Chapter Text
Three days after AFC Richmond wins the whole fucking thing; three days after Ted brushes confetti from Rebecca’s hair and she ruffles his hair before throwing her arms around him, letting out a little yelp as he picks her up off the ground and spins her around; three days after Ted and Rebecca stand in the middle of an AFC Richmond circle and re-create Ted’s signature dance move while champagne pops and pours over them, the team—their team—crowding and chanting around them jubilantly; three days after the little-team-who-could finds themselves on top of the world, Rebecca calls him into her office and slides a thick folder towards him.
“Your contract for the next five years, Coach Lasso,” she announces, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs. “Comes with quite the pay rise, merchandising opportunities, the works. Though of course,” she adds wryly, “We’re more than willing to negotiate to keep our premiere gaffer.”
Ted takes the papers, sitting back in his chair, not opening the folder, not rifling through the contract. She watches as he traces the edges of the papers, nodding subtly before looking up at her, expression remorseful. “Wow, this is—this is great, boss. Really, but—Can I take a few days? Think it over?”
His hesitance surprises her leaves, her feeling off-kilter and dizzy, cheeks and chest warm, muscles and nerves stinging with shock. In her mind she had seen this being one of those daily to-do tasks she and Ted managed to knock out over their first biscuit and cuppa. She’d never accounted for his reticence.
“Of course, Ted. Contract deadlines are a few weeks away, I just thought—” She collects herself, tucks her curling hair behind her ear and looks down, breaks off the end of her biscuit and crumbles it between her fingers. “Of course.”
Ted taps his fingers on top of the folder and hums, pushing himself up and out of the chair she’s come to think of as his, and backs away, looking uncertain—like she’s leapt across a great divide, expecting to have him follow, but she’s left him behind.
“I’ll let you know,” he says softly before disappearing out the door, a contract and a future clutched in his hand.
But what Rebecca hears is goodbye.
______
Ted Lasso hands her his resignation--this time on typed, neat letterhead with this loopy signature scrawled at the bottom--along with the unsigned offer for a contact extension she'd sent him last week and the recipe for the biscuits he brings her every morning.
"It's not that I don't appreciate the offer," he says, voice thick with emotion and eyes glassy. "But I've got a little boy counting on me back home and--"
"No, no, don't be silly. I should have known."
"Rebecca, please--" He stops, continues to not say all the things they haven't said for the past three years, a hand reaching out and hanging uselessly between them before dropping to his side. "If things were different--"
"But they're not," she says sharply, primly, stopping him from listing all that could be and will never be. She shuffles the papers in front of her, tucks his resignation letter and her contract offer and that damn biscuit recipe away into the back of a desk drawer and gives him a smile--sharp and cold and dismissive, so different from the smiles she'd become accustomed to with him, warm and easy and free.
Ted looks down, scuffs the toe of his trainers against her rug, perhaps speechless for the first time in his life. She silently begs him to correct her, to say that AFC Richmond is his family—that she is his family, too. But he doesn’t say anything, just drums his fingers along his thigh and nods to himself, head lifting to meet her gaze. “Okay,” he says, voice low and remorseful. “I really am sorry. I can help search for my replacement or make some calls or—”
“That really won’t be necessary,” Rebecca interrupts. “Higgins and I can manage without you.”
They both wince at the sharpness in her voice, the pointedness of it, and there doesn’t seem to be much else to say after that.
"I don't want to leave it like this," he says imploringly, reaching for her once more but not quite allowing himself to touch her, hand dropping right back to his side—and if that isn’t a fucking metaphor, both of them reaching out and not quite making contact with the other.
"There's nothing to leave.” The lie falls off her tongue easier than she expected, shuts the voice in her mind that hisses liar and flashes a thousand moments and almosts. She clenches her jaw and meets his eyes. “You set out to do a job and you did it. I can’t ask any more of you than that. You have a family to return home to.”
And then, because she doesn’t want to hurt him, she softens her expression and runs a hand through her hair, slipping her glasses on and offering him a small smile. “But your expertise on some of the managers’ applications and CVs would be appreciated, thank you, Ted.”
“Anything I can do to help.”
She nods once, brusque and brisk, and returns to her email in front of her, effectively dismissing him. She needs him to leave right now so she can pick up the pieces and lick her wounds in private, begin standing on her own two feet without him there to lean on.
“Right, well, guess I’ll go.”
The door clicks and she closes her laptop and lets out a shuddering breath, head falling into her hands and eyes sliding shut, chin wobbling and tears stinging her eyes and back of her throat. She pushes her fingertips to her temples and the corners of her eyes, smooths her hair back, whispering to herself, “Pull it together. Pull it together.”
But there’s no mess to tidy up this time, only missed opportunities and a bruised heart.
______
Two days later, she gets a text message from Ted: Telling the boys I won’t be joining them next season. You want to be here when I tell them? Crown and Anchor at 6 tonight.
She reads and re-reads the message, types and delete a dozen responses. If she weren’t so in love with him, if she wasn’t so terrified of losing herself without him (and she hates herself for this, hates that she can’t escape the part of her that wants—needs—to lose herself in another person), then maybe she could be stronger for herself and happier for him. But instead, she just feels empty and sad and so, so stupid and silly for all the wrong reasons.
