Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Rebecca Welton did not believe in Valentine’s Day.

Not as a rule.

As a concept? It was fine. It was charming in a dusty, Victorian sort of way. Profitable even. Good for florists and restaurants and men who forgot important anniversaries.

But personally?

To Rebecca, Valentine’s Day had long been a hostage situation masquerading as a holiday.

Under Rupert, the day had been a high-stakes theatrical production. It meant diamonds heavy enough to bruise, champagne that cost more than most people’s rent, and a husband who treated romance like a competitive sport. Rupert didn’t love her; he loved the spectacle of loving her. He loved the way the crystal chandeliers at the Savoy caught the light of her forced smile. He loved the way other men looked at him, envious of the beautiful woman he had bought and paid for with a bouquet of two hundred long-stemmed roses.

And Rebecca had vowed, with a glass of bitter gin in her hand the night the divorce was finalized, that she would never play that role again.

She stood alone now in her office at Nelson Road, London spread out behind her in a wash of winter-grey twilight. Her heels were off. One hand cradled a glass of red wine she hadn’t actually sipped. The other rested against the cool windowpane.

The stadium below was a cathedral at rest. Empty seats, silent turf, the floodlights dark. It was the only place she felt truly powerful, yet truly herself.

She stared at her reflection in the glass. She saw the woman she used to be—the one who wore armor made of silk and spite—and the woman she was becoming. The woman who actually liked her life.

“Valentine’s Day," she murmured, the words fogging the glass.

Rupert would absolutely attend some grotesque charity ball. Probably with a woman half his age draped in red satin. He would donate something obscene and have his name projected on a screen in letters tall enough to be seen from space.

And for one brief, vicious second, Rebecca imagined hosting something larger. Louder. More elegant. More meaningful.

She dismissed it.

She was not in competition anymore.

She wasn’t that woman anymore.

She did not need to prove anything.

Her gaze drifted to the framed photograph on her desk — the team piled together after a win, sweaty and grinning and utterly unguarded with arms around each other like a pack of overgrown puppies. Ted and Beard in the center, of course. Roy scowling, but leaning in. Jamie pretending not to smile. Dani mid-laugh. Sam radiant.

She felt it then — that warm, inconvenient, swelling thing in her chest.

This club had become something more than an asset.

It was community.

It was healing.

It was… love, actually.

And then there was Keeley.

The thought of Keeley Jones softened parts of Rebecca that she usually kept under lock and key. Keeley, who believed in glitter and vulnerability in equal measure. Keeley, who had marched into Rebecca’s life with a leopard-print coat and a heart so big it had its own gravity.

They were "loud and proud" now—or as loud as Rebecca’s British reserve would allow. Keeley didn’t care about the Savoy or the diamonds; she cared about the feeling. She celebrated holidays because she genuinely loved the excuse to tell people they were brilliant.

Rebecca could see it clearly: Keeley in something shimmering and dangerously low-cut, laughing under fairy lights. Rebecca’s hand at the small of her back. No cameras. No performance. Just the two of them, and the family they had built.

God, that sounded insufferably sentimental.

She blamed Ted Lasso. Ted, with his biscuits and his puns and his terrifyingly sincere belief that everyone deserved a win.

Still.

The stadium was underutilized in winter. The community outreach budget had room. Ticketed gala. Charity auction. Open bar. Live music. Black tie. Press coverage. Funds raised for local youth programs.

She imagined Keeley’s hand in hers.

She imagined Roy Kent in a tuxedo, looking like a very handsome hitman, pretending to despise every second while secretly making sure Ted Lasso’s tie was straight.

Wait.

Rebecca narrowed her eyes at the photo. She had noticed things. Small things. A shared look in the hallway. The way Roy’s "fuck off" sounded remarkably like "I adore you" whenever Ted was the recipient. The way Ted’s sunny disposition seemed to find its North Star in Roy’s grumpy shadow.

They were hiding it. The idiots.

And then there was Jamie and Dani. The "Two Aces." They were currently orbiting each other like twin stars, both too vain or too oblivious to realize they were caught in each other’s pull. Jamie was trying so hard to be a "top mental lad" that he hadn't noticed he spent eighty percent of his time looking for Dani’s approval. And Dani? Dani just thought everyone felt this much joy when Jamie Tartt walked into a room.

They needed a push. They all did.

Valentine’s Day had once been about being chosen.

Now?

It could be about choosing.

Choosing joy.
Choosing connection.
Choosing something that wasn’t poisoned by Rupert’s shadow.

Her spine straightened. She thought of the team again.

They were forever skirting around the edges of affection, hiding sincerity behind banter and insults and bravado. Roy growling his way through devotion. Jamie pretending not to crave approval. Ted offering love so freely it sometimes scared the room into silence.

What if they had a night where it was allowed?

If she was going to do this, she would do it properly.

Not garish.

Not desperate.

Elegant.

Powerful.

Unapologetic.

She reached for her phone.

“Higgins,” she said when he answered. “Clear the team’s schedules for the evening of February fourteenth.”

A beat. She could hear the rustle of paper on the other end. “Oh dear,” Higgins replied gently. “That sounds… significant. Are we firing someone? Please don't say we're firing someone on the day of St. Valentine. The optics would be ghastly.”

We are not firing anyone, Leslie. We are hosting a Valentine’s Charity Gala. Black tie. Nelson Road. I want the pitch covered, the champagne flowing, and the press reminded that AFC Richmond has a heart.”

