She hisses, bringing a careful finger to dap at the edge of her lip to soothe the aching burn, the appendage coming back with a small smear of her lipstick.

A beat of silence passes between them and she shifts uncomfortably, at war with herself. Despite her better judgment she clears her throat, pulling Beard’s wandering gaze back from the windows overlooking the pitch and towards her.

“Have you heard from Ted?” she asks hesitantly, feigning nonchalance.

Beard regards her with curious eyes, taking a moment to sip his tea before he replies. “We talk sometimes… but it’s mostly just a text here and there.” He sighs, rolling his eyes. “You’d think he’d have time zones down by now but he can’t remember that Amsterdam is an hour ahead of London for the life of him.”

She huffs out a weak laugh, covering the pained noise with a gulp of her tea.

A crease forms between Beard’s brows as he sits forward, appraising her stiff form. “Why – haven’t you?”

“Not for some time,” she sighs, her long nails drumming on the table as her mouth pulls into a frown. “I haven’t heard from him in weeks.”

His frown deepens.

And for a moment nothing but silence stretches on between them.

“It’s not the same, is it?” she blurts.

He hums in question, eyes intrigued. 

Life without Ted.

“Just – conversing with him over text,” she elaborates slowly, her teeth digging into the flesh of her lip. “I don’t know, he’s just different in person – more enthusiastic. I suppose I just miss our talks…” she trails off, her eyes drifting towards her couch.

“He really livened up the place.”

Beard stares at her for a long moment, his clasped hands coming to rest under his chin as he mulls something over, his gaze flicking between the window and her face. It’s with sudden movement that he grabs the notebook off the corner of her desk, pulling a bewildered tut out of her as she reprimands him with her eyes, crossing her arms firmly over her chest. It’s with harsh movement that he pulls the pen from the coil, taking one last moment to glance up at her before hastily scratching something down.

When he tosses it, it lands on the tabletop with a resounding thud.

She huffs, leaning forward to reach for it. “What’s this then?” she asks, annoyance seeping into her words.

“An address.”

better to have fought and lost than

 never fought at all

Overland Park, Kansas, 66211

Her head snaps up, grip so tight she can feel the paper beginning to pill under her fingers as they run over the same corner again and again.

“Beard,” she starts, her tone low and dangerous, “what the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

He studies her for a moment, twisting his pen in his hands before tossing it on her desk. “I think you know exactly what to do, Rebecca.”

She holds the pad so tightly in her hand that it’s begun to shake, her gaze fixated on the postal code.

Kansas.

“Go see him.”

“Beard, have you lost–”

“Rebecca,” he interjects, standing to address her. “You love him.”

It’s not a question.

He leans forward, bracing his hands on her desk as he looks directly into her eyes. “Don’t spend your life wondering.”

—

Long after Beard’s left and the rest of the staff have gone home, Rebecca opens her office window, letting the cool breeze flutter softly through the hair at her shoulders. She leans on the sill, carefully rolling the folded piece of paper between her fingers as she looks out over the pitch; for a fleeting moment she can almost hear Ted’s voice wafting up towards her…

And she wonders.

—

and everybody falls

but some of us are born to fight, and fight, and fight some more

She believes in signs.

So, when the long-forgotten biscuit box falls out of her freezer a month later – the contents spilling onto the floor – she pauses, reading the way that they’ve fallen onto the floor like one might read tea leaves at the bottom of a cup.

She tilts her head, taking in the odd arrangement they seem to have landed in; she chews her lip as she takes in the cordate shape, unable to tear her eyes away.

The realization comes to her slowly then all once.

“Shit,” she mutters under her breath, bare feet padding over to her purse so that she can dig through it for her mobile.

Her chauffeur picks up on the third ring.

“Walter? Hi, yes – it’s Rebecca. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I have to go…”

—

so, here on the same ground

when the tables have turned around

Kansas is absolutely stifling. 

She’d had the car she hired to pick her up at the airport drop her at the end of a long drive – heart practically throbbing in her chest as she’d knocked on the door – only to be told she wasn’t in the right spot.

“Oh no, ma’am, you got the wrong house – the Lasso place is down that way.”

Bloody small towns.

She has to drag her suitcase down the side of the road, the sidewalks ending long before, her pathway turning into asphalt with a single white line keeping her apart from the traffic; she’s grateful that there haven’t been many cars.