Instead she texts him: Unfortunately I have plans tonight. But please tell the team I’m here for them if they need me. Have fun.
Which is immediately followed by a text to Keeley: Come over tonight? Need a friend and a few bottles of wine.
Keeley’s message is instantaneous (Been waiting for this text, doll. Be there as soon as I can. xx.) and she watches as three little dots appear and disappear besides Ted’s name, her stomach filled with anxious butterflies. Finally, Ted’s message appears, a simple: I understand. Flight out is Friday. Would love to see you before then to say goodbye.
She’s been so careful to avoid him, to slowly ween herself off of him—to stop diving into Biscuits with the Boss, to stop reaching for her phone to call him when When Harry Meets Sally or You’ve Got Mail plays on telly, to stop needing his optimism and hugs and presence.
And she’s no stranger to goodbyes, but she doesn’t know if she can say goodbye this time--not to him.
Ted will slip out of her life in three days when she thought she’d have three months, years, lifetimes with him. It’s for this exact reason she hadn’t let herself love him fully, hadn’t told him or made a move—not when he could disappear at any moment. Protect yourself, old girl, she reminds herself, popping open a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and pouring herself a healthy glass and taking an even healthier gulp.
I’ll find time, she promises him, firing off the message before she can talk herself out of it.
Ted’s message is immediate. Looking forward to it, with a tiny, yellow cowboy-hat wearing emoji—the very same one Keeley had shown her how to program into her phone as part of Ted’s contact name—and a thumbs up.
(Keeley comes over with an armful of wine and a sympathetic ear and shoulder and when Rebecca breaks and crumbles, it’s into Keeley’s arms she falls, letting her friend soothe her with gentle hugs and wine pours. “He’s a wanker,” Keeley says loyally, if not half-heartedly.
Rebecca just shakes her head sadly. “That’s sort of the problem, love,” she tells her friend, tracing a finger around the rim of her wine glass. “He’s not. And I—” But she can’t quite say the words aloud—at least not for the first time to Keeley.
She doesn’t need to. Keeley covers her hand, squeezing tightly. “I know, babe.”)
______
The team throws Ted a going away party, the locker room decked out in the United States flag, stars and stripes, and streamers. A Kansas-shaped cake adorns the middle of the room (“It’s a rectangle, innit,” Isaac says, gesturing to the cake. Ted nods sagely, “Yeah, most of the states are.”) and music thumps and reverberates through the locker room as players and staff mingle. Roy gets up with a microphone and grunts a few words of well-wishing to Ted (ignoring Keeley’s imploring heckles to, “Do your Ted impression! Do your Ted impression!”) and Jamie runs a hand through his hair, uncharacteristically nervous with some of his arrogance long-ago knocked out of him, “Coach, if you ever want to come back and preach some more of your yeehaw bullshit, well, you’ve always got a place here in Richmond.”
Rebecca watches at Ted wipes a tear away from the corner of his eye and wraps the young man in a tight hug, patting him on the back and ruffling his hair (“Oh, Coach, not the hair.”), before turning to the rest of his players, to Keeley, to Roy, to Higgins, to her. Ted takes the microphone and steps up onto the bench and into the spotlight where he belongs, speech at the ready.
“Three years ago, I came here to this country, to this club, hell, to this sport, a very lost man. We had a rocky start, didn’t we?” Murmurs of agreement and embarrassed chuckles. “But we came through. Every single one of you welcomed me, played along with my yeehaw cowboy bullshit—yeah, thanks for that, Jamie. We became a family here and we did something incredible together. And I am—” His voice catches and he searches the crowd to settle on Rebecca’s face, their eyes meeting.
She can sense that he needs a little push, a little encouragement, so she gives him a smile and inclines her head, urging him to continue. Ted looks visibly relieved and she hates that it feels like they’ve been denying themselves this connection that they so desperately need.
Ted continues, emboldened by her support. “I am so damn proud of you—of all of you. And I am leaving this place a very different man, and that is because of you. Because of the family I’ve found here. I am going to miss you all very, very much.”
Nate clears his throat and raises his beer in the air. “To Coach Lasso,” he cheers, grinning when the rest of the party mimics him, beer bottles and plastic cups and soda cans all raised in unison as they echo To Coach Lasso!
Rebecca raises her glass and sips at it, her eyes finding Ted’s across the room. She takes a breath, steeling herself. She can do this. She can say goodbye. For a moment, it’s as though time stops, her heels clicking loudly across the floor, everything and everyone fading into the background as she finds him.
“Quite a shindig,” she greets, taking her place beside him. He leans into her, brushes his shoulder against hers, but she takes a breath and sways away, disguises the movement as a shuffle of her heeled feet. She doesn’t look at him to see if he noticed, can’t look in case it hurt him as much as it hurt her.
“Yeah,” Ted says, clearing his throat in recovery and taking a sip of his beer, gesturing to the decorations. “Nate and Keeley really went all out.”
“We found some room in the club budget.”