Silence.

Then, faintly, “Oh my goodness.”

“And Higgins?”

“Yes, Rebecca?”

“Make it spectacular.”

She hung up before she could reconsider.
She stared at the stadium once more.

This time, she smiled.
__________________

The following afternoon, the entire Richmond squad had been summoned to the locker room — the only space large enough to contain both their bodies and their chaos.

Roy Kent stood near the back, arms folded, expression already suggesting that whatever this was would be stupid.

Jamie Tartt leaned back against the wall like he was at a fashion shoot rather than a football club.

Dani Rojas radiated curiosity and his usual caffeinated energy.

Ted Lasso bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, hands clasped behind his back, as if this might be a surprise birthday party rather than an administrative gathering.

Keeley stood beside Rebecca, wearing a neon-pink power suit that made her look like a very fashionable highlighter. She caught Rebecca’s eye and winked.

Rebecca surveyed them all.

Her team.

Her club.

Her slightly feral sons.

She felt the familiar tightening in her chest — the instinct to armor up. To deliver this briskly. Coolly. Professionally.

Instead, she stepped forward and the room fell silent.

“Gentlemen,” she began, voice smooth as silk, “and Ted.”

“Always appreciate the distinction, Boss!” Ted chirped. “Makes me feel like the 'and' in 'Rock and Roll.'”

A ripple of laughter.

Roy rolled his eyes but didn’t look away from Ted.

Roy grunted. Ted’s eyes flicked to him—just for a second—and the corner of Ted’s mouth hitched upward. Rebecca saw it. Roy saw that she saw it, and immediately looked at the ceiling as if contemplating the structural integrity of the tiles.

“As you know,” she continued, “AFC Richmond has always been committed to community outreach. Youth development. Local partnerships.”

Jamie leaned toward Dani. “This sounds like homework.”

Dani whispered back, “Homework can be love, Jamie.”

“This year,” Rebecca said, letting the pause stretch just long enough, “we will be hosting a Valentine’s Charity Gala.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

Then—

“We’re hosting a what now?” Roy asked flatly.

“A gala?” Jamie asked, horrified. “Like… with dancing? In front of people?”

Ted’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Oh. I love where this is headed.”

Rebecca pressed on, unfazed.

“A formal, black-tie event held here at Nelson Road. Live music. Auction. Open bar. Press. Attendance mandatory.”

A chorus of reactions erupted.

“Black tie?!” Jamie yelped. “Like penguin suits?”

“Yes, Mr. Tartt,” Rebecca replied coolly. “The kind with trousers.”

Jamie raised a hand cautiously. “Can we at least look fit?”

“You may look as fit as you like,” Rebecca replied coolly.

Dani gasped, his eyes wide. “A celebration of love! In the temple of football! This is a miracle! Football is life, but Love is also life!” He turned to Jamie. “We shall be the most beautiful, Jamie! Like two swans!”

Jamie looked at Dani, his usual swagger faltering into something softer, confused. “Yeah. Right. Swans. Proper fit ones.”

Ted leaned toward Roy, stage-whispering, “You’re gonna look real handsome in a tux.”

Roy didn’t look at him.

But he said, quietly, “Shut up.”

Which, in Roy Kent language, meant something entirely different.

Isaac groaned.

Colin looked faintly terrified.

Ted raised his hand as though in a classroom. “Are plus-ones permitted? Hypothetically. If one were… romantically entangled.”

Roy’s jaw ticked. He was currently staring at his own boots, but his ears were turning a tell-tale shade of pink.

Rebecca’s eyes flicked between them.

“Plus-ones are strongly encouraged,” she said smoothly.

Ted beamed.

Roy muttered, “For fuck’s sake,” but he didn’t step away from Ted.

In fact, he stepped half an inch closer.

Rebecca clocked that too.

Keeley leaned closer to Rebecca and whispered, “Oh this is going to be delicious.”

Rebecca allowed herself a tiny smile.

“There will also,” she added, “be a team Valentine exchange.”

That got them.

“A what?” Isaac asked.

“Each of you will draw a name. You will provide a card or small gift. Something sincere.”

“Sincere?” Jamie repeated, as if she’d suggested ritual sacrifice.

“Yes. I’m told that’s a feeling some people are capable of.”

Ted clutched his chest. “Oh I love this. Nothing like forced vulnerability to bring a locker room together.”

Roy shot him a look. “You are not allowed to turn this into a rom-com.”

Ted leaned slightly toward him. “Buddy, we’ve been in one for months.”

A faint flush crept up Roy’s neck. He scowled harder, which only made it worse.

The room descended into overlapping arguments and complaints.

Rebecca stepped back.

Watched them.

The noise.

The bickering.

The affection threaded through all of it.
This.

This was why she’d done it.

Not Rupert.
Not spectacle.
Not revenge.

Connection.

She caught Keeley’s eye.

Keeley squeezed her hand briefly — subtle, grounding.

Rebecca lifted her chin.

Rebecca paused, softer now.

“It will be a night about celebrating what matters.”

The room quieted, just a fraction.

Roy stopped muttering.
Jamie stopped posturing.
Ted’s expression shifted — something warm and knowing there.

Rebecca felt exposed for half a second.

Then she did what she did best.

She masked it with power.

“Dismissed.”

The room erupted into motion.

