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Trent panicked. That’s what he did. That’s what happened. He can pretend it was intentional; he can pretend it was a complicated game plan to navigate a crisis of conscience. He can make vague pronouncements about wanting “something deeper” from his career. But when he remembers that cluster of days—really, honestly pictures himself making the inane series of personal and professional choices set in motion by the revelation of Ted’s panic attack—he appears in his own mind like a little cartoon man running in circles, tugging at his hair amidst cascades of falling newsprint and notepaper. The little cartoon Trent’s tie is askew, his glasses are pushed up dangerously far on his head, and he’s stopping every few minutes to silently scream. The soundtrack to this embarrassing vision sounds like some unholy combination of Il barbiere di Siviglia and the theme song to Peppa Pig.
Why on earth would Trent write the offending article, burn his source, and then immediately tell on himself to his boss, which he knew for absolute certain would get him fired? Why? He can, in retrospect, think of many other possible courses of action that would have made more sense. For example:
- Tell Nate Shelley to go to hell and refuse to write the article.
- Refuse to write the article, but pass Shelley on to someone else he knows won’t make a hash of the story so the little twat doesn’t take it to some ghastly muckraking tabloid.
- Invite Ted to do an interview for the article so he can tell his side of things.
- Catfish Shelley till he’s safely on a plane to Mallorca to meet up with his model/marine biologist girlfriend Rosario Isabela Valeria Villaseñor de la Cruz.
- Anonymously send Ted an elaborate series of puzzles, each one of which will reveal a different letter that will eventually spell out N A T E I S T H E S N I T C H.
- Get his four-year-old daughter Mia to write the article.
- Put on a top hat, sequined tailcoat, and his long-abandoned tap shoes and do a little dance in the middle of Hyde Park.
And if he’d really wanted to throw his journalism career in the trash, he could have just quit his damn job without writing the damn article.
Instead, he had plunged into immediate panic, convinced himself he owed it to Richmond and the Independent and the Queen of England and the platonic ideal of Truth Itself to maintain his journalistic integrity, stayed up for forty-eight hours straight reading everything he could find about the history of mental health in sports, and submitted his draft to his editor while delirious on a Jaffa Cake-induced sugar high. Then he had showered, Facetimed with Mia at her grandparents’ house, and gone to bed in an exquisite state of beatific calm. Then he had awoken two point five hours later in a cold sweat, convinced he had ruined Ted Lasso’s life.
He knows that in the scheme of things, the list of people at fault for this situation starts with himself and Nate Shelley and probably includes such figures as Rebecca Welton, Ted’s genetic makeup, and Sigmund Freud before Ted Lasso’s name even appears. He didn’t choose to have a panic attack in the middle of a game. Trent can’t blame it on Ted.
Except.
Except he does. Because when he asks himself why the fuck he lost his head so spectacularly, up to and including the moment he locked himself out of his own car when trying to pass his deranged actions off to Ted as some sort of cool mysterious career move, there’s only one real answer. And it starts with a T and ends with a mustache, a Kansas twang, and a smile bright enough to blind a cynical bastard in a blazer who’d been so stupid as to accept his invitation to dinner over a year before.
Trent does not fall for: straight men; people connected to his work; or anyone who could even marginally be described as “folksy.” So it is not entirely his fault that it takes a more or less self-inflicted career explosion, set to Italian opera mixed with the theme song for an animated pig in a dress, for him to realize he is in love with Ted Lasso. But that—that has to be Ted’s fault, and Ted’s fault alone.
He’s just so. So generous, and surprising, and weirdly talented at coaching a sport he’d never even played. And he’s sweet looking, god damn it, in his sweaters and khaki trousers. And he’s. Well. Sweet.
He’s just so…kind. He’s just so good.
Trent likes arsehole men. He’s always figured it’s because he’s one himself. Or maybe it’s the other way around; maybe he’s a bit of a wanker because it’s always what he’d found attractive in others. In any case, everyone from his first boyfriend at university—Damien, an aspiring academic with a cutting wit and aristocratic drawl—to Leonard, his most recent ex, has been, both in the end and, honestly, pretty much from the beginning, a total prick. Leonard spent years pressuring him into fostering a child, which Trent knew damn well was only to improve his image as he prepared to run for Parliament, before the twenty-year-old son of their close friends revealed in a drunken, hysterical monologue on their front steps at one a.m. that Leonard had gotten him into bed about half a dozen times since June. Leonard left that night; Mia stayed forever.
He doesn’t know what it is about a curled lip, a smirk, or a sardonic remark that gets him going. Maybe it’s the way it makes him feel special when the guy who’s a prick to everyone else chooses him. Maybe it’s that arseholes, at least the ones he’s dated, are often infuriatingly good in bed. Whatever the reason, it’s a trend so well established that after Leonard, Trent had sworn off dating anyone till Mia was at least thirteen years old. Better she grow up with a devoted if overworked single dad than learn that romance means waiting for someone who said they’d be home hours ago and forgiving them when they show up with flowers.
The point being, Ted is about as far away from Trent’s type as it’s possible to be without changing time zones. So it’s a pretty big shock when Trent emerges on the other side of the Nate Shelley debacle to find himself unemployed, under-hydrated, and undeniably pining for Ted Lasso.
He avoids Ted successfully for almost one whole week. He cannot kid himself that waiting for Ted outside Richmond stadium after the first press conference from which he was absent was anything other than a part of his temporary loss of sanity, however much he’d like to pretend it was an attempt at damage control. What on earth was he thinking, telling Ted he’d gotten himself fired? Was he trying to get Ted to forgive him? Was he trying to impress him? He’s not sure which is worse. All he knows is that he chose to do it in leopard-print shoes, so his judgment was clearly impaired.
Almost one! Whole! Week! No Ted Lasso! It would be a relief if it weren’t kind of torture. Because Trent can’t stop thinking about him. Not now that he knows—and god, it seems blindingly obvious in retrospect—what the warm little feeling in his stomach he gets when he thinks of the man is really all about. He wants to kiss Ted Lasso on his mouth. Right below that stupid moustache. And he cannot stop thinking about it.
He needs to get it out of his system before he sees Ted again. To purge himself of it, somehow, though at this point he’s fairly certain only a full flushing out of his entire gastrointestinal tract, or perhaps an exorcism, is going to do it. Also, he’s pretty sure Ted doesn’t want to see him again anytime soon.
Sure, Ted was nice to him outside the club. He’s nice to everyone. But Trent isn’t nice, and now Ted knows that for sure, so however genuine Ted’s attitude toward Trent was before, well. It can’t be that way anymore.