“Oh, ‘we’, huh?” he asks with a grin, perking up.
“Keeley was practically crying in my office, begging me to let her throw you a party,” she says dismissively. Then, softer, “Besides, I don’t think any of us could bear not saying goodbye to you, Ted Lasso.”
He seems to melt beside her, shoulders relaxing and turning towards her, face softening. “I’m glad you came, Rebecca.”
“You didn’t think I would?”
He lifts one shoulder and the corner of his mouth in a half-grin and half-shrug. “Touch and go. Things have been like Destiny’s Child without Beyoncé between us—still pretty dang good but not magic. And I kinda miss the magic.”
Rebecca sighs. She had thought distance would be for the best, that if she pushed him away now it would hurt less later. But it’s not helping, not at all. It’s worse to have him so close but so far and, her feelings for him aside, Ted is her friend—one of her best friends—and she doesn’t want him to leave like this, a gaping chasm between them where warmth and trust and friendship resides.
“I miss the magic, too,” she admits. She shuffles back towards him, basks in the warmth seeping against her side from his shoulder pressed against hers.
“We could get Nate over here,” he faux-whispers. “He’s been working on some serious sleight of hand that’s going to give David Blane a run for his money. Look, I don’t want to brag—ah, hell, yes I do,” he says giddily, bundling up his napkin into a ball and showing Rebecca before moving quickly, his hand around her head and behind her ear, making the napkin disappear. “I’ve picked up a few things myself.”
Rebecca laughs, giving him an indulgent golf-clap. “Very good. Henry will enjoy that.”
She’s proud that there’s no shakiness in her voice, that she can speak of his return to his son and to the States without wavering. Ted looks down at the napkin in his hand, bounces it in his palm. “Yeah, yeah, I think he will, too.” His eyes meet hers and it happens again: the party fades away and all she can see is the man before her: earnest face and warm, kind eyes.
“Rebecca,” he starts, hand reaching for hers, settling at her wrist, a simple point of touch anchoring them together. “Come over tonight. We should talk.”
Her eyes glance down to his hand on her skin, heart pounding, and she shivers, looking back to him. “Talk about what?”
This time her voice does have a quaver to it and Ted’s fingertips tighten around her wrist in response, so close to pulling her against him. She can feel herself swaying forward, can feel her defenses cracking. He knows.
He opens his mouth to speak, then—
“Picture time!” Keeley’s voice cries out, leading the front men and the coaches of AFC Richmond towards Ted and Rebecca, phone and selfie stick out. Their conversation is halted as they’re swarmed by a dozen footballers piling around them, crowding in for a picture—a memory. She tries to duck out but Ted holds fast to her, slips his arm around her waist and pulls her in close. “Right where you belong,” he says, blushing before clarifying, “I mean, with the team.”
Keeley lifts the selfie stick with her camera attached and instructs, “Everyone say ‘Kansas’!”
The picture snaps, a chorus of Kansas echoing in the room, and all Rebecca sees, hears, and feels is Ted—his hand on her waist, his low drawl of Kansas in her ear, and the fact that Ted had it right the first time: her place was next to him, right where she belonged.
______
Ted leaves for Kansas tomorrow and she can’t sleep, can’t relax. There’s too much left unsaid and unspoken. She’s been hiding behind the last bit of hastily rebuilt walls and it hits her that this—this sad, moping, scared woman isn’t her, not anymore. She may not be able to keep him, but she’ll take him any way she can.
She carefully applies eyeliner across her lid, sharp and pointed like armor; smears tinted cream beneath her eyes to hide the dark bags, evidence of sleepless nights spent tossing and turning over the inevitable; swipes lipstick over her lips and touches up her hair, curls her bangs around her finger and pushes them back.
Courage and confidence and bravery well ups in her. They may never have said anything, but she knows there’s something between her and Ted—too many evenings spent in her office eating out of take away Chinese, her hand over his as she helps him navigated chopsticks; too many hotel stays a few floors apart but talking over the phone as they scarfed down room service and watched QI (“A whole show of fun facts?” Ted had asked, delighted.); too many quiet moments after matches, after celebratory parties, the two of them sneaking away to walk along the waterfront and seek out the nearest kabab shop.
There’s one more thing they’ve yet to do and she can’t—won’t—let him leave yet.
______
Ted opens the door, packing tape in hand, to find Rebecca at his doorstep.
“You said you didn’t want to leave it this way,” she says, slipping by him and into the hallway, not bothering to wait for an invitation. Her knuckles are white from the pressure of her grip on her handbag and her mouth is set in a firm line, waiting.
Ted shuts the door, steps toward her with caution, like he can sense she may break if he moves too quickly or says the wrong thing.
“What are you doing here, Rebecca?” he asks gently instead, dropping the tape atop the small stack of boxes in the hall. Her eyes track the movement, linger on the taped up boxes of personal belongings he’s acquired in the three years he’s lived here. She knows there’s framed photographs, letters from fans and press clippings, and a special-made Lasso jersey tucked away in there. She’s also fairly certain, if she knows him at all, that there’s a box in the kitchen stuffed with an assortment of Cadbury chocolates, boxes of Maltesers, packets of chocolate Hobnobs, and jars and jars of Branston pickle.