As they filed out, Rebecca lingered, watching Roy and Ted argue softly about bow ties versus ties, watching Dani throw an arm around Jamie’s shoulders, watching the team cluster instinctively instead of dispersing.

Keeley leaned against her side.

“You did good,” Keeley murmured.

Valentine’s Day.

Once a battlefield.

Now?

A ballroom.

And this time — she would own it.

Chapter Text

The box sat on the center training table like a flamboyant intruder. It was neon pink, aggressively glittery, and covered in a layer of craft-store faux fur that looked like it had been harvested from a Muppet.

Nate’s niece had outdone herself, but Nate had been the one to provide the structural integrity—and the teeth. The "mouth" of the box was lined with jagged paper fangs, and deep within its gullet lay the folded destinies of every man in the room.

Ted held it over his head, beaming as if it were the Premier League trophy itself.

“This, fellas,” Ted began, his voice dropping into the hushed, cinematic tone he reserved for pre-game pep talks and the arrival of fresh shortbread, “is the Urn of Affinity. The Vessel of Valentines. It chooses your fate. No peeking, no squinting, and absolutely no ‘accidental’ drops. Whoever you pull is your permanent assignment. No takesies-backsies, no swapping under the table, and no trying to trade Sam for a player to be named later.”

“It’s actually hurting my retinas, Ted,” Roy grumbled from the bench, though he didn't look away. “It looks like a disco ball had a fight with a sheep.”

“Hey now,” Ted chirped, “Nate the Great and his favorite niece put a lot of blood and sweat into this. Mostly glitter sweat, actually. I’m still finding sparkles in my mustache.”

Nate, standing in the corner with a clipboard, offered a shy, proud smile.

Jamie immediately raised a hand, his brow furrowed in genuine concern. “Coach, look, I’m all for team buildin’ and that, but what if I get someone I don’t… you know… vibe with? Like, what if the energy is just rubbish?”

Roy shot him a look that could have curdled milk. “Then you grow up and you buy a card, you preening little prick.”

Jamie grumbled, leaning forward to inspect the box. He squinted at the messy, glitter-glued handwriting on the back. “Uh, Coach? Why’s it say ‘Be Honest or Be Haunted’ on the back? Haunted by what? Is this a curse? I can’t do another curse, they’re bad for the complexion.”

“Haunted by Saint Valentine’s ghost,” Colin whispered, his eyes widening. “I’ve seen the documentaries. Vengeful spirits of the martyred are no joke, boys. I don’t want to fight any more ghosts.”

“Ghosts need love, too,” Dani chimed in, his face a mask of pure, unblinking sincerity. “Perhaps the ghost is just lonely because he has no one to share his churros with.”

Beard raised a single hand, silencing the brewing panic. “I think the sentiment refers to the haunting specter of guilt, gentlemen. The crushing weight of a half-hearted gesture.”

“Bada-bing, bada-boom, Coach,” Ted snapped his fingers.

“Ohs” were said throughout the room as they realized their mistake. No ghosts would be haunting them on Valentine’s Day.

“A collective “Ohhhhh” rippled through the room. The fear of the supernatural was replaced by the much more relatable fear of emotional vulnerability.

“Higgins here is gonna facilitate the proceedings,” Ted announced. “He’s our Master of Ceremonies. All is fair in love and Valentine’s Day.”

Higgins stepped forward, looking far too delighted. He moved through the locker room like a polite tax collector, offering the fuzzy mouth of the box to each man.

Roy stepped forward first — because of course he did. He shoved his hand into the glittery death box like it had personally offended him and pulled out a folded slip.

He unfolded it.

His expression didn’t change.

Which meant everything.

Ted leaned sideways, his curiosity getting the better of his manners. “Who’d ya get, Roy? Give us a hint. Is it someone with a winning personality and a penchant for puns?”

Roy folded the paper once. Twice.

“Not you,” he said flatly.

Ted’s smile widened. “Well, that’s suspiciously specific. I’ll take that as a ‘maybe.’”

Roy didn’t answer.

Across the circle:

Jamie reached in with a dramatic flourish. As he unfolded his slip, he let out a sharp, theatrical gasp. “Oh, no. No, the universe is takin’ the piss, it is.”

Isaac narrowed his eyes. “What? You get Roy?”

Jamie looked personally betrayed by the cosmos for a second, then a slow, devious smirk spread across his face. “Nah. Even better. I’ve got the easiest person in the world to get a gift for. Because I know exactly what they love.”

The room went feral.

Ted clutched his chest, his eyes shimmering. “Oh my goodness. Jamie Tartt is my Valentine? I feel like I’ve just been handed the lead role in a school play, Jamie. I’m touched.”

Jamie looked horrified. “Don’t get excited, old man. I’m not writing you anything soppy. It’ll be functional. And expensive.”

Ted grinned. “That’s okay. I’ll know if you mean it.”

Jamie let out a laugh before he turned his attention back to the box.

Dani reached in next and lit up like the sun when he opened his.

“Oh!” he breathed, clutching the paper to his heart.

Jamie eyed him suspiciously. “Who?”

Dani just smiled—a secretive, warm, and entirely too pleased expression. He tucked the name away, looking like a man who had just found the golden ticket.

He got exactly who he had wanted.

Isaac drew and groaned, likely contemplating the difficulty of buying a gift for Beard. Colin drew and went still, his face thoughtful before he gave a small, resolute shrug. Sam drew and his entire posture softened, a gentle smile touching his lips as if the name he held carried its own warmth.