Trent’s a little in despair about it.
But he thinks—he really does!—that it’s safe to go to the Crown and Anchor on a Thursday at 3 p.m. It’s Ted’s local, but it’s been one of Trent’s customary haunts for years now, and Ted will be in training, so it’s safe. He thinks.
Of course he’s wrong. Ted walks in not fifteen minutes after he settles down with his pint. Trent actually ducks, as if somehow that’s going to stop Ted from seeing him sitting there at a table in plain view.
“Trent Crimm!” Ted says. Trent looks up.
“Oh, hello, Ted,” he says. Inanely, probably.
“Mind if I join ya? We had a little incident at practice—sorry, training—today so we’re out early and I thought I’d stop by on my way home.”
“Oh,” says Trent. Brilliant. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh yeah. Just a mix-up with the uniforms and a bottle of bleach. And a bleach allergy. It’s all good. Let me get a drink and I’ll be right back.”
Trent watches him walk up to the bar. He’s good at keeping his face impassive whatever the world throws at him, which is helpful right now, because he’s confused. Ted seems…not angry.
“So, how’s the independent life?” Ted asks, sliding into a seat across from Trent.
“Not bad. Been catching up on reading.” What he really means is that he’s been poring over the tabloids since he broke the story about Ted’s panic attack. He thinks it’s raised his blood pressure to a dangerous degree.
“That sounds real nice. Say, you ever come across any of Mark Twain’s travel writing? I keep meaning to mention it to you. Thought it might be up your alley.”
Trent blinks wordlessly. Who the fuck is this man?
“I believe I’ve read an essay or two, a long time ago. Why, er…what made you think of me?” He winces internally at the phrasing of the question.
“Oh, well. He’s got a real sharp wit, that fella, and he uses it to offer some pretty good insights into what people and places are really like. Reminds me of you.”
He is absolutely incapable of responding. For one thing, all his energy is going towards willing himself not to blush like a schoolboy. For another, Ted is supposed to be angry with him, and with his insights and sharpness and everything he’s used them for. Is Ted being passive aggressive, he wonders suddenly? But the possibility won’t stick; there’s nothing in Ted’s eyes that isn’t warm and genuine.
“I’ll have to, er. Look it up.”
“Try The Innocents Abroad. Could be a good description of my own life here, don’t you think?”
Is that—is that a reference to Trent’s betrayal? Or Nate’s? Trent offers what he hopes is an enigmatic smile and drinks several large sips of beer.
Ted chatters. Trent doesn’t understand. He’s just…talking to him, like everything is fine. He can’t figure out how it’s possible that Ted has actually just decided to forgive him, to put the whole thing behind them and carry on as if Trent hadn’t offered up his bloody insides to the vultures at the Sun and the Daily Mail. He doesn’t know how to handle it. Leonard had once iced Trent out for a full week after Trent decided to skip one of his endless political functions in favor of drinks with an old friend. It hasn’t even been five days and Ted is smiling at him like Trent’s done nothing wrong.
It’s on the tip of his tongue—Ted, why aren’t you angry with me?—and he’s about to say it when Ted’s monologue about bad college haircuts takes a sharp turn and he’s saying something about Trent’s shampoo.
“I mean, I just don’t know how you do it. I’ve never seen hair so magnificent. Well, Dolly Parton’s comes close. But the volume!” He gives a low whistle.
“Ex…cuse me?” Trent stutters.
“Aw, you can’t pretend you don’t know. It’s the envy of the press room! Or it was, at least.” He grins. “You know, I guess there’s one silver lining about you not being something along the lines of a coworker. I always wanted to do this, and I guess now I can.” And he reaches out a hand and…touches Trent’s hair.
He does it in a peculiar way. He sort of pats the top of Trent’s head. Very lightly, so that Trent can feel his indeed voluminous hair compress under Ted’s palm, then spring up again when Ted takes his hand away.
“Just as I thought. It goes right back where it was. Is it a mousse? Is that the secret?”
Ted’s hand didn’t even make contact with Trent’s actual head and he’s fucking dizzy. To be fair, at least fifty percent of that is from sheer bewilderment.
“Actually,” he says, and it’s a goddamn miracle he keeps his voice steady, “I wash it once a week and then let it do what it wants.”
A look of good-natured outrage lights up Ted’s features. Trent takes another big sip of beer. His face must be doing something without his permission, because after a moment the silence turns odd and awkward and Ted blurts out, “I’m sorry, I should’ve asked first—” and Trent says, very quickly, “No, no, it’s fine—” and Ted looks relieved and then, after a moment, almost as confused as Trent feels.
He doesn’t stay much longer. Trent does, though; he needs at least two more beers after whatever the hell that was.
He dreams of Ted’s fingers in his hair, which was probably inevitable. It feels extremely good, and he wakes up with an erection—also probably inevitable, given his current state of pining and lack of recent sexual activity. He takes a cold shower and makes Mia pancakes. The next night, the same thing happens, and the night after; by the time Monday rolls around, Mia is asking if she can just have her Frosted Shreddies for breakfast again and Trent is wondering how hard it would be to pull a one-night stand at Spin. He hasn’t done it in ages, but something has got to stop these damn dreams.
Laura and Nami are always up for taking Mia for the night. He could go this Friday. It’s not like he has any deadlines to meet.
Trent needs a job. He has savings and his parents to fall back on in a real emergency—not that he wouldn’t be mortified to ask them for financial help at his age—so there’s no immediately impending disaster on the horizon. But the fact is that he is losing his mind without the steady clip of the reporting life to keep him occupied, and he doesn’t know what to do about it. He can’t be a sports journalist anymore. He’s not sure he can face doing any sort of news reporting, certainly nothing investigative, which he’d considered as a career option when he was younger. He burned a source for a crush he didn’t even know he had; what would he do in the face of a subpoena or a shakedown?
He tries to ignore the voice in his head that says he’d be a lot stronger in the face of the legal system or organized crime than one Kansas man with a backpack.
There are features; there are columns. He could write a column. Actually, he’d love to write a column. It’s a better choice for him, really—so much more room to play, so much more room for his own voice. He cannot deny he likes the idea of his little black-and-white photograph next to his byline. Or maybe a Substack? Would people subscribe to a Trent Crimm Substack?
He kicks around ideas while Mia is at preschool and is surprised to find he’s excited about them.
“Thanks for having her,” Trent says as he sets down Mia’s overnight bag, favorite pillow, and giant elephant Squishmallow on Laura and Nami’s couch. Mia’s already telling Nami, who is a children’s librarian, all about her new favorite book series, hopping from one foot to the other with excitement.