But it feels like he’s got a lot more that he’s carrying with him, people and feelings and experiences that can’t be so easily boxed up.
“When you resigned, you told me ‘this’ isn’t how you wanted to leave things. How would you have left it?” She asks with the last of her bravery.
Ted stares at her, eyes searching for something. She shifts under his scrutiny but stands her ground. She has to know—needs to know. Whatever he’s looking for, he finds, because he steps forward and gently takes her bag from her and places it alongside the packing tape before sipping his hand down to tangle with hers, fingers entwined, raises their joined hands to his mouth to press a soft kiss to the place where their palms press together.
She lets out a little gasp and looks down at their joined hands. “You fucker,” she whispers, eyes meeting his.
He nods, cups her cheek with his free hand and leans forward, forehead resting on hers, breathing her in. “I know.” His lips brush against hers, chaste and barely-there. “I know.”
“One night,” she breathes, pressing closer, mouth against his. “One time.”
He kisses her in answer.
______
She expects Ted to slow it down, to savor every moment, to take his time. She expects him to kiss her softly, to cradle her in his arms and guide her into his bedrooms, through the maze of boxes.
Instead, he is as desperate and hungry as she is. He yanks her to him, sinks his hands into her hair, most open and hot and hungry. It’s less like kissing and more of a fight, like they’re working equally hard to imprint on the other, to leave bruises and marks and evidence that this moment existed, that his fingertips dug into her hips and that her teeth dragged down his neck.
They stumble to the bedroom, pausing at walls and empty furniture so they press the other against it, taking turns with regards to who’s in charge. At the wall, Ted’s hands push at her skirt, ruck it up around her hips and slots his leg between hers. “Fuck, fuck,” she chants, grinding down on him, letting him push and pull her where he wants her. She is hot and liquid and his.
But she’s got her own list of fantasies and doesn’t want to come apart against a beige wall and half-dressed, climaxing out of desperation after he’s barely touched her. She pushes against his shoulders, hooks a finger into the belt loop of his khakis and drags him back with her, eyes the bulge in the front of his trousers with a watering mouth, palm brushing over his cock.
He hisses sharp and loud, surges against her and groans her name, hands in her hair. She grins into the kiss, proud and smug that she’s done this to him, that she’s brought him as close to the edge as she is.
When they finally get to his bedroom, he flips the lights on. “Wanna see you,” he says between kisses, pushing her blouse and bra off her shoulders and down her arms, walks her back to the bed and covers her with his body, lips and tongue and teeth trailing over her breasts and stomach, detouring over the curve of her ribs and the swells of her breasts. She writhes beneath him, desperate and unfocused, delirious and distracted.
“Tell me,” he demands, sucking a red mark onto her hip that she hopes will linger for days and weeks, a tangible reminder he touched her. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she half-gasps, half-sobs, hands in his hair and pulling him back up her body, savoring the weight of his body pressed against hers, all the soft and hard places of him fitting against her. “Just you.”
It’s better than a thousand of her fantasies because he is real and solid and—for the night—hers. They are a flurry of hands and mouth and legs—hers hitched over his hip to draw him closer, his flexing and strained as he pulls her against him. He’s a babbler, praises her body as he works her over with his fingers curled inside of her, thumb at her clit.
“So fucking beautiful, Rebecca,” he pants, rhythmically pumping his fingers inside of her, pushing her further and further to the edge. “Wanted you since day one, since day fucking one.”
She comes apart on his fingers, her wetness gushing and slicking over his hand. He kisses her while she clenches around him, tongue flicking against hers in rhythm with her spasms. Her nails dig into his shoulders and back, anything to keep him close, close, close.
Ted holds her through the aftershocks, kisses her shoulder. “Take your time,” he soothes. “You tell me when you’re ready to go again.”
His cock presses against her hip—hard and hot and insistent—and she wants him all over again. “Now,” she pants, pushing at his shoulders and getting him on his back. He looks up at her, hair flopping into his face, eyes dark and wide and so goddamned hungry for her.
Her hand wraps around him, strokes up and down, squeezing at the base and flicking her thumb over his head, smearing precum over the length of him, setting up an easy rhythm. His palm finds her breast, his thumb rolling her pebbled nipple between his forefinger and thumb.
“Don’t wanna come like this,” he pants, hair sticking up and lips swollen. “Please, Rebecca.”
And that—she likes that. She replaces her hand with her cunt, rubs herself—wet and hot and slick—against him, teasing. Her lips slot against his, tangling her tongue with his. “Tell me,” she says, pulling away and panting against him, echoing his words. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” he echoes back, his fingers in her hair. “Just you.”
She reaches between their bodies, guides him inside her, and sinks down onto him, letting him fill her. His hands settle on her hips, stilling her motions. They both need a moment to breathe, to settle. “C’mere,” he groans, lifting his head to meet her halfway, their lips pressing together, connecting them further.