One by one they pulled names until the box was nearly empty.

Ted went last.

He dipped his hand in with an exaggerated fishing motion, eyes squeezed shut as he "searched for fate."

Pulled.

Unfolded.

Blinked.

He didn’t react at first.

Then something flickered.

Not surprise.

Something quieter. A realization.

Roy noticed.

Of course he did.

Their eyes met across the room for half a second.

Ted folded the slip with care and slipped it into his breast pocket as if it were made of glass.

Roy’s jaw ticked.

“Remember,” Higgins chirped, “the goal is sincerity! Something from the heart!”

“Can we just buy chocolate?” Jamie asked, already checking his hair in the locker mirror.

“No,” Rebecca’s voice cut in from the doorway.

Everyone turned.

She and Keeley had returned, unnoticed.
Rebecca looked every inch the Boss, her presence commanding instant silence, while Keeley leaned against the frame, looking like she was witnessing her favorite reality TV show.

“This is not about convenience, Jamie,” Rebecca said coolly, her gaze sweeping the room with amused authority. “It’s about honesty. If you can’t be honest with your teammates, how can you be honest on the pitch?”

Roy muttered, “That’s worse.”

Rebecca arched a brow. “I heard that.”

The team dispersed in a flurry of complaints and bravado, clutching folded paper like secrets. They discussed whether a card or a gift would be easier to get for their teammates.

Dani smiled, his cheeks pink as he glanced at Jamie. Jamie braced about getting the biggest present he could to outdo everybody. Roy grumbled but his eyes gave him away, soft around the edges.

And Ted.

Ted looked like a kid on Christmas.

___________________

Upstairs, the atmosphere shifted from the frantic energy of the locker room to something hushed and golden. The afternoon sun hit the decanters on Rebecca’s sideboard, casting long, amber shadows across the carpet.

The door clicked shut. Keeley kicked off her heels and immediately perched on the edge of Rebecca’s massive desk, swinging her legs.

“Well,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “That was chaos.”

Rebecca allowed herself a long, slow exhale, the tension leaving her shoulders. She walked to the window, looking down at the empty pitch. “It was structured chaos, Keeley. There’s a difference.”

Keeley smiled, leaning forward. “You’re enjoying this. The matchmaking, the ‘honesty’ mandates. You’ve got that little sparkle in your eye you get when you’ve successfully executed a plan.”

Rebecca didn't turn around immediately. She folded her arms, watching the wind ripple across the grass. “I wanted something…” she began, then paused, searching for the word.

Keeley tilted her head. “Something what?”

Rebecca considered lying.

Instead—

“Something that felt like ours.”

Keeley softened instantly.

Rebecca continued slowly.

“Valentine’s Day has always felt like performance. Something done for appearances. Or competition.”

She didn’t say Rupert’s name.

She didn’t have to.

Keeley slid off the desk and walked over, standing just behind her. “And this isn’t a performance?”

“No,” Rebecca said. “This is… intentional.”

She turned fully now.

“I wanted to celebrate what we’ve built. The team. The club. The community.”

She stepped closer, the space between them suddenly feeling very small and very significant. Her voice lowered.

“And you.”

Keeley’s breath caught.

Rebecca stepped even closer — just enough that the space between them felt charged.

“I’ve never hosted something on Valentine’s Day that wasn’t about proving something,” she admitted. “I would like this one to be about choosing.”

Keeley’s eyes went glossy.

“Choosing what?” she whispered.

Rebecca reached for her hand.

“Choosing joy,” she said. “Choosing the people who matter.”

Her thumb brushed over Keeley’s knuckles.
“Choosing you.”

Keeley’s smile broke slow and luminous.

“That’s disgustingly romantic,” she murmured.

Rebecca almost laughed.

“I suppose it is.”

Keeley leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Rebecca’s mouth.

“Then let’s make it ours,” she said. “Not Rupert’s. Not the press’. Ours.”

Rebecca rested her forehead briefly against Keeley’s.

“Yes,” she agreed.

Outside, in the stadium below, the wind moved through empty seats.

Soon, they would be filled with music and candlelight and people choosing each other.

For now—

It was quiet.

And for the first time, Valentine’s Day didn’t feel like something Rebecca had to survive.

It felt like something she was building.

Chapter Text

The bedroom was quiet, save for the distant hum of London traffic and the heavy silence that usually came before Roy Kent’s immediate descent into sleep. Roy had already performed his nightly ritual: phone silenced, book thumbed to a close and set on the nightstand, and the lamp clicked off.

Ted, however, was a different story. He was a tangle of restless energy, staring at the ceiling and tracing the patterns of moonlight shifting across the plaster.

“You think we should tell everybody we’re together?” Ted’s voice broke the silence, soft but clear.

Roy didn’t move at first, but the bed groaned slightly as he exhaled a long, gravelly breath. He didn’t sound annoyed, just tired in that way that made his growl sound more like a purr. “Where’s this coming from?” he mumbled into his pillow.

I dunno, I mean,” Ted hesitated, his fingers picking at the edge of the duvet. “Valentine’s Day is right around the corner. And since Rebecca and Keeley went ahead and told the world they’re a team—well, a different kind of team—I’ve been thinking. Maybe we don’t have to be a secret anymore. Maybe we don’t have to keep the 'us' part of 'us' under wraps.”