“Anytime,” Laura says. “You know how we feel about her.” She smiles. “And you. Have you got big plans tonight? Any chance it’s a date?”
She knows about Trent’s no-dating-till-Mia’s-a-teenager rule, but she thinks it’s stupid. She says he doesn’t have to stop dating; he just has to stop dating arseholes. Trent says that’s easier said than done.
“No date,” he says. “But, er…” He hesitates, then thinks, if you can’t tell your queer best friends, who can you tell? “I’m going to go to Spin.”
Laura’s eyebrows shoot up. “No shit.”
“I just need to get out. Just for a night.”
“Yeah, you definitely do.” But she’s smiling.
He kisses Mia goodbye as Laura whispers something in Nami’s ear. She grins delightedly and gives Trent a thumbs up.
“Good luck,” Laura says. And then, quieter, “Please try to find a nice one this time.”
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. Spin isn’t really that kind of place; it’s dimly lit and smells of smoke and the dance floor is basically a playground for foreplay. As soon as he walks in, running a hand through his hair to give it that extra bit of just-got-out-of-bed oomph, he surveys the bar. A big group of friends is blocking about half of it, but it doesn’t matter: far over on the left, there’s a man sitting alone, and he is exactly Trent’s type. Elegant, sharply dressed, surveying the room with a narrowed, skeptical gaze.
There’s a flutter in Trent’s stomach. He arranges his face into its most aloof expression before catching the man’s eye. The man looks him up and down, then cocks his head slightly.
Yes. Oh, fuck yes, he can still do this.
“Ethan,” says the man, extending a slender hand. Trent shakes.
“Trent.” He slides into the bar seat.
Ethan’s got a drink in front of him that’s two shades away from cough syrup; Trent guesses it’s a Negroni. Leonard’s favorite. Ethan doesn’t ask if he wants a drink. The bartender is busy with the group at the other end of the bar, so Trent just leans casually on his elbow and looks at Ethan.
“Ghastly music,” Ethan says, wincing as a loud beat drop rattles the liquor bottles behind the bar. It’s something pulsing and electronic that Trent doesn’t recognize.
“I’m not sure why these places always assume gay sex must be arranged to a backdrop of thumping bass,” Trent says. “Perhaps the beat is meant to be suggestive?”
Ethan snorts, and pleased triumph flares in Trent’s chest.
“Clearly it works for some,” Ethan says, nodding at the edge of the dance floor, where three or four middle-aged men are moving wildly to the pounding music, laughing and shouting to each other over the noise. They look happy, if sweaty, but Ethan’s smirk makes it clear that he thinks their enthusiasm is a bit much.
“Mm,” says Trent; for once, no cutting observation comes to his mind.
Ethan leans in conspiratorially, knee knocking, not accidentally, against Trent’s. “Meanwhile, there’s a man at the other end of the bar in, honest to God, khaki slacks. What is the world coming to when gay men wear business casual at the club?”
Trent smiles. “It’s all this corporate Pride. Makes people think they can just dress any way they want.”
Ethan’s knee slides closer against Trent’s. “He’s got a moustache, too. Thick. Very seventies. To be honest, if I were a more optimistic man I’d think he manifested from an old-school porn film. Straight man stumbles into gay bar. Debauchment imminent.”
Trent laughs, but something flickers uneasily in his head at the mention of the moustache. Not really knowing why, he cranes his head to try and get a glimpse of the person Ethan is describing. After a moment, a gap opens up in the group of friends congregated on that side of the bar, and Trent’s stomach drops.
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
“I know, right? I’d almost be tempted to join in Mr. Khakis’ gay defilement if he were just a little less…” Ethan makes a face.
“Excuse me,” Trent says, neither knowing nor caring how Ethan plans to finish that sentence. “I know him.”
He gets up abruptly and leaves Ethan behind, gaping.
“Ted,” Trent says.
Ted looks up. For a moment, his face goes slack with fear. Then he relaxes, and lets out a relieved laugh.
“Trent Crimm! My goodness. For a second there I forgot you weren’t a bloodthirsty reporter anymore.”
Trent’s breath freezes in his throat. His heart pulses strangely in his ears. Ted had just looked at him with genuine fear.
“Ted,” he says, voice a little strangled, and he doesn’t have a clue what Ted is doing here but he has to say it, “Ted, I would never out anyone without their permission.”
There’s a silence and a frisson of something peculiar between them and Trent realizes what he’s just said. Not about this, Ted could reply. You wouldn’t out them about this.
He doesn’t say it, though, and Trent has to sit with the lump in his stomach as he takes in why, exactly, Ted might believe he’d write a news story exposing delicate secrets about his private life.
“Let me buy you a drink,” Ted says.
“What? Why?”
Ted gives him a bit of a puzzled smile, then nods in the direction he came from. “Because I get the feeling that that man over there was planning to, but I don’t think he’s going to anymore.”
Trent glances behind him. Ethan is staring at him with an expression of incredulous disdain on his face. Trent turns back to Ted.
“I don’t give a shit about him. Ted, why…”
“What are you drinking?” Ted asks. His smile seems a bit forced. “Sit, Trent. You want your regular, or…?”
“Gin and tonic.” He makes himself take the seat next to Ted.
Ted signals the bartender. “A G&T for my friend here, please.”
My friend. Jesus H. Christ.
“Ted,” Trent says. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”
Ted’s smile slips a bit. He doesn’t look like he knows how to answer.
“I didn’t even apologize.”
There’s an awkward silence. The bartender slides the gin and tonic in Trent’s direction.
“I’m sorry,” Trent says softly. “For the record, I am sorry.”
“Off the record, I hope you mean,” Ted says, then, “I accept your apology.”
Trent blinks at him.
“But,” he says. But he can’t just do that. It isn’t that simple. It isn’t how people work, damn it. “But I violated your trust. Your privacy. I—”
Ted waves him off. “I s’pose that’s one way of looking at it.” He takes a sip of his own drink; it’s a whiskey, on the rocks.
“I’ve seen what they’re calling you,” Trent persists. He can quote the headlines from memory: LOONY COACH LOSES HEAD. MENTAL CASE IN CHARGE OF RICHMOND? NUTTER LOOSE ON THE PITCH!
“I don’t care what they call me,” Ted says simply. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But—”
“You know I barely heard my own name for the first four months I lived here? Everywhere I went, everybody called me ‘wanker.’”
“Everybody still calls you that,” Trent can’t help but quip, feebly.