As she comes up on the house that’d been pointed out to her – checking the address and double checking again – she takes in the white paint, the wraparound porch and the long, slanting hills tucking into the pains just beyond.

It’s not until she’s coming up on the end of the dusty, dirt driveway that she spots him, hunched over and rinsing his hands with the garden faucet. He’s wearing a pair of well-worn blue jeans, his white t-shirt saturated in sweat with a pair of gardening gloves hanging from his teeth.

When he stands up, taking a moment to tuck the gloves in his back pocket with damp hands she notices there’s a bit of pink high on his cheeks, a bit of a farmer’s tan emerging on his skin when his shirt rucks up on his bicep, exposing a long, stark line.

It strikes her then, how perfectly domestic he looks.

He looks content; he looks utterly American.

And she can’t take her eyes off of him.

Her feet move of her own accord, carrying her towards him. She steps out into the street, glancing to her right–

Only for a car to be hurtling towards her from the left.

The honk startles her out of her reverie, forcing her to stumble forward over her own two feet, heel caught on her luggage; blessedly she stays upright, bringing a shaky hand to her head as she breathes through the adrenaline that’s racing through her veins. Glancing towards the house her heart stops.

She can tell immediately that he’s spotted her. 

I hope, when you see me

you remember that feeling

oh, 'cause we've both seen the world from both sides now

“Rebecca?” he calls.

For a moment her heart stops.

His hand is shielding his view from the sun, familiar, orange-tinted sunglasses pulled off his face, before he makes his way down the drive; it’s all she can do to stand there and breathe as he makes his way towards her, the breeze gently shifting the hair that’s fallen across his forehead.

He pauses at the end of the driveway, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he takes a moment to search her face, looking for any sings of distress.

For what feels like such a life-altering moment, Rebecca’s slightly taken aback by how unruffled he looks at running into her in his own front yard – like this was another meeting noted and confirmed on both of their calendars.

In some cosmic sort of way, maybe it was.

“Hi, Ted,” she replies sheepishly, hand tightening almost painfully across the handle of her suitcase.

“I–” he pauses, shaking his head. “What’re you doin’ here?”

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance past her heart thundering in her chest. “I’ve never been to Kansas before.”

That pulls a genuine laugh out of him, the sound a bit taken aback. “Yeah, that’s ‘cause it’s not generally at the top of anyone’s list – let alone Overland Park.”

It’s at the top of hers.

“Yes, well,” she replies, shrugging a careless shoulder. “There’s no better education than travel.” 

His lips pull up on the sides, his eyes conveying his genuine awe. His hands rest casually in his pockets as he rocks backwards on his heels, a soft, lopsided grin on his face; the only thing that betrays his curiosity is the slight quirk of his eyebrow over his gentle eyes. 

“Did’ya wanna come in?” he asks, his tone hopeful. 

When she nods he grins. “C’mon, leave your suitcase there – I’ll show you around...”

so, we will see you here

same time, same place, next year

“Welcome to my office,” he starts, gesturing towards the house. 

“You’ve been working from home?”

“Kinda,” he replies sheepishly, walking ahead. “This is actually my childhood home that I’ve been fixin’ up for my Mama since she moved down to Wichita. I’ve been spending all’a my time gettin’ everything back in workin’ order so she can put it up on the market.”

“It’s lovely,” comments, taking in the long sloping lawns and the great tree overhanging the dirt driveway.

“Yeah, it really is,” he agrees. “Except she’s been holdin’ on to this place for too dang long…” He lets out a long sigh.

“Most of the time I find myself out in the yard,” he continues, hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he dentures down into the swell of the valley. “She’s got some acreage that was just growin’ outta control… spent a whole lotta time ranglin’ back the grasses.”

His eyes get a fond look in them as they take in a small embankment just visible through a line of low-hanging trees. “You know, I used to spend all my afternoons down in this creek over there catchin’ frogs.”

She laughs and he chuckles with her.

“Hey, you’re laughing now, but I’ll have you know I’m one with these fields,” he insists. “They practically raised me.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “Are you telling me you’re a country boy, Ted?”

“Well, I guess ‘life ain't nothin' but a funny funny riddle,’” he laughs, turning towards her to gauge her reaction; his face falls when she stares back at him, baffled confusion painting her face.