The mattress shifted as Roy turned over to face him. He propped himself up on one elbow, his face resting in the crook of his arm. Even in the dim light, Ted could see that specific look Roy only ever used on him—the one where the jagged edges of the Richmond manager seemed to sand themselves down into something impossibly soft.

“You were never a secret, Ted,” Roy muttered, his voice a low rumble. “We didn’t tell anybody, sure. But that doesn’t mean I’m against people knowing.”

“I just thought,” Ted pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyebrows furrowing. “With the press and the tabloids… I didn’t want you having to deal with the vultures. They can be real mean-spirited when they find something they can’t understand.”

Roy leaned closer, the scent of his soap and something distinctly Roy filling Ted’s senses. “Fuck the press. They can say whatever the fuck they want. They already call me a cunt twice a day. A little romance isn’t gonna change the weather. If you want to stand up and tell everyone we’re together…”

He leaned in the final inch, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of Ted’s mouth. “Then let’s fucking do it.”

The relief hit Ted like a wave. His hands found the back of Roy’s head, fingers tangling in the short, coarse hair there as he pulled him into a searing kiss. It wasn't just a kiss. It was a thank-you, a confession, and a promise all wrapped into one messy, breathless moment.

When they finally broke apart, Ted was beaming, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “So, how you feeling about our first official Valentine’s Day together?”

“Ted, I’m not telling you what I’m getting you for Valentine’s Day.”

“Aw, come on!” Ted pulled out his best puppy-dog eyes, a look that had worked on everyone from school teachers to bureaucrats. “It’s our first one as a proper couple. And I might get double the loot depending on if you drew my name in the club’s Valentine’s Secret Santa. It’s statistically significant, Roy!”

Roy was grateful for the shadows of the room, because he could feel the heat climbing up his neck. His heart gave a traitorous little thump.

“Told you already. Didn’t get you,” Roy lied, his voice only cracking slightly.

“Then, who did you get?”

Roy narrowed his eyes. “No. This is a trap. I’m not falling for it.”

Ted huffed, falling back flat on his back with a dramatic puff of air. “Fine. Keep your secrets, Mr. Bond. But I think we should do something big to announce it. A grand gesture. Maybe a speech at the gala? Or a flash mob? I can learn a choreographed dance, Roy, don't tempt me.”

“Ted, why? Just… why?”

“Because you love a grand gesture!”

“I hate grand gestures,” Roy grunted, though there was no heat in it.

“That is a bald-faced lie, Roy Kent. You loved our first date. You were practically glowing.”

Roy smiled despite himself, the memory of that night flashing through his mind. “That was an exception. Because it was you.”

Ted pushed playfully at Roy’s shoulder. “Fine, no flash mobs. But just so you know, I will be bidding on you at the charity auction. I’m gonna be the highest bidder in Richmond history.”

“Duh. You better be,” Roy growled. “I am not having sex with some old broad who thinks a date with me includes a tour of the locker room.”

“It’s the shoulder muscles, Roy. They’re a public menace,” Ted teased. “Maybe don’t wear those shirts that are two sizes too small if you don’t want people staring.”

Roy didn’t answer with words. Instead, he rolled over, pinning Ted to the mattress with the practiced ease of a man who spent his life on a pitch. He hovered over him, his weight a comforting pressure. “Last I checked, you weren’t complaining about the shirts.”

“Oh, I’m not. I’m a fan of the architecture,” Ted smiled up at him, breathless. “But those old ladies in the stands? They don’t get much action, Roy. It’s like the Victorian Era out there. You show a little bit of ankle, and you’ve got the whole town staring.”

“You’re a prick,” Roy whispered, his face inches from Ted’s.

“Yeah, but I’m your prick,” Ted countered, his voice dropping to a tender register. “You’re stuck with me, my friend.”

Roy let out a short, huffed laugh, shaking his head. “Ted, we stopped being friends the moment you kissed me.”

Ted grinned, his eyes sparking. “I honestly thought you were gonna say somethin’ along the lines of ‘we stopped being friends whenever I was inside you,’ but I mean, your version is definitely sweeter. Very Hallmark Channel.”

Roy groaned, buried his face in Ted’s neck for one last, firm kiss, and then rolled back to his side of the bed. He reached out, hauling Ted into his side until they were perfectly fitted together like two puzzle pieces

“Now, get the fuck to sleep,” Roy muttered, kissing the top of Ted’s head. “You know the next week is about to be total chaos.”

Ted sighed contentedly, closing his eyes and listening to the steady beat of Roy’s heart. “Yeah. But it’ll be our chaos.”

Chapter Text

Dani Rojas did not believe in halves. He didn’t believe in half-hearted headers, half-hearted smiles, or half-hearted friendships. And he certainly didn’t believe in half-hearted love.

He had loved Jamie Tartt for a long time. It was a quiet realization that eventually became a loud, constant hum in his chest. When they first met, Jamie had been a person made of sharp edges and brittle pride. He was cocky, convinced of his own singular greatness, and he viewed Dani—with his effortless joy and natural talent—as a personal insult.

Dani hadn't been blind to the hostility. He felt the coldness in the locker room, the way Jamie would look right through him. But Dani also saw the loneliness beneath the swagger. He didn't believe in hate; he believed in the abundance of grace. So, he extended an olive branch, then another, and another, until Jamie finally had no choice but to reach back.