“Yeah, well, it means something different now, doesn’t it? And that’s the point. They didn’t know me back then. They made an assumption, but they didn’t know me. And those people talking about me, writing about me, well, they don’t know me either.”
Trent swallows. He’s spent his adult life building up a reputation for impenetrable coolness and self-assurance, but it still stung when Roy Kent called him a prick. It still stings when his colleagues from other papers ignore him in the pub.
“Here’s the thing, Trent. Maybe you’d guessed, since you wrote about me having panic attacks and all, but I was pretty darn terrified about people finding out what I was going through. Oh, I know I just said I don’t care, but that’s the thing about anxiety—sometimes the anticipation is the worst. Your brain makes up all sorts of scenarios, catastrophes…and I knew I didn’t want to hide the things I was going through, because that didn’t feel right, but I sure didn’t know how to get up the courage to do anything different. So in a way, I’m grateful.” Trent opens his mouth, a wave of guilt washing through him, but Ted stops him. “What you wrote, about how athletes, and anybody in sports, really, are told they have to deal with their problems on their own—that it’s seen as shameful to struggle, and it shouldn’t be—people needed to hear that. I needed to hear that.”
Trent doesn’t…he doesn’t know what to say. He feels like someone is squeezing his chest, like it’s hard to get any words out at all.
“You still should have been given the chance to tell people on your own terms.”
Ted shrugs. “Probably so. But I wasn’t, and that’s just how it is, and I don’t really know why you want me to be angry with you, Trent.”
Because. Because he deserves it. Because what is he supposed to do with all this grace?
He drinks his gin and tonic, feeling Ted’s eyes on him.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt your evening,” Ted says quietly, tentatively. “If you wanna get back to it, I…”
Trent looks up, suddenly shocked all over again at Ted being here. Here, in this very, very gay club. “Do you…” He hesitates. “Do you come here often?”
A pickup line; he just used the oldest, cheapest pickup line in the book on Ted Lasso. Somebody put him out of his misery.
“No, uh…” Ted looks around a bit. “Actually, this is my first time.” He swallows, then says in a rush, “Actually, I don’t know what I’m doing here.”
The solidity has gone out of his voice, and Trent flashes absurdly to Ethan’s rather cruel vision of Ted as a straight man bumbling into a seventies porno. “That’s all right,” he says, trying to come up with the right thing to say. “No one minds if you’re here.”
“Thing is,” Ted says, and now his thumbs are fiddling anxiously with his whiskey glass, “a couple months ago, I, uh, thought maybe I oughtta…put myself out there again. You know. Get back into it, after the divorce. So I signed up for a dating site. Awful things, but.” He laughs a little. “What else is there these days? Anyway, I answered the questions, what’s my favorite movie, hobbies, that sort of thing, and then they asked who I was interested in. Men, or women, or both. And of course I went straight to ‘Women,’ and then—then I stopped. And I looked at the word ‘Both,’ and I thought, why not?” He takes a deep breath. “Why not both?”
Trent’s barely breathing. He can’t take his eyes off Ted.
“I’d never asked myself that question before,” Ted says quietly.
There’s a pause. Trent clears his throat, trying to sound extremely chill about all of this. “And which did you choose?”
Ted lets out a big laugh. “Oh, I shut the whole thing down and never logged in again.” He shakes his head. “But recently, I’ve been thinking…Well. Thinking about it again, and I decided I ought to at least try…something, you know, some little step, because if you don’t try you’ll never know, that’s what my Mama always said.” He stops to take a breath.
Trent nods slowly. “I see.” His head is screaming: YOU ARE AN EXPERIENCED HOMOSEXUAL AND YOU MUST GENTLY HELP THIS QUESTIONING MAN COME TO HIS OWN CONCLUSIONS. His heart is screaming: TED LASSO LIKES BOYS! TED LASSO LIKES BOYS!
“If you, er,” Trent says, “want to get back to it—your—exploration, that is, I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“Oh gosh no. No, all I was planning for tonight was just to come in, have one drink, and leave. That was the only way I could get myself here at all. Promised myself, just one drink and then back to the safety of my own solitary home. Didn’t expect to have a nice conversation with a friend to boot.”
Trent nods, wondering by what rubric this conversation could be classified as “nice.” Holy fuck, Ted Lasso likes boys.
Maybe likes boys. But in Trent’s experience, people don’t question their sexuality this late in life unless there’s really something there.
He doesn’t say that to Ted. Of course he doesn’t. He just…makes small talk. They make small talk, and drink, and shout occasionally to be heard over the music, and now it definitely is a nice conversation. It’s nice. It’s very nice.
Trent is so fucked.
“Well, you’ve had your one drink,” he hears himself saying after awhile, then immediately curses his stupid traitor mouth. Does he want Ted to leave? “How was it?”
“Decent whiskey,” Ted says. He looks around, blows out a breath. Trent follows his gaze. Two men are kissing on the dance floor, and it’s definitely sexual, yeah, but they also look really, really happy.
“That’s nice,” Ted says.
IS IT???? Trent wants to shout. Instead, he waits patiently.
“I know I promised myself just one drink,” Ted says, “but what would you say to one more?”
They drink two more apiece, actually. Then they settle up—Ted insists on paying, because of course he does—and head, a little unsteadily, out into the cool night. The air hits Trent’s lungs so sweetly and he tilts his head up, breathing in.
“You, uh,” Ted says. His smile is a bit fuzzy. He tugs on Trent’s sleeve, right at his elbow. “You made this a much easier night than I’d anticipated, Trent Crimm.”
Trent swallows. He absolutely cannot say the same for Ted: easy would have been going home with Ethan and letting him come on his face. “I’m glad our paths crossed.” God, he sounds like an idiot.
“I told you,” Ted says emphatically, “I love our chats.” He cocks his thumb and forefinger at Trent and makes a shooting motion.
“Did you just finger gun me?” Trent asks incredulously.
“You did it first.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“Yep. That day you told me you quit.” Ted does it again, adopting a terrible British accent: “’Good luck next season.’”
Jesus Christ, he’s quoting him. And the worst thing is, Trent does have a vague memory of pointing his finger at Ted in just that way. When he was wearing his leopard print shoes. When he was experiencing his total loss of sanity.
He’s got to go. He’s got to get out of here. Or his body is going to do something even stupider than finger guns, like trying to kiss Ted Lasso on his mouth.
“I’m this way,” he says abruptly. “Good night, Ted.”
“Good night, Trent Crimm,” and then Ted hugs him. A real, warm, solid hug, with his hands lingering on Trent’s back and their chests pressed together, and he can smell the whiskey on Ted’s breath.