“Thank God I’m a country boy,” he singsongs, wagging his finger back and forth. He rears his head back in disbelief when she pauses, lifting a shoulder to convey her perplexion.

“Oh, c’mon now…” he shakes his head slowly, his voice dropping down an octave. “ John Denver?” 

“I don’t know who that is, Ted.”

“Oh my God,” he groans, shaking his head. “I’m really not sure how they let you into the great state’a Kansas.” He lets out a long breath, turning back towards the house.

“C’mon, I’ll show you the inside.”

He hauls her suitcase up the steps for her, only exaggerating slightly at the weight. Once they’re through the door and into the foyer, it’s instantly cooler, the blinds drawn and electric fans running to try and push out some of the harsh Kansas heat. As Ted sets her belongings down at the foot of the stairs, she takes a moment to look around the homey space, feeling strangely comfortable in her former gaffer’s childhood home.

It hits her quite belatedly – how oddly intimate this all is.

“Well, this is it.” He grins as he shows her past the sitting room and through the hallway, leading her into the kitchen. “Other than fixin’ up this place I’ve just been cartin’ Henry around from school and his friend’s houses… You know I’m actually on the PTA this year?” He’s still smiling, but it’s tight around the edges.

“It’s been nice, I guess… helpin’ out like that. But if Henry’s school has their way with me, I’ll be coachin’ football this Fall… both kinds,” he adds quite belatedly. 

“Anyways,” he finishes, making quick work of washing his hands in the kitchen sink. “Enough of that. Can I get you anything?” He drys his hand on the towel hanging from the oven before gesturing vaguely towards the cupboards. “I’ve got tea, coffee–”

“I’ll just have a glass of water, please,” she replies, not wanting to be a burden.

It’s almost comical then, the timing of her stomach rumbling, the volume exceptionally loud in their close proximity. 

“Oh boy, where are my manners,” he starts bringing a sheepish hand to the back of his neck. “Want me to fix you somethin’ for lunch? You must be starvin’ after that long-haul flight.”

She’s certainly not going to turn down his offer. “God, yes please ,” she replies, stomach growling again. “You’re a Godsend, Ted Lasso.”

“I’m partial to ‘knight in shinin’ armor,’ but I’ll accept ‘Godsend’ as well,” he teases. “Now what’ll it be,” he asks, opening the fridge. “Grilled cheese and tomato soup or day-old leftover brisket?” 

While her grilled cheese sizzles in a pan greased with a significant portion of butter as her soup bubbles away, she takes a moment to watch him work in the kitchen from behind. She leans against the island as he hums to himself, delicately flipping her sandwich at just the right time, leaving the top a beautiful golden brown.

When she cuts her sandwich in a diagonal, she can't help but smile, a warm feeling spreading in her chest and he plates her food and passes it to her, the corners of his lips pulling up. It’s then that he leans back against the counter, spatula still in his left hand as his arms cross over his chest; she startles a bit by his surprised laugh as he takes in her form, his expression fond.

“What?” she asks, her curiosity piqued.

“Oh, it’s nothin’,” he laughs, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s just… you’ve got this funny habit of turnin’ up this time of year, s’all.”

He’s not wrong.

“Go on, now,” he says, flicking his chin towards the table behind her. “I set a place for you.”

She settles her plate and bowl down on her placemat, pulling out the sturdy wooden chair from its place; it creaks under the slightest amount of her weight, and she just relaxing into it when she feels a pinch in her lower back, something trapped between the backrest and her skin.

Reaching behind her, she pulls out a plastic toy soldier, his musket bent from where she’s accidentally sat on him. He must’ve noticed her jump, making his way over to see what she’s holding.

“Oh God, Ted,” she starts, extending out the green army man in a way that he can see the damaged piece. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, this old thing? Nah, don’t worry about it. Henry must’ve been diggin’ around in some of my keepsakes,” he replies, gently taking it from her hand and rolling it over in his. “You know, I haven’t seen him play with matchbox soldiers in years…”

Except her eyes are transfixed on it, the memory of a small bag of plastic soldiers sent via post not four years ago – a little boy gifting his father something to hold on to when she ripped them apart and pulled one of them across the Atlantic.