Now, years later, Jamie was his gravity, his best friend, and his partner in crime. They were a rhythm of late-night FIFA sessions, early morning runs where their breath misted together in the London chill, and long, rambling conversations that meandered from football tactics to the meaning of life. Jamie was his equal—the one person who could match his intensity on the pitch and ground him off it.

Love hadn’t seeped in slowly like a tide. For Dani, it had arrived like a freight train in the middle of the night. It happened when he first saw Jamie’s "messy side"—the moments of doubt, the tear-streaked face after a hard call from his father, the raw vulnerability that Jamie hid from the rest of the world. In those moments, Dani didn’t just want to be his teammate; he wanted to be his sanctuary.

So, when Dani reached into the adorable, fuzzy box and pulled out the slip of paper with Jamie Tartt written in messy script, his heart nearly beat out of his ribs. He kept his face a mask of polite mystery until he reached the privacy of his flat.

Then, he let out a shout of pure, unadulterated joy that probably startled his neighbors. He jumped onto his sofa, clutching the paper like a golden ticket. He knew exactly what he had to do. Dani didn’t do "store-bought." He did "from the soul."

And then he pieced together exactly what he would give Jamie.

Cards from the store couldn’t sum up all of what Dani felt. So Dani made his own.

The card took three days. He didn't just want to write a message. He wanted to build a monument.

He sat at his kitchen table surrounded by lace trim, jars of glitter, and a mountain of heart stickers. He suffered for his art—five stinging hot glue burns on his fingertips and three deep paper cuts—but he wore the Band-Aids like medals of honor.

Then came the words. He spent three hours hunched over the card with a sparkly red pen, oscillating between English and Spanish. English for the life they shared now; Spanish for the deepest parts of his heart.

“Eres mi sol,” he wrote. “Eres mi amor.”

He poured his desires onto the page with the fervor of a modern-day Shakespeare, hoping the ink carried enough weight to tell Jamie everything his lips hadn't dared to say. He just needed one thing now: the perfect bouquet, fresh and vibrant, to be bought at the very last second so it wouldn't wilt. Just like his hope.

__________________

On the other side of Richmond, Jamie Tartt was staring at a blank piece of paper with a level of intensity usually reserved for a championship penalty kick.

When he had first drawn Dani’s name from the box, he felt a momentary surge of triumph. Easy, he’d thought. I got the best one.

But as soon as he sat down to actually plan a gift, the "easy" feeling evaporated into a cold, paralyzing panic.

Because it wasn't just a gift. It was a confession.

Jamie was in love. Again. But this time, the word felt different. It didn’t feel like the possessive, flashy "love" he’d offered people in his past. He thought of Keeley, and a familiar pang of guilt struck him. He had been a "top-tier prick" back then. He had treated her like an accessory to his own greatness because he was too immature to realize he wasn't the center of the universe.

He was different now. He was more mature, sure, but more than that, he was aware. And Dani was the reason for that.

Dani had the terrifying ability to strip Jamie bare without even trying. He had seen Jamie at his absolute worst—the arrogance, the tantrums, the ego—and he had stayed. Dani never held Jamie’s past against him; he looked at Jamie like he was a man worth knowing, even when Jamie didn't believe it himself.

Jamie loved everything about the man. He loved the way Dani’s hair looked after a match, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his family in Guadalajara, and the way he radiated a warmth that could heat an entire stadium. Dani was beautiful, yeah, but it was his heart that made Jamie’s chest ache.

This couldn't be a "Jamie Tartt Special." He couldn't just throw a bottle of expensive tequila and a generic card signed “from Jamie with love” at him. He remembered what Rebecca had told him about sincerity. Sincerity required effort. It required being real.

He looked at his list. He’d crossed out "Fancy Watch" and "Designer Shoes." Those were things the old Jamie gave to impress people. He needed something that said, “I see you. I appreciate you. I want to be better for you.”

He picked up his pen, his hand shaking just a little. He had to put his heart on display, even if it meant it might get bruised. He started to write, slowly and carefully, stripping away the swagger until there was nothing left but the truth.

Chapter Text

“You know, even if all the guys are freaking out, I say we can call this Secret Santa but hornier,” Ted suggested, leaning back in his swivel chair with a look of pure mischief.

“Absolutely fucking not,” Roy shut down immediately. He was vibrating with a level of annoyance that usually preceded someone getting headbutted.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t call it that either,” Beard added, not looking up from his coffee. “Jane believes that she and I share a ‘liminal psychic tether’ that allows her to monitor my subconscious. If she finds out we’re calling it that, she might actually kill me. And not in the fun way.”

A hesitant knock rattled the office door before Jamie Tartt let himself in. He looked uncharacteristically small, his usual swagger replaced by a nervous fidgeting with the hem of his training top.

“Hey, um, coaches. You’ve got a second?”

“Always when it comes to you, Jamie,” Ted chirped, his eyes lighting up. “Is this like a tactical thing? A ‘how do I nutmeg a goalie from forty yards’ thing?”

“No, it’s… I’m asking for a Diamond Dogs meeting,” Jamie finished, his voice barely a whisper.

The room transformed instantly. Ted’s hands flew to his phone to summon Nate and Higgins, while the air filled with the chaotic, enthusiastic yipping and barking of grown men committing to a bit.