Then Ted is gone, away into the night, and Trent stares after him. He raises his hand in the direction where Ted had walked and cocks his thumb and forefinger. “Bang,” he whispers.
Trent’s life is falling apart. It absolutely is. He is forty-two years old and he has legitimately never made this much of a fool of himself about anybody ever. All week, he daydreams about asking Ted on a date. He daydreams about taking him to Salieri’s and ordering them both their exquisite pistachio and mint pesto and a bottle of expensive wine to share. He imagines kissing Ted at sunset. Worse, he imagines holding his hand—just holding it, casually, as they walk down the street.
He imagines making Ted feel good. Making him relax, for once, and let someone else take care of him.
He wonders what Ted is like with his son. What he was like when Henry was very small. He thinks about how Leonard was with Mia when she first arrived as a foster child, not quite two years old and scared of her own shadow. He treated her like a miniature adult: not brusquely, not impatiently, just…as if she was going to go to her room when she was told, and not wake up with nightmares, and never wet the bed. He gave her fancy pens for her second birthday. “But they’re a complete set of colors,” he said with surprise when Trent objected. “She can draw with them.”
Ted met Mia early on in his time at Richmond, just once, when he ran across her and Trent in the park. He made her specially frosted biscuits for her third birthday, and then remembered to make them again for her fourth, though he hadn’t seen her in over a year. He would have given her crayons, not fancy pens. Probably markers, too, and let her draw hearts on his face.
Leonard hated it when Mia drew hearts on Trent’s face.
“Fuck,” Trent says aloud, and then winces when he remembers Mia’s in the other room, playing with her miniature kitchen. She’s very serious about play these days. She’s wearing a purple apron and humming to herself; once in awhile Trent hears her say something like, “And now we whisk the dry ingredients together until they are thoroughly mixed.”
He has an idea. It is probably a bad one. Mia has been holding tea parties every Sunday for the past several months; she gets Trent to help her bake sponge cake and make little sandwiches and she dictates a special invitation for the guest of honor—usually one of her grandparents or Laura and Nami. Her friends from preschool don’t have the stamina to sit through one of Mia’s tea parties, which involve a great deal of careful pouring and elegant sipping. Trent hasn’t lined up a guest for this Sunday yet.
The reason inviting Ted is a bad idea is that Trent cannot bear to be any more smitten with the ridiculous man than he already is, and seeing him cross-legged on the floor at Mia’s little tea table may drive him over the edge. The reason it isa good idea, kind of, is that if he is seriously thinking about asking Ted out—which he is not, he is not, that’s totally absurd to even consider but—he said no dating till Mia was older, and if he breaks that rule it has to be because the person in question is going to be good with Mia, and what better way to see if Ted is good with Mia than trial by tea party? But of course he’d be good with her, he already bakes her biscuits on her birthday, and anyway it is irrelevant because TRENT IS NOT GOING TO MAKE A MOVE ON TED LASSO.
“Mia,” he says, walking into the living room, “how would you feel about inviting somebody new to this week’s tea party?”
Ted arrives in a gray suit jacket and sky-blue bow tie. “Wasn’t sure about the dress code,” he says, standing in the doorway, “but the invitation sure had a lot of glitter on it, so I thought, better safe than sorry.”
Trent swallows a fond smile—half-swallows, he knows some of it makes it to his mouth, the traitor—and lets Mia reach up and take the proffered pink box Ted is holding out.
“Thank you for coming, Coach Lasso,” she says politely. “Welcome to the Sunshine Tea Shop.”
“Well, thank you kindly for inviting me,” Ted says, eyes crinkling up. “I brought biscuits. And may I just say that is a beautiful name for a tea shop.”
“It’s this way. Please follow me.”
Ted and Trent start down the hallway after her and Ted leans over to murmur in Trent’s ear, “That is the most precious child I think I have ever met. Don’t know how you stand it.”
He flushes, pleased. She is the most precious child, probably in the universe. Trent hadn’t even wanted children when he and Leonard started fostering. She’d wormed her way into his heart so fast it wasn’t two weeks before he couldn’t remember life without her.
“Oh, my,” says Ted. They’ve reached the living room, where Mia has set up her table with the purple teapot, tiny purple teacups, and the miniature two-tiered tray of cakes and sandwiches. She’s laid out an old bedsheet—her “flower rug”—under the table, on top of the carpet, and on the walls are several glittery signs reading SUNSHINE TEA ROOM and TODAY’S SPECIAL: VICTORIA SPONGE. They’re in Trent’s handwriting, but Mia’s responsible for the many flourishes.
“This is just about the prettiest little shop I’ve ever seen,” Ted says. “Are you the proprietress, Miss Mia?”
Mia looks to Trent, who says gently, “It’s okay to ask if you don’t know what it means.”
“What’s proprietress?” She barely stumbles over the word.
“Ah, that means the owner,” Ted says. “The big boss in charge.”
She nods seriously. “Yes, this is my tea shop. Please take a seat on your cushion and I will serve the tea.”
As they settle themselves, Mia opens up Ted’s box of biscuits and puts them on the tray. There’s not really room, so she lays them on top of the sandwiches.
Ted is entirely patient as Mia very slowly and carefully pours them each tiny cups of tea. He sticks his little finger out when he drinks, and Mia giggles. It’s not until fifteen minutes in that Trent remembers Ted despises tea.
He looks over quickly, but Ted is sipping serenely from his cup and talking to Mia about elephants.
She likes him. Trent knows this, because after teatime is over, she places her second-favorite flower crown on his head—she’s already wearing her favorite, of course—and asks him if he wants to sit next to her while Trent reads a book.
“Oh, we—you want to read now, Mia?” He says to Ted, “We usually do this later, when the guests are gone.”
“I’m happy to stay,” Ted says. “What are we reading?”
Mia hops up on the couch and pulls her current favorite from the shelf under the coffee table.
“Frog and Toad are Friends,” Ted says. “I don’t know if I’ve read that one.”
“Daddy does voices.” She scoots to the middle of the couch and points to her right. “You sit here. Daddy sits by the lamp so he can see.”
So Trent ends up with his daughter sandwiched between him and Ted Lasso, who listens attentively as Trent reads aloud a book that is, so clearly, about two men in love. Well. Two amphibians.
“‘What you see is the clear warm light of April. And it means we can begin the year together, Toad. Think of it,’ said Frog. ‘We will skip through the meadows and run through the woods and swim in the river. In the evenings we will sit right here on this front porch and count the stars.’”