Henry’s only just gotten his father back.

And here she is trying to — well, do whatever it is she’s trying to do.

She’s mucked this up. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says, fighting past the tears welling in her eyes as she stands up abruptly, pushing past him. “This was a terrible mistake.”

His baffled words ring in her ears, confusion blooming on his face as he tosses the toy on the table. “What?” 

“I need to go,” she calls over her shoulder, making her way down the hallway and hastily grabbing at her suitcase before she’s throwing the screen door open, the force with which she opens it reverberating in the wood as it pummels against the side of the house.

Ted’s not three steps behind her.

“No, Rebecca – stay,” he pleads. “Please.”

“I don’t understand what’s wrong,” he continues, putting a hand on her shoulder. She rips away from him and he freezes just beyond the bottom of the steps, letting her drag her suitcase down the driveway, wheels kicking up dust behind her.

The reprieve doesn’t last long.

“Rebecca stop!” he shouts after her, and in an instant all of her especially volatile emotions bubble to the surface, a year's worth of anger, longing, embarrassment and resentment exploding out of her frame.

“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here, Ted!” she all but screams, turning to face him. “What the fuck am I doing in Kansas?” It’s more to herself than him but he takes the bait, taking small, hesitant steps towards her.

“You’ve got somethin’ to say to me – you always do.

“Same time, every year, you’ve got somethin’ you’ve gotta tell me Rebecca – except instead of walkin’ down to my office you flew 4,438 miles worth of space to middle’a nowhere Kansas,” he pants, eyes wild as he searches her face.

“You don’t do that for nothin’.”

He shakes his head, his tongue darting out to wet his lips and she’s transfixed on the movement, her next breath a stilted gasp for air.

“Just say what you gotta say to me,” his voice cracks, desperation leaking though. “Please.”

She can feel it then – the rush of raw energy that’s palpable in the air between them settling in her chest, flowing through her veins and settling heavily in her fingertips.

In a moment of sheer desperation, she grabs him by the front of his t-shirt, pulling his body flush against hers. Surprised hands flutter around her torso before settling at her waist when he stumbles slightly, thrown off-kilter by her sudden movements.

She can’t take her eyes off his lips, the way they’re slightly parted and suddenly she’s desperate, aching to taste him. She glances upward, his eyes transfixed upon her face and all it takes is the minute shift of his chin, the subtlest of nods before her lips are crashing against his.

It feels like lightning.

His tongue swipes against her lips, asking for entry which she quickly supplies; he swallows the noise she makes eagerly, his hands tightening around her hips as he pulls her closer to his body. 

His hands are hungry then, exploring her waist and then the hem of her t-shirt, rucking the garment up so he can let his fingers graze over her bare skin, searching for more.

When she pulls back to look at him his eyes are closed and his cheeks flushed, swollen lips slightly parted. 

“God, Rebecca – I’ve wanted to do that for years,” he breathes.

She giggles as she presses their foreheads together, placing a gentler kiss to lips. One of her hand wraps around the back of his neck to hold him to her, fingers fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck 

“That’s a long time to wait, Ted,” she acknowledges, and he hums in agreement, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Well, I respect you didn’t hurry.” 

—

She’s transfixed by the pale moonlight filtering in through the open window, curtains fluttering softly with the breeze that’s drifting in through the open window. The fresh air feels nice and cool on her bare skin, nothing covering her but the thin sheet they share, Ted’s chest flush against her.

“You had tea down on your kitchen counter,” she recalls, leaning into the gentle circles he’s tracing on her lower back. “The proper kind.”

He laughs gently behind her, his hand coming to drape lazily over the dip of her waist. “It’s not so bad when you put a load of sugar in it,” he murmurs, his mustache tickling her skin. “Maybe a little cream if you’re feelin’ adventurous.”

“Why have you drinking tea, Ted?” she questions.

He kisses her bare shoulder, lips warm and lazy against her skin.

“Because I couldn’t bear not knowin’ what your lips tasted like.”

—

They spend time in the fields – long days sitting on one of his mother’s old quits – talking about everything and nothing.

“What’s that smell?” she asks late one afternoon, darkened clouds rolling in on the horizon.

“Ozone,” he replies, looking up towards the sky. “Storm’s gonna start soon.” 