Once Nate and Higgins had scurried in, Ted gestured to the floor. “The floor is yours, Jamie. What’s weighin’ on that beautiful, highlight-filled head of yours?”

Jamie closed the door slowly, leaning against it. “This stays confidential, right?”

“Bound by social contract and human decency,” Trent answered from his corner, adjusting his glasses and clicking his pen.

“Yeah, everything’s top secret like a Bond mission,” Nate added, though he looked like he was vibrating with curiosity.

Jamie took a deep breath, his chest heaving. “I’m really nervous about my Valentine. I, um,” he lowered his voice to a pitch only diamond dogs could be able to hear, “I got Dani.”

“Isn’t he the easiest person on the planet to shop for?” Roy asked, genuinely confused. “You could give that man a half-eaten Twix and a stuffed dog and he’d think you’d handed him the keys to the city.”

“Yeah, but… the thing is…” Jamie’s ears were turning a violent shade of pink.

“Ohhhhhhh,” Ted’s eyes widened. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. “Jamie, are you telling us,” Ted lowered his own voice in solidarity, “that you’ve got a crush on our resident ray of sunshine?”

Jamie’s face went from pink to full-blown cherry red. “No! No, that’s not… that’s exactly what I’m saying. Stop lookin’ at me like that.”

A chorus of soft “Ooos” and "Awws" rippled through the room.

“Let’s not be pricks about it, okay?” Jamie defended, his Manchester accent thickening with his nerves. “I just… I’ve been havin’ trouble because I want it to be special. I was thinkin’ of tellin’ him at the gala.”

Beard let out a low, appreciative whistle. The room went silent, the gravity of the confession settling over them.

“I crossed out ‘love you mate’ five times on the rough draft as,” Jamie admitted, looking at his shoes. “I decided to write something from the heart instead. I just… Dani’s the best. He’s a really good guy, and I thought I had a plan, but then I panicked. Because Dani deserves the best, and I’m just… me.”

Higgins stepped forward, his expression softening with paternal warmth.

“I believe you’re on the right track, Jamie. In my experience, there’s nothing better than something homemade. My wife still has a jar I gave her thirty years ago filled with scraps of paper listing every reason I love her. She keeps it in the closet, and I occasionally see her reading them when she thinks I'm not looking. It’s the sentiment, not the price tag.”

“What Higgins said,” Ted pointed at Higgins who shot him back finger guns. “Do you have any ideas so far, Jamie?”

“Well, a homemade card. I’ve already written about a page of material. Writing’s not my strong suit so I thought I could bring it to Trent to fix up for me.”

“I would be honored,” Trent said, a genuine smile touching his lips. “It was my favorite pastime in Uni—fixing people’s grammar. It’s like surgery, but with fewer fluids.”

Jamie nodded gratefully. “And I want to get him tulips. They’re his favorite. But I’m tryin’ very hard not to write that I want his ‘two lips’ on mine.”

“Woah!” Ted shouted, slapping the desk. “I told you, Roy! Secret Santa but hornier! It’s catching!”

“Fuck my life,” Roy groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Don’t put that, Jamie. It’s hacky.”

“I think you should absolutely put that,” Ted countered. “Dani has a sense of humor as big as his heart. He’ll love it.”

Jamie’s posture straightened slightly. “They also have this stuffed animal football—it’s got a little face on it. I think he’d like that. But, my last gift… it’s the big one.”

“Well, hit us with it, Babe Ruth.”

“I’m thinking of getting plane tickets to Guadalajara, so Dani could see his family and so he could show me around the place he grew up.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Nate stopped breathing for a second; Higgins looked like he might cry again. Trent nearly dropped his pen.

“You’re… you’re serious about this,” Nate chimed in, his eyes wide. “I know what I might be doing for Jade now. Holy moly.” He started scribbling furiously on his clipboard.

“You don’t think it’s too soon?” Beard asked, playing the devil's advocate. “Travel is a big step. It’s the ‘Ikea furniture’ of relationship tests.”

“Maybe,” Jamie shrugged. “But he talks about it every day. How he misses his Abuela’s cooking and the smell of the air there. I figured, once the season’s done, we could take a little trip. Just us.”

“Well,” Roy said, his voice unusually gravelly. “It gives you two time to actually be in the relationship first. To get used to each other’s quirks. Go on dates and shit.”

“Wow, Roy, ever the romantic,” Ted teased.

“Oh, you want romantic?” Roy stood up, making direct, terrifyingly intense eye contact with Ted. He took a step closer into Ted’s personal space. “It gives them time to notice all the little things. Like how they hold their hand a little tighter before they cross the road. Or how their fucking pupils dilate whenever they spot them in a crowd of a thousand people.”

“I don’t think he’s talking about me anymore,” Jamie whispered to Trent.

Beard shushed him. “Don't interrupt. This is absolute gold.”

“It gives them time to know every aspect of their past,” Roy continued, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated in the small office. “To see their flaws, their cracks, and still think, ‘I fall in love with this idiot every single day.’ Maybe they have trauma, but you realize that trauma is just… character development. It’s what made them the person you can't live without.”

Higgins and Trent exchanged a look of pure shock.

“It gives them time to realize they never want to be with anybody else,” Roy breathed, his face inches from Ted’s. “Because they complete each other. They make each other laugh. They argue, but they never go to bed angry because the thought of them being upset is worse than being wrong. They know exactly how to make each other turn bright red just by looking at ‘em.”