Trent keeps his voice low; it’s nearing Mia’s naptime, and she’s often lulled by the familiar words. He knows them almost by heart at this point, and as he turns the page he looks over at Ted.
Ted is watching him. His expression is unutterably soft.
Trent finishes the book as his daughter falls asleep on his shoulder, and he feels his heart in his throat.
He carries Mia up to bed and tucks her in. Then he takes several deep, calming breaths and goes back downstairs.
Ted is in the kitchen, cleaning up. “Stop that,” Trent says. “You’re a guest.” And Ted does stop, and he lets Trent take the dishtowel from his hands and place it on the counter, and then they are face to face and standing very close.
Ted is wearing a flower crown and a blue bow tie and his eyes are locked on Trent’s. “I want,” he says softly, and brushes his hand against Trent’s arm, his shoulder, hovering it over Trent’s chest. “Is that…?”
Trent nods. He takes off his glasses and folds them up, slides them onto the counter. Ted brings his hand up and puts it in Trent’s hair.
He smooths his thumb over Trent’s temple and pulls his fingers gently through Trent’s hair, feeling it between his fingers before letting go. His hand is trembling very slightly. Trent, who once got on his knees in a public restroom for a man whose name he didn’t know, is almost too frightened of breaking the moment to lean in and brush his lips against Ted’s. Almost.
Ted lets out a little breath and kisses back.
They kiss in the kitchen, the smell of lavender-scented dish soap in the air, Ted’s fingers still damp from the sink. Ted’s whole body is trembling, now, and he has to gasp for breath when they break apart.
“Holy smokes,” he says, and Trent almost gives him shit for the Americanism before he sees that Ted’s eyes are twinkling. “For real, though,” Ted says ruefully, “can we maybe sit down?”
They sit on the couch. Trent can’t help it; he leans over and kisses Ted again the second they’re settled. Ted’s hands grasp Trent’s shoulders and he kisses back, hard, and Trent is keeping his mouth mostly closed until he feels Ted’s tongue brush tentatively across his lips. Then he opens up with a probably embarrassingly eager noise and they kiss quite a lot more.
“Frog and Toad are in love, right?” Ted asks, one hand on Trent’s knee.
“I always thought so.” He’s a little out of breath. “The author was gay. Arnold Lobel. But it was the seventies, and he was married at the time, so…” He grins. He feels half out of his mind with happiness. “He had a really good moustache.”
“Write about it,” Ted says. “Write about him. Arnold. Write about Frog and Toad, or…or about raising your daughter, or working in sports journalism. Write about anything. I miss reading your writing.”
Trent nods, slowly, heart pounding. And then it is time for more kissing.
Ted leaves an hour later, thoroughly, thoroughly kissed. Trent stares at the closed front door for a full two minutes, then turns back to his flat. He catches his reflection in the hall mirror. His hair is an absolute bird’s nest. Ted wouldn’t stop playing with it while they were making out.
Making out. They made out. They kissed and kissed and kissed and kissed till Trent thought he’d drown in it, or die of it. All that kissing. Ted’s mouth. Ted’s tongue. Ted’s hands. In his hair. In Trent’s hair.
Ted Lasso’s hands. In Trent’s hair.
He lets out a silent scream and claps his hands to his face to hide from himself just how widely he is grinning.
They go out for dinner. Trent does take Ted to Salieri’s, and he does order them the pistachio and mint pesto and a bottle of excellent red, and Ted keeps touching his hands as if he can’t believe he’s really allowed. Trent’s entire body is screaming for him to take Ted home (his flat is empty; Mia is with Lauren and Nami again) and lay him out on his bed and put his mouth on every single inch of Ted’s bare skin. But Ted is new at this, and clearly a bit nervous, and Trent is going to be a goddamn gentleman if it kills him.
“You’re welcome to come to mine for a nightcap,” he says as they’re leaving. He makes himself sound as casual as possible. “Or we can have the Uber drop you off at yours.”
“I’d, uh, like that. A nightcap, I mean.” He’s looking at Trent’s mouth when he says it. The car ride, though not in reality particularly long, feels endless.
There’s no nightcap when they get back to Trent’s flat. There’s kissing up against the front door as soon as it’s closed, Ted’s warm face cradled in Trent’s hands. There’s shedding of jackets, and moving to the couch, and more kissing, Trent pressing Ted back—gently—against the armrest.
“Trent,” Ted says, flushed, collar askew, after about five minutes of this, “I, uh. Well, you know this is all new to me, and I am recently divorced after a long marriage, and I suppose it would make sense to take things slow. But, uh, I am sort of—” he laughs “—dying for you to touch me, so, if it’s all right with you I’d kinda like to throw the word slow out the window and just—”
Trent pushes Ted back against the sofa, emphatically this time, and kneels on top of him, kissing his open mouth and his neck and flicking his tongue out against his earlobe. Ted gasps, sounding almost pained, and he writhes awkwardly under Trent, who realizes after a moment he’s kicking off his shoes.
He swears and breaks off to untie his own shoes, letting them tumble to the floor as he straddles Ted properly now, pushing his hands up Ted’s chest.
“Trent, oh lord,” Ted groans, and he runs his own hands down Trent’s back, stopping just above his arse. To make it clear that Ted is more than welcome to keep going, Trent presses himself flush against Ted and Ted cries out as his hard prick is caught against Trent’s stomach.
“We’re wearing an awful lot of clothes,” Ted mumbles.
“Touch my arse,” Trent pants.
“Trent Crimm!”
“Touch it. No. Under my trousers, come on, you said too many clothes—”
Ted’s hands slide down the back of Trent’s trousers and pants and he squeezes Trent’s buttocks in his strong hands. Trent’s cock twitches against Ted’s leg and they both reach the conclusion, at the same time, that they must extricate themselves from the clothing situation, no matter how annoying the interruption.
“Bed, or…?” Trent asks, as they’re divesting themselves of their shirts and trousers.
Ted swallows. His chest is hairy and flushed pink. His erection is barely contained by his white boxer briefs. “Can we just…stay here?”
“Yes,” Trent says, “Yes, of course.”
The curtains are drawn; there’s no one else home. They can do whatever they want, wherever they want.
Trent places his hand on Ted’s chest and runs it slowly south, over his slightly protruding belly, down to the waistband of his pants. Ted nods, swallowing convulsively, and Trent hooks his fingers around the waistband and pulls. Ted’s cock springs free. Carefully, Trent pulls his pants all the way off and discards them on the floor.