He thrusts up into her and groans at the sensation, Rebecca grinding down in response, hand on his chest to steady herself. She wants to draw it out, wants to make it last, wants to commit every single motion and sensation and second to memory. But there’s a fire inside of her, a high to be chased, and the sensations soar, causing her to fly higher and higher, rolling her hips against his, pulling him deeper inside her.
“Touch me,” she begs, her hand guiding him between their bodies to her clit. “Need you to—”
“I got you, darlin’, I got you.” His thumb presses against her clit, rubs in tight, fast circles, and she jerks, loses her rhythm for a second before finding it again, riding him on the off-beat, letting him completely overwhelm her from the inside out.
“Ted—” She gasps, can’t remember how to form the rest of her words, forgets what language is. All she knows is Ted.
They don’t come together—not this time. He takes care of her, seems determined to get her off fast and first, brow furrowed in concentration, eyes flicking between he face, her breasts, and where she is riding him, where he’s disappearing inside of her body, over and over.
She comes for the second time with his fingers brushing against her throat and his cock inside her. “Ted,” she groans, grinding down on him, hunched and shaking and riding the wave of pleasure coursing through her veins, muscles simultaneously tense and loose.
Rebecca rolls off of him and into the cradle of one of his arms, a leg still thrown over him as she reaches for his cock, hand wrapped around and rhythmically jerking him off, her own fluids over him easing the motion. She turns her face into his neck, mouths at his skin, licks at the pulse she can feel pounding beneath his skin.
“Close,” he pants, palming her breast and thrusting into her hand. “Fuck, Rebecca, fuck.” He comes with his hips off the bed, his own come hot and sticky over her hand and his thighs and belly.
Rebecca lifts her head, exhausted and boneless, to meet his eyes. He cards his fingers through her hair, grinning at her. “Not bad for a first time.”
She slaps his chest and collapses against him, “Not bad for any time.”
His kiss to the top of her forehead is his silent agreement.
______
After when they are cleaned up (and that had been new, too, the gentle way Ted had dragged the warm cloth between her legs, kissing the inside of her thighs after he cleaned her), they lay in his bed, arms wrapped around one another and legs slotted together, slick, sweaty skin sticking together as their bodies cool. She can hear his heart pounding beneath her ear, can feel his fingertips tracing lazy, nonsensical patterns across the expanse of her back and shoulders, the same place he’d kissed blazing paths along just moments ago.
She kisses his chest, closes her eyes and savors the feeling of his arms around her and the taste of him on her tongue. “Ted,” she says, turning her face into his chest, gathering the last of her courage. “Stay.” Her voice catches on the last word, curls her fingers against him. It costs her something to add, “Please.”
Ted stills beneath her, fingertips ceasing their movement over her back and shoulders. “Don’t make me say no to you twice, darlin’,” he says softly, rolling her beneath him, hovering over her and searching her face, not letting her hide. “It was hard enough not signing that contract.” He leans down to kiss her softly, a languid gentle thing, his mouth pressed to hers over and over again, as if his kisses could soothe the sting, as if he could leave his kisses behind to keep her warm when he’s gone.
She tells herself she can’t let herself sink into it, tries to fight it—fight him. Her eyes burn with tears and she hates herself for breaking for him again, reaching up for him and wrapping her arms around his neck, fingers in his hair, mouth opening beneath his.
When he breaks the kiss, he nuzzles his nose against hers, out of breath. “If things were different—“
She puts her fingertips to his mouth, doesn’t want to hear platitudes or would-be promises. “But they’re not. I-I should go,” she tells him, uncertain what to do now. All she knows is there’s an imprint of Ted Lasso on her heart and now his fingertips have left their mark on her body and if she stays in his arms, in his bed, a minute longer she’ll be lost beyond recovery.
He lets her go, watches her sit up and shimmy back into her skirt, brush the tangles out of her hair with her fingers—the very tangles he’d put there with his own hands. Ted rolls out of bed right beside her, tosses the covers back, and picks up her bra on the floor and holds it out of her reach. “Let me,” he murmurs, pressing himself to her back, lips brushing over the dips and divots and knobs of her spine, noses at the muscles in her shoulder.
“Ted,” she warns, but it’s no use, there’s no fight when her defenses are down, when she’s let him in this far. She sinks back against him, solid in the knowledge he will take care of her—if only for this night.
Ted slips the straps over her arms slowly, agonizingly. He cups her breasts in his hands, squeezing just-this-shy of painful, enough for her to feel it tomorrow, and flicks his thumb over her nipple before sliding the material of the bra over them. She sighs, let’s his thick fingers do delicate work as he clasps the strap behind her back, feels his lips kiss above and below the clasp.
“I can take this off again,” he teases, enticing her, sliding his arms around her waist and hooking his chin over her shoulder, nuzzling against her.
She closes her eyes against the fantasy that bursts into her mind in all of its technicolor glory—mornings like this as they get ready to go to the club together, Ted helping her dress and undress, she protesting that they’ll be late and Ted reminding her she’s the boss as he walks her back to the bed. She’s uncertain if it’s better or worse that they never had that.
Rebecca turns in his arms, barely meets his eyes before burying herself against him, arms wrapped tight around his waist and her face pressed into his shoulder and neck, eyes screwed tight and breaths coming in short, fast gasps. She doesn’t want this to be the end. She shouldn’t have come here. She can’t lose him.