Ted’s eyes softened, his usual wisecracks dying in his throat. He just looked at Roy, a small, tender smile playing on his lips. Roy was breathing heavily, as if he’d just run a suicide drill.

“Uh, are you two lovebirds done, or should we leave the room to give you some privacy?” Beard drawled.

The spell broke. Roy snapped his head around, his face flushing a deep, angry crimson. He cleared his throat so hard it sounded like a chainsaw starting up.

“Fuck off. I read romance novels. It’s called being literate, you twats,” he growled, though he wouldn't look Ted in the eye.

“Smooth, Roy. Real smooth,” Ted whispered.

Jamie cleared his throat, bringing the attention back to his dilemma. “So… do you think it’s good? The tickets?”

Jamie,” Ted said, his voice warm. “I think it’s the most ‘Diamond Dog’ thing I’ve ever heard. He’s gonna love it.”

Jamie’s face lit up, a genuine, joyful smile breaking through. “Thank you, Coaches. Higgins. Trent. One more question.”

“Go on, Donkey Kong.”

“Do you think… do you think he likes me back?”

The entire room—Ted, Beard, Roy, Nate, Higgins, and Trent—didn't even hesitate.

“Yes,” they said in perfect unison.

“Thank you!” Jamie gave a thumbs-up and practically floated out of the office.

“Diamond Dogs dismount!” Ted called out.

The howling of the Diamond Dogs faded into a heavy, expectant silence. Nobody moved.

Roy was still vibrating with the intensity of his own speech, his eyes darting toward the door as if he could physically chase his dignity out of the room.

"So," Beard said, breaking the silence with the precision of a scalpel. "Pupils dilating? Trauma as character development? That was some real Nicholas Sparks shit, Roy."

"I told you," Roy growled, his voice an octave deeper than usual, "I read. It’s called being literate, you twat."

"No, Roy," Higgins said softly, dabbing at the corner of his eye with a handkerchief. "That was poetry. I haven’t heard a description of longing like that since I accidentally walked in on the Richmond Opera Society’s rehearsal of Tristan und Isolde."

Ted hadn’t taken his eyes off Roy. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—the kind of look that usually preceded a pun that would make Roy want to headbutt a locker.

"You know, Roy," Ted chirped, leaning back against his desk. "For a guy who treats feelings like they’re landmines, you sure do know how to dance through the minefield. I think I actually saw a cartoon heart pop out of your chest for a second there."

"If you say one more word," Roy pointed a shaky finger at Ted, "I will bury you in the pitch. Deep. Where the worms can’t even find you."

"Fair enough," Ted held up his hands in mock surrender. "But just for the record, my pupils are doing just fine. 20/20 vision, last time I checked."

Roy let out a sound that was half-growl, half-whimper, and stormed out of the office, his heavy boots echoing like thunder down the hallway.

"He’s definitely going to go lift something heavy and scream," Nate observed, finally looking up from his clipboard. "But he’s right about the Valentine’s thing. The pressure is… it’s a lot."

"It’s only pressure if you’re trying to be someone you aren’t," Trent said, adjusted his glasses. "Jamie’s being himself. A slightly more literate, significantly more vulnerable version of himself, but himself nonetheless. It’s compelling." He looked at Ted. "I should probably go find him. If I’m going to edit a page of 'material' from Jamie Tartt, I’ll need to stock up on red ink and perhaps a sturdy dictionary."

___________________

Later that evening, the locker room was mostly empty, save for the hum of the industrial laundry machines and the soft thwack of a ball hitting the wall in the boot room.

Jamie was sitting at his locker, staring intensely at a piece of cardstock. He looked like he was trying to solve a complex mathematical equation involving only the alphabet.

"You're overthinking the 'two lips' joke, Jamie," a voice said.

Jamie jumped, nearly dropping his pen.

Trent Crimm was leaning against the doorway, looking effortlessly composed in a corduroy blazer.

"I’m not overthinkin’ it," Jamie insisted, though his hand was covering the paper. "It’s a classic. It’s wordplay. Puns. Like what Ted does."

"Ted uses puns as a bridge to connection," Trent said, walking over and pulling up a stool. "You’re using this pun as a shield because you’re terrified that telling Dani Rojas you want to fly him across the Atlantic is too much."

Jamie sighed, his shoulders dropping. "It is too much, isn't it? He’s gonna think I’m a mentalist. He’ll probably think I’m tryin’ to buy his love or somethin’."

"Jamie," Trent said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. "You’re a man who once bought himself a headband encrusted with Swarovski crystals just because it was Tuesday. Buying plane tickets for someone you care about isn't an act of vanity. It’s an act of witness. You’ve been listening to him."

Jamie looked at the tickets tucked into the back of the handmade card. "He really misses his Abuela’s mole. He talks about it every time we go to that Nando’s. Says the spice isn't right."

"Then let him show you the right spice," Trent smiled. "Now, let’s look at this 'page of material.' And if you’ve used the word 'sexy' more than three times, I’m deleting the whole paragraph."

Jamie smirked, finally relaxing. "It’s only in there twice, I swear."

"We’ll see," Trent reached for the paper. "By the way, did Roy actually mention pupil dilation in the meeting?"

"Yeah," Jamie nodded. "Why?"

Trent stood up, a mischievous glint in his eye. "No reason. I just think I might have a follow-up question for the next Diamond Dogs meeting."