He takes Ted’s cock in his hand, grasping it firmly but gently. Ted’s eyes flutter shut. “I want…” he whispers. “God, Trent, I want everything.”
Trent’s heart does a funny thing like someone has just given it a good squeeze and he says, hoarsely, “You deserve everything.”
Ted moans, just a hint of tears glistening in his eyes, and Trent moves his hand up and down his prick.
“I want—”
“Shh,” Trent says. “There’s time. There will be time.”
“Really?”
“All the time you want. All of it. I promise.”
Ted gropes at Trent’s waist and pulls them together again, mashing their pricks against each other with a clumsiness that makes Trent want to call him ridiculous things like “darling” and “pet.” He readjusts and starts to move, rubbing their pricks against each other, trapped between their stomachs.
“Your couch,” Ted says, “I—I don’t want to get it—”
Trent swears again and he wouldn’t care, he really wouldn’t, but he can’t read to his daughter on a couch stained with Ted Lasso’s semen. He sits them up, pulls them both bodily down to the floor, and lays out a blanket beneath them.
“The blanket—”
“I can wash the fucking blanket,” he growls, and takes their pricks in one hand and jacks them off fast and hard. “No more waiting.”
Ted comes first. His mouth opens in a big O and, surprise surprise, he is not quiet when he orgasms. Trent works him through it, maybe a little more roughly than he means to, but Ted’s shouting drives him nearly to distraction, and once they’re both messy with Ted’s come, Trent positions himself on his hands and knees over Ted and thrusts his cock into his tightly clenched fist until he’s looking at Ted’s face and coming on his chest.
There is some blissful post-orgasmic time in which nothing really happens in Trent’s head, and then he has to stop himself from blurting out something truly horrific like, You’re the best man I’ve ever met or I trust you with my heart.
They go on more dates and have more sex and kiss a lot more, and two weeks later, Ted gets Trent invited to a party.
It’s not quite a work thing, but it’s hosted by Keely Jones, at the very fancy flat of some model friend of hers, and there are going to be a lot of Richmond people there as well as a lot of folks from the fashion industry, and probably marketing as well. Trent can recognize a networking event when he sees one and sympathizes with Ted’s desire to have as many people in his corner as possible.
He can’t help wondering, though, how literal that’s going to be—the standing in corners with Ted part. He doesn’t think Ted’s told anyone at work about him. He’s only told Laura and Nami and one long-distance friend from uni who practically cried when Trent told her he’s finally dating someone she wouldn’t want to murder on sight. So he doesn’t quite know what the protocol is here. How…couple-y are they meant to be?
He thinks Ted might be a bit nervous about it, so he gives him some space; it’s Ted’s call, for about a million reasons, and he’s waiting for Ted to tell him what he wants. But once they’re in the car on the way to the party, Trent finally has to ask.
“So, tonight. There are going to be a lot of people we both know here.”
“Yessir.”
“What would be your preference for…how we are together?”
Ted sighs and looks out the window. “Would you be upset if I told you I didn’t have a good answer for that one?”
Trent shakes his head. “That’s enough of an answer in and of itself.”
Ted fidgets with the armrest. “I’m sorry I’m not…”
“No,” Trent says firmly, quickly. “It’s absolutely fine. We will do whatever makes you comfortable.”
“I appreciate that,” Ted says quietly.
They drive on. Trent doesn’t, as a rule, like putting on any pretense about his relationships with the people with whom he is romantically involved. He dated a closeted guy once, just after college, and although he understood where the man was coming from and why it was so difficult for him, he hated it; he really, really hated it. It didn’t work out. He asks himself, now, what he really feels, and is surprised to find that he is genuinely pretty mellow about it. They’ve only been seeing each other for a couple of weeks, after all. It isn’t really anyone’s business yet anyway. And he feels an odd protective clench in his chest when he thinks of anyone saying anything hurtful to Ted. That surprises him a little, too.
Ted doesn’t seem to mind them arriving together, though, which is a relief. The doorman of the building checks them off a list—“Ooh la la,” Ted whispers to Trent, and squeezes his hand as they take the elevator up to some absurdly high floor.
They can hear the music coming from behind one of the doors—there are only two flats on this floor, as far as Trent can see—and they enter to find an enormous, unbearably chic room full of very well-dressed and almost uniformly good-looking people, only a few of whom Trent recognizes on sight.
“Ted!” Keely hurries over. She’s sparkling with jewelry and it looks like her baby pink nails could slit someone’s throat. “Ah, it’s so good you came!” She kisses him on the cheek.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Ted says grandly.
Keely is, understandably, less enthusiastic to see Trent than to see Ted. Most people are. Still, there’s something worrying in the way she looks him coolly up and down.
“Mr. Crimm. Nice to see you.”
“Trent, please. And thank you so much for the invitation.”
“Course. ‘Scuse me, I need to—” She nods in the direction of some newly arriving guests and glides their way.
Trent wonders just how much the Richmond people are still holding the article against him.
He chats with a few folks at Ted’s side, but inevitably, they drift apart as Ted is beckoned in multiple directions. Trent doesn’t love parties, but he can hold his own—the trick is not caring if you’re standing alone for large periods of time, and letting people come to you—but tonight he rather wishes he could simply grab Ted’s elbow and let him steer. He’s getting a strong sense that he’s not welcome here. He saw Rebecca Welton glance over at him with a frown when she saw him, and Roy Kent, who is clearly uncomfortable in a sharp black suit, sends him a glare several notches darker than his usual scowl.
He gets a drink and tries to look broody and aloof rather than nervous and guilty. Luckily, he’s had a lot of practice looking broody and aloof. He makes distracted small talk with someone he knows vaguely from the journalism world and then, unexpectedly, finds himself face-to-face with Keely again.
“You know, Ted asked me to invite you,” she says without preamble. “I have to say, I was pretty surprised.”
Trent nods slowly. He isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing at all.
“He’s very forgiving, Ted.”
“Yes,” says Trent, then, surprising himself, says, “Some might say too forgiving.”
She narrows her eyes. “Some might.”
“I don’t know if it’s always good for him. But it was very lucky for me.”
She surveys him for a long moment—god, her stare could put any of his former colleagues to shame—and then something in her face softens.
“Be careful,” she says, in a tone that suggests she isn’t just taking the piss. “Pretty sure there’s a bounty on your head and a few people here would be more than happy to collect.”
He swallows and tries not to be too obvious as he glances furtively around.
“Trent?” Just as Keely is walking away, he hears someone calling his name. The voice does something odd to his stomach, prompting a swoop of mingled dread and excitement.
He turns and sees him before he can place the voice. “Paul!”