Ted holds her, strokes her hair and drops kisses to the top of her head, and then seems to sink into her, arms wrapping tightly around her shoulders, one hand cupping the back of her head and keeping her against him.
In some ways, this is more raw and vulnerable than fucking him, in kissing the declarations she can’t bear to hear out of his mouth. This feels shaky and trembling and tenuous and she knows when she steps back, when she stops touching him, it’ll be the end.
So she holds on tighter, presses her lips to his chest, and lets her tears splash against his skin. He holds her tighter, doesn’t tell her not to cry or that it’ll be okay.
And then he drops his lips to her ear and whispers, “I love you.”
Rebecca pushes her forehead against his chest, shakes her head. “I hate you for that,” she says, voice thick with tears. “I hate you so much.”
I love you so much.
He lets her hide against him, hears the truth anyway, and holds her still, half naked and trembling. “I know. I know.” This time, it’s he who asks her to stay. “Stay,” he says, brushing his lips over her neck and jaw and cheek and nose and forehead—every inch of her.
“Ted,” she protests, wonders if she can tell him no. But he pulls back, cups her face in his hands and sweeps his thumbs over her cheekbones.
“I got somethin’ like fourteen hours left in his country,” he tells her, holding her steady when she flinches. “I’d like to spend every second of ‘em with you.”
She tilts her head into his palm, closes her eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath. They’ve come this far, though—a long goodbye.
“I would like that very much,” she says, offering him a watery smile.
“Hey, hey, no tears.” His thumb sweeps below her eye, catching a tear and leaning forward, kissing the corner of her eye. She squirms under his touch, his mustache tickling her skin. “I packed up all the tissues, so…”
Rebecca leans forward and kisses him, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth, teeth sinking into the soft flesh. “Give me good memories,” she begs, sliding her hands into his hair, tilting her head and deepening the kiss, tongue flicking into his mouth.
He pulls away, breathless and panting, eyes sparkling. “Thought I did that already?” Hands wander over her shoulders and back, working at the clasp of the bra he just secured for her. “There’s a big shiny trophy sitting in your hallway in the club, an absolute onslaught of press clippings with your name splashed in every article—Welton’s Boys, may I say that was a favorite of mine? Then there was that time we went to the London Eye—very confusing name, by the way.”
Her bra slips back off her shoulders, falls to the ground, and Rebecca groans, presses herself against him shivering at the feel of his chest hair scratching against her sensitive skin, every nerve-ending lighting up, already attuned to and ready for him. “Ted,” she murmurs, nipping at his throat. “Shut up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
______
He walks her back to the bed, falls back with her atop him like they’re twenty and carefree and this isn’t their last and only night together.
This time, he settles atop her, pins her hands above her head and begs, “Let me just touch you.”
She traces her fingertips over the lines of his face—eyebrow and nose and jawline—and nods. “I want the chance to return the favor, though.”
He kisses her palm and the tips of her fingers, sealing their deal.
He kisses the cluster of freckles at her shoulders. “Didn’t know you had these,” he grins, delighted at his discovery, tongue tracing a constellation only he can see. He nips at the swells of her breasts and lingers at her nipples, sucking and flicking and rolling until she’s writhing beneath him, hands in his hair and tugging none-too-gently, begging for more or relief, he isn’t sure.
But he moves on, kisses a path down her belly, licks at stretch marks and curves. He spreads her open, hands a hard, bruising pressure against her thighs. Ted noses at the curls between her legs and doesn’t waste time dipping his tongue inside of her, licking her up like a man dying of thirst. It’s almost embarrassing how quickly she rises to the peak again, chasing that high again thanks to his tongue and lips flicking and sucking at her clit, thick fingers sliding inside of her.
“Stop teasing me and fuck me, you bloody wanker,” she swears at him which only makes him laugh, something she hadn’t done in bed in years. She forgot that sex could be fun, that you could laugh.
Then he settles atop her, kisses her with his mouth glistening with her wetness and she groans at the taste of them combined, musky and sweet and earthy. “Okay?” he asks, checking in with her, pressing between her legs.
“More than okay,” she assures him, arms wrapping around his shoulders, nails dragging down his back. This time, when he presses inside of her, they both shiver, clinging to one another tightly. He moves slowly, achingly slow, as if time will move as slowly as he does, as if he could make this moment last.
Rebecca has had plenty of sex, has been fucked, but she’s not sure until this moment with Ted Lasso thrusting against her, his lips at her ear murmuring I love you, her name like a prayer, and his hands holding her steady, that she’s ever made love—a phrase she had once scoffed at and now understands.
When she comes, this time with Ted, he laces their fingers together and he kisses the small tear at the corner of her eye away. “No tears,” he pants, stroking the hair from her face, nuzzling against her. He moves to roll away, conscious of his weight crushing her. But her hands at the soft sides of his belly keep him atop her.
“No, no, it’s good,” she tells him, shifting beneath his weight. Her eyes meet his and for the second time, she asks him, “Stay.”