When the heavens open and he starts hastily packing their things into his backpack she just laughs, standing with her arms out and face tilted towards the sky. Thunder roars overhead, and she can feel the reverberation in the earth as the ground rattles beneath her feet.

She doesn’t know why but she starts running, wind whipping against her and plastering her hair and clothing to her body – for the first time in a long time she feels free.

And when she slips in the mud and lands flat on her back – Ted’s troubled shout rising up behind her – she takes a moment to just lay there, letting the water seep into her clothes.

It’s then that she laughs, the sound originating from deep in her belly as lightning flashes overhead, and it feels as though she’s releasing years of anguish through the sound. That’s how Ted finds her.

“Y’alright?” he pants, his eyes concerned as his upside down face comes into view.

She takes a moment to regard the hair plastered to his skin, water dripping down the point of his nose – rather than responding she pulls him down closer, pressing her lips tenderly to his.

—

The porch swing creaks as they rock slowly back and forth – her back against his chest, his arm draped over her shoulder – their fingers locked together.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he murmurs, lips pressed just against her ear.

“It’s such a beautiful evening…” she whispers, chewing her lip. 

He pulls back a bit to get a better look at her face, stopping their sway on the swing. 

“Oklahoma?” 

She swallows. “I’m scared, Ted. I just – I don’t know where we go from here,” she sighs harshly, fighting past the thickness in her voice. “I don’t know how to make this work.”

“Oh, darlin’ – in the end it’s about being with the right person,” he sighs, placing a gentle kiss on her temple.

“It will all work out – exactly as it’s supposed to.” 

—

When Deborah Welton walks into her daughter’s kitchen early one Saturday morning, she doesn’t expect to find an unfamiliar eleven-year-old boy sitting at the dining room table.

“And who might you be?” she asks, placing her things down on the cool granite of the island in the center of the room. He regards her with curious eyes, setting down his spoon and hopping up from his seat to greet her, his socked feet slipping on the floor.

“My name’s Henry, ma’am,” he replies, gracing her with his toothy grin. She’s just as befuddled when he reaches out, offering to shake her hand.

How peculiar. 

“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you Henry,” she comments, taking his hand and shaking it slowly. “You’ve got an interesting accent there, haven’t you?”

She takes a moment to let her eyes rove over the kitchen, taking notice of the french press embellished with two mugs, not one – the first containing a stark black liquid, the other looking exceptionally milky. It’s then that she takes in the army men stationed on the window sill, the football next to the backdoor and the three pairs of shoes just outside on the terrace.

When she steps forward to get a better look she hisses, immediately pulling her foot away. It’s then that she realized she’s stepped on a LEGO brick; a singular yellow one.

“Henry,” she starts, turning back to the young boy. “Have you happened to see my daughter? She’s quite tall,” she continues, eyes roving over the room. “Has blonde hair…”

Henry looks up at her in awe. “Are you Rebecca’s mom?”

Rebecca.

A voice startles her from the doorway.

“Oh boy – Howdy, Deborah,” Ted grins sheepishly, his socked feet pattering across the hardwood as he enters the room.

“Coach Lasso,” she replies, “What a lovely surprise.”

She isn’t surprised to find her daughter following after him dressed in a t-shirt and sweats that look as though she’s retrieved them from a certain American football coach’s wardrobe. 

“Good morning, Mother,” she greets her blithely, aiming to retrieve her coffee mug.

“The Chiefs, Sausage?” Deborah questions, scrunching her nose in distaste. 

Rebecca huffs out a laugh, coming to lean her back against the island as she refills her cup; behind her, Ted’s making a show out of refilling Henry’s cereal bowl, his attempt to be inconspicuous in his eavesdropping spectacularly unsuccessful. 

Rebecca pulls her from her thoughts. “Are you not going to say anything?” 

She scoffs, “Why should I? I’ve known for weeks.”

“What?” she replies, slamming her mug down on the table behind her. “How could you have possibly known?”

“I know everything, Sausage,” she replies, patting her on the cheek.

It’s then that Ted interrupts them, kitchen towel draped over his shoulder. “Can I get’cha anything, Deborah?”

“Tea would be wonderful, thank you,” she replies, accepting the saucer he offers her.

“Oh, and Ted,” she pauses, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Will there be biscuits with that?”