He and Paul dated about ten years ago, shortly before the Leonard Period. Paul is as thin as ever—nearly gaunt, Trent thinks for a spiteful second, but that is uncharitable; Paul’s good looks have only deepened with age. It is not inaccurate to refer to his eyes as “ice blue,” and they glint under pale lashes in the midst of a perfectly proportioned face. Those goddamn cheekbones.
“My goodness, Trent, how are you?” Paul shakes his hand, lingering a bit as his eyes rake over the silver streak in Trent’s wavy hair. That’s new since the last time they met and Trent isn’t altogether happy to find that he is pleased by Paul’s obvious approval.
“I’m well,” says Trent, extricating his hand. He stops his eyes from darting around the room to look for Ted—his only safe haven, it seems, in a sea of people who have good reason to dislike him. “How are you? Still working for Moreland and Hunt?”
Paul was a solicitor when they were together, very much on the up-and-up. He laughs as if the idea of remaining with the same employer for that length of time is absurd.
“No, god, no. Went into business with a couple of partners. We have our own firm.”
“Congratulations.” He rather hopes Paul won’t ask him if he’s still with the Independent, but finds, to his irritation, that he is disappointed when he doesn’t.
“Thanks. Only ended up here tonight because of a client—what a crowd. All these…football people.”
Trent’s disappointment turns to annoyance. There aren’t that many football people here, and you’d have to be awfully full of yourself to think you’re too good to be in a room with Rebecca Welton, who, whatever her current feelings toward Trent may be, is looking undeniably stunning in a long black gown as she holds court by the fireplace. Of course, Paul is full of himself. He always has been. Trent could never really hold it against him; with those looks and his spectacular talents in the bedroom, who wouldn’t be?
“Say, Trent,” Paul says, leaning in, “do you want to get out of here? Go somewhere more…interesting?”
Trent’s eyes widen. “I. Er. Paul, that’s very…nice, but…”
“Don’t tell me you want to be here.” Paul shudders. “Come on, I’m sure I still know my way around that excellent prick of yours.”
Trent steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says, not meaning it. “I do want to be here, actually. In fact, I’d better go and find my friend.”
“Your loss,” he hears Paul mutter as he hurries awkwardly away.
Ten years ago, he’d have taken Paul up on the offer. He’d have ducked out early without saying goodbye to his host, pleased to be the one “football person” the elegant Paul thought worthy of his time. He’d have gone to bed with him for a few blissful hours of elaborate fucking and there would have been a fifty percent chance Paul would have kicked him out afterwards, leaving him to call a taxi at 2 a.m. He’d have thought the hours of Paul’s undivided attention were worth it.
Suddenly, he needs rather badly to find Ted.
He circles the room, not quite able to stop himself from walking too quickly. A few guests give him curious looks; he gets another burning glare from Roy Kent. He feels strange in his skin, jittery and hot. He makes two rounds, increasingly desperate—where did Ted go?—before he remembers the row of gleaming French windows along one side of the room.
He finds Ted alone on a small balcony, leaning up against the railing and looking out over the lights of the city.
“Quite a view,” he says as Trent comes over to him.
The noise of the party diminishes as the glass doors shut behind them. Trent feels some of the tension drain from his body as he drinks in the fresh air and the quiet.
He puts his hand on the railing and tentatively brushes his pinky against Ted’s. He can see Ted’s answering smile, half shadowed in the dark.
“I just ran into an ex,” he says after a minute.
“Oh, gosh. Not Leonard?”
Trent shudders. “No. Thank goodness. This isn’t quite his sort of party.”
Leonard lost his bid for Parliament not long after they split and went to work in the Cabinet Office. He hobnobs almost exclusively with politicians and businessmen now, or so Trent’s heard. He’s told Ted a bit about him over the last couple weeks; he’s part of how he came to adopt Mia, and he’s the longest relationship Trent’s ever had, so in a way he feels like Leonard will always be significant to him. Ted, understandably, does not have warm feelings toward Leonard.
“No, it’s someone from before that. Paul Reese-Jones. I doubt I’ve ever mentioned him to you. We were together for…oh, maybe eight months officially, though there were a number of…scattered evenings here and there.” Quite a number, most of them after the breakup. At the time, he’d been grateful to Leonard for ridding him of that temptation.
“Was it good to see him?”
Trent has to stop himself from laughing aloud. “No, it wasn’t.” He takes a breath, trying to think of what, and how much, to say. “He said something about how it wasn’t a good party because there were too many football people here.”
Ted frowns. “You’re football people.”
“Yes.” Trent pauses. “He propositioned me.”
“What?” Ted swings around. “Just now?” He peers through the glass doors, back into the party. “Which one is he? Just wanna know who I’m s’posed to be getting jealous of.”
“Don’t—god, don’t be jealous. There, that’s him, in the green jacket.”
“My goodness,” Ted says after a moment. “That man is quite a looker.”
“That’s about all he is,” Trent replies. Ted turns to look at him, and a small smile creeps onto his face before he leans on the railing again, looking back out into the night.
“Trent,” he says, “please don’t take this the wrong way, but I get the impression that most of your exes aren’t very nice people.”
He lets out a long breath. “No,” he says, “they are not.”
“I just don’t get it,” Ted says. “You could have anyone you wanted. Why settle?”
Trent nearly yelps. He does yelp, maybe, a little. “I could have anyone I wanted?”
Ted frowns. “Of course you could. You’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re handsome as hell.”
He looks at him in disbelief. “Ted, I…I am flattered, but. I am a gay single father in my forties who has made a career out of asking people uncomfortable questions. And has made no effort to do so politely. I have an almost unbroken reputation for being a prick, and the second someone tries to be genuine I deflect it by talking about how much work I have to do and run away.”
Ted blinks. “Okayyy,” he says. “But all that ruthless reporter stuff, all that prickliness, that’s just—I mean, that’s just so obviously on the surface. Anybody who looks deeper for about two seconds can see that you’re a good person.”
I’M SORRY, I HAVE A DEADLINE I MUST MEET, GOODBYE, Trent wants to scream, half to prove a point, but he doesn’t. He wonders if the fact that Ted seems to think everyone is a good person decreases the impact of his words. He finds that it doesn’t.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I don’t know why you believe that, but thank you.”
Ted takes Trent’s face gently in his hands. “But—” Trent says, eyes flickering rapidly to the glass doors behind them, the view straight into the party.
“I’ve decided I don’t care,” Ted says calmly. He leans in and kisses Trent. His moustache tickles. It’s nice. It’s very nice indeed.