That, he thinks, is finally a request he can accommodate. He relaxes atop her, presses her into the mattress, and breathes her—them—in, and dozes off to the feel of her fingers stroking over his hair and shoulders and back.
“I love you,” he repeats, waits for her to say it back. But she can’t. If she says it, she knows she’ll fall apart, shattered beyond repair. Instead, she kisses his temple and holds him tighter and hopes he understands.
______
They talk until the wee hours of the morning when their eyelids are heavy, closing of their own accord. “Don’t wanna sleep,” he yawns, inching closer and taking her hand in his, stroking his foot over her smooth, bare calf.
“You need to,” she tells him, pillowing her head next to his. “You and I both know you won’t sleep on the flight.”
He scoffs but grins into the pillow, looking at her through sleepy eyes, delighted that she knows these small, insignificant facts about him—how he takes his coffee, his hatred for sleeping anywhere that isn’t a bed, his fondness for boot sales and bakeries, his penchant for long walks and longer conversations; a thousand pieces and shades and colors that make him up.
“You gonna drive me to the airport in the morning?”
She stills beneath him and wonders if she has the strength to not just let him go but escort him home and watch him physically leave her behind. But this night, being close with him again, laughing with him and touching him and getting the taste of what if, has shown her how lonely she’s been the past week or so hiding from him. She’ll take every second she can with him while he’s here.
“Of course,” she promises, rolling closer to press a soft kiss to his mouth, lingering for a moment. “Now sleep.”
Ted doesn’t hesitate, reaching for her and dragging her against him more firmly, arms wrapped around her tightly, legs entangled. She likes that their height is similar enough that she can feel all of his pressed against all of her, likes that they just fit.
“I’m glad you came over tonight,” he says, breaking the comfortable, sleepy silence. “I didn’t want us to miss this.”
She closes her eyes and doesn’t say anything, just presses her lips to his chest and lets the steady, soothing beat and thump of his heart under her ear rock her to sleep.
Oh Ted, we’ve already missed it.
(She wakes every hour and traces a new part of him, tries to remember the shape of his ridiculous mustache, the swell of his stomach and thighs, the curve of his biceps, the jagged scar on his palm, the swoop of his hair falling across his forehead—all the details that she’ll need to keep her warm at night when he’s gone. She’s certain he’s awake as she maps his body, can hear the hitch of his breath when her nail scratches against his rib and she hates that she doesn’t have more time to learn if he’s ticklish or just sensitive. She presses a kiss there anyway and hopes when she opens her eyes, the clock on the bedside will have stopped to give them more time.
Instead, the minutes tick on and she knows she will say goodbye.)
______
It rains on the way to the airport because sometimes life is a bitch and she appreciates irony. It splatters against the windshield amidst a sticky, humid sky and Ted tries to joke about England giving him a proper British sendoff. She tries to smile at him but it falls as flat as his joke and he sighs and reaches out over the console to take her hand.
“We didn’t really get a chance to talk last night,” he says, thumb rubbing a circle along the inside of her wrist.
“I thought our actions spoke louder than words. That’s a phrase you’re fond of, isn’t it?”
“True, true. Sometimes words are pretty great, too.” He squeezes her hand and she shoots him a quick look, eyes returning to the road.
“What do you want me to say, Ted? You came here to win and you did that. Anything else was incidental.”
“Don’t say that. We weren’t incidental. We’ve been moving together, in step almost the whole dang way. Rebecca, you can’t say we were—”
“We were a missed chance,” she insists, ignoring the low drawling pleas from him. She steels herself, pulls her hand away from his, both hands on the steering wheel. “It’s rather for the best we didn’t pursue this any earlier than we did.”
“And why is that?” There’s a steel to his voice, a hardness like she’s offended him somehow.
She taps her foot on the brake and slows to a stop at the red light, wipes her blades across the window shield and looks over at him, bottom lip quivering into a strange sort of watery, brave smile. “Think how much worse this would have hurt.”
His expression softens at her words and he reaches for her, hand cupping her face. “Is that why you never told me how you felt? Because you didn’t know if I was going to stick around?”
“Isn’t that why you never told me?” she shoots back, grip tightening on the steering wheel. “We were both protecting ourselves. But we had last night and I think we both knew that was all we were going to get. So let’s leave it at that.”
Ted goes quiet at that, watches the scenery pass him by out the window for the last time, lets the rain against the glass fill the silence. The light goes green and she presses on, staring out the window and taking the exit towards Heathrow.
“I should have told you,” he says softly, barely audible. “Things could have been different.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“No, don’t do that,” he starts, voice sharp and a little angry. “Don’t pretend like there ain’t somethin’ here.” He narrows his eyes at her. “Are you scared? Is that it? Rebecca I would never hurt you intentionally—“
“I know!” She reaches blindly for his hand and takes it into her lap. “And what’s the alternative, hm? You stay here, we run this club together, have a laugh. And your son visits you every few months for a week here and there?” She shakes her head sadly. “I don’t want you to resent me in a year’s time,” she confesses. “Ted, you saved me. In all the ways that it mattered you saved me. And you saved Nate and this team and this town. You’ve done enough.”
He leans into her hand. “But what about—”
She raises his hand to her mouth and kisses his knuckles. The start of a goodbye. “It’s alright. We’ll be alright.”
They both know she’s lying.
“You saved me, too,” he says and she can feel his eyes on her, can feel his hand twisting in hers, tangling their hands together. “You saved me, too,” he repeats, voice soft and far away.
The rest of the car ride is silent, the squeaking of the wiper blades against the glass and the pitter-patter of rain the only sound.
His hand never lets go of hers.
______
Heathrow is surprisingly busy for so early on a weekday, cars honking and signaling, planes vrooming overhead. She hesitates, uncertain if she should pull into the car park and walk in with him—as far as security will let her go—or if she should simply drop him off at departures.
But his hand squeezes hers and she looks over at him, tears stinging her eyes and she knows exactly what she wants, no matter how much it hurts to draw it all out. “I’ve got something like twenty minutes left in this country with you,” she echoes his words from last night. “And I’d like to spend every second of them with you.”
He nods, eyes glassy, and kisses her hand as she makes the turn for the covered car park.
Inside, she watches him check his bags, a cheerful expression for everyone who stops him in recognition, who asks for his autograph, who affectionately calls him a wanker.
And then he’s in front of her, his backpack hitched over his shoulder, the strap covering up the AFC Richmond logo on his jacket—the same but different than the first day they met. She’s said a hundred goodbyes, but this one…this one she doesn’t know how to start.
“So, this is it,” Ted says, shuffling forward. It takes everything in her to stay perfectly still, to not fall into his arms and break apart and to not step back and run away.
She sticks her hand out between them offering him a handshake, desperate for control, because if he touches her now, she’s not certain she’s strong enough to stop touching him, to not march to the ticket counter and go with him, responsibilities be damned.
“It’s been a pleasure, Coach Lasso,” she says, voice trembling and heart breaking. Ted looks down at her hand for a moment before taking it, his hand slipping effortlessly into hers, shaking her hand.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, yanking at her hand and pulling her to him, arms wrapped around her tightly, face buried into the crook of her neck and swaying them both slowly from side to side. She chokes back a sob, screws her eyes tight to keep it together, and returns the embrace fiercely, violently, arms tight around him, her breath coming out in hot, short pants against his neck.
Finally, he pulls back, one hand at her waist and the other cupping her face, thumb sweeping over the tears at the corners of her eyes, catching them before they fall. “Hey, hey,” he soothes, his voice cracked and thick with emotion. “We got FaceTime and phones and e-mail, planes, trains and automobiles.” He kisses her forehead, her nose, then tilts her face up just enough to bring their mouths together one last time. His lips are salty from the tears that splash down and she gasps into the kiss, cups his face in her hands and anchors him against her a little longer, delaying the inevitable.
He peppers her face with kisses and she feels every single one of them like a brand on her heart. Finally, he stills and leans his forehead against hers. “I love you, Rebecca Welton.”
And this time—this time—she can’t not say it back. He’s carrying her heart 4,438 miles away; he can have this last little piece, too. “I love you, too, Ted Lasso,” she confesses like a woman seeking absolution. “I love you, too,” she gasps, pressing closer and hugging him close to her, memorizing the feel of him in her arms.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows they can't do this here in a busy airport with thousands of people around, not when they've had 3 years. But he's right there and she can't let him go and he holds her tighter and the world moves around them. His flight is being called over the announcements and still he won't let go.
She needs to be strong for them both. She pulls away and pushes at him, putting distance between them, takes a deep shuddering breath to compose herself. But one look at Ted and she can feel herself breaking all over again, his eyes red-rimmed and watery, the lines around his mouth and eyes deeper than normal.
“You have to go,” she reminds him. “There’s a little boy waiting for you.”
It looks for a moment like there’s something else he wants to say and it’s too easy for her mind to fill in the blanks, she knows him well enough to do so. But she’s given him everything and she can’t take one more what if.
“Goodbye, Ted.”
It’s easier if she walks away first so she doesn’t have to see him leave her, disappearing around the corner and out of her life. He had been one of the first people to show her she would never be alone and just like that…gone.
She hears his flight being called out over the announcement system and it seems to crack and shatter something inside of her, the reality slamming into her full force. After that, all she hears is the click and clack of her heels against the pavement, her pace picking up as she races to the privacy of her car.
When she finally clicks at her key fob, muttering through a blurry vision of tears, “Stupid, fucking piece of shit, c’mon, c’mon,” she collapses into the driver’s seat and crumples, burying her face in her hands and finally, finally letting herself cry for all that she could have had and all that she’s lost. Except this time, when she finally composes herself, remembers how to breathe through the pain and the hurt, there is no mustachioed man waiting for her with open arms. There is only an empty passenger seat.
Overhead, a plane rumbles and roars in the sky as Ted Lasso turns away the offered chocolate chip cookie and orders a double-single (triple) bourbon and opens his phone to Rebecca’s contact photo, then to a picture of Henry, trying to remind himself he’s making the right decision.
The tears in his eyes sting harder than the bourbon as he takes his last look at England below him before disappearing into the clouds.