TWs: Mentions of panic attacks, but no in-depth description or discussion of them.

Texts messages from S2E11 are used.

Getting over feelings for someone you saw regularly at work was already going to be a challenge. Getting over feelings for someone you saw regularly at work who also seemed to be making extra effort to interact with you was almost cruel.

Trent thought he was doing the right thing—asking straightforward questions in the press room that could in no way evoke heartwarming anecdotes instead of a football-based response, leaving as soon as the press conference was over, only taking Alice to the park when he knew the Greyhounds were at training or an away game he didn't have to be at, etc.—but Ted didn't seem to get the memo that he was someone Trent was trying to avoid.

In hindsight, it might have been Trent's fault, as the first and only time he didn't raise his hand to be called on during a press conference, Ted stopped him before he could leave afterward unnoticed.

"Hey Trent, hold up," Ted said, as he got up from behind the press desk and did a weird half-jog/fast walk combo to catch up to Trent who was just steps away from the exit in the back of the room.

It would have been impossible to pretend he hadn't heard the request, so Trent closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, reminding himself that talking to Coach Lasso was required for his job and he was fully capable of doing just that. When he opened his eyes and turned around, Ted was already in front of him and standing close enough that Trent could smell Ted's… aftershave? Lotion? There was an unmistakably strong note of vanilla permeating the air. Though the scent itself was comforting like a welcomed hug, it made Trent's jaw clench as he fortified himself against whatever niceties were likely to be aimed his way.

"You didn't ask any questions today." Ted said, concerned, his eyebrows raised. "Are you okay?"

It was Trent who immediately wanted to ask that of Ted. The forehead lines and bags under Ted's eyes were noticeably prominent and Trent wondered if that was residual from whatever it was that ailed Ted during the Spurs match, or if perhaps this was from gradual erosion over time. As a child, Trent had read that it took five or six million years for the Grand Canyon to form. Trent had only known Ted for about a year now but already so much had changed in the topography of his face. The weathering did not change the beauty of the landscape, but it did make Trent's heart ache a bit for the history he longed to know about this man who he should not long to know about.

Trent thought carefully about his response before opening his mouth and landed on, "Yes." It wasn't even close to the truth, but it was a short, direct reply that would hopefully quash any further interrogation.

From the way Ted's eyes darted around Trent's face, Trent knew Ted was searching for some sort of clue to unpack what Trent's Yes really meant. Hoping his practiced guise of indifference would hold, Trent watched Ted's body language shift from concerned to relieved to defensive. He instantly knew Ted realized he was lying, but he also knew Ted wasn't going to pry. Trent didn't know whether to be grateful Ted wasn't going to try and get more out of him or sad that Ted already gave up the get-to-know-you game he so often played with people, always so eager to learn what made someone else tick.

"Well, okay," Ted said. "If you remember something later that you wanted to ask, just give me a holler, okay?"

Trent allowed himself to smile at the offer. It was a kind gesture and one he would have been grateful for if he had additional questions. "Thank you, Ted."

"Anytime, sir," Ted said. "I'll be seein' ya." He gave Trent a small nod and then headed back toward the door at the front of the press room.

Once alone, Trent frowned.

The Ted Lasso of it all couldn't stop Trent from being emotionally invested when the Greyhounds managed to turn their entire season around. Promotion back up to the Premier League was a legitimate possibility, though something that was mostly whispered about so as not to jinx it in any sort of way. (Superstitions, ridiculous or not, were respected.) Trent hoped the team earned the promotion, not only because it would be a great story—relegated one season and then promoted the next was practically unheard of—but because of what it would mean to the town.

Trent made sure to raise his hand after every press conference since the one Ted questioned him after. He wasn't always the first one called, but he often was, and Ted would give him a smile which Trent noticed was different from the smiles he gave the other reporters. It was something Trent would have caught on to even if he hadn't been watching Ted's every move so that he himself could hopefully prevent Ted from talking to him outside of the parameters of his job. Trent would swallow down this knowledge and ask his question, holding eye contact with Ted because not doing so would likely lead to another check-in afterward. Stick to the script, Trent thought every time he entered the room. His performance certainly wasn't worthy of an Olivier, but it served its purpose.

The end of the season was fast approaching, as was Alice's fourth birthday/the fourth anniversary of Thomas's passing. Trent went to dinner with Thomas's parents the week before and was grateful to find it less stressful than the year prior. As for Alice's birthday, Allie and Antony went a bit overboard with their gifts for the girl who had recently decided she loved dinosaurs. They came over the eve of her big day to help Trent decorate the living room with cutouts of dinosaurs on the wall, pterodactyls hanging from the ceiling to look like they were in mid-flight, and several stuffed dinosaurs peaking out from behind furniture or nestled on the bookshelf. Trent had also gotten her some books about dinosaurs and bought enough child-safe dinosaur figurines for her entire pre-school class.

Trent was grateful not to have a press conference or anything outside of being at The Independent that day, as it meant he could pick Alice up from school instead of her sitter and they could have the afternoon and evening together. It had been a good day all around—Trent was pleasantly surprised when he phoned the Richmond clubhouse that Roy Kent would take his call. Trent had the idea to interview the newest assistant coach, as he had the unique perspective of recently being on the Richmond team when they got relegated and now he was part of the coaching staff who was on the quest for promotion. Roy understood the angle Trent was getting at and grunted in agreement to meet up the following week to discuss his thoughts. A big win for Trent and an even bigger one for The Independent. Even Eric was impressed when Trent pitched him the piece, as an exclusive with Roy Kent was bound to be popular. Clicks, clicks, clicks.

Just as Trent was getting ready to leave for the day, a messenger came in with an envelope for him. Confused, he signed for it. It had been a while since someone was so mad at something he wrote that he got sent a threatening letter or envelope full of glitter, and he didn't think he had pissed off anyone enough recently to warrant being sent anything. When he opened the envelope, he did not expect to see a small pink box and a folded piece of paper inside. He gently put the pink box on his desk and pulled out the paper which had his name scrawled across it in blocky letters that Trent thought had character.

He sighed as he unfolded the paper.

Four's a good age. They all are, to be honest. Happy Birthday to slightly bigger little Miss Giant Alice. I hope these birthday biscuits find her and you well (and that they didn't get too crumbled on the voyage over).

Ted

On some level, Trent should have expected Ted to remember it was Alice's birthday. But at the same time, there was no reason for him to. Alice had been to a handful of matches that season and Ted had waved at her and said hello as a polite adult does. But this was above and beyond what a coach of a professional football teach should be doing for the child of one of the reporters. It was far more than just being friendly.

Trent took a picture of the note and box of biscuits and texted it to Allie with the message He keeps making it hard not to like him. He frowned when she texted back I can't write what I want to write. Trent responded Send it anyway. Three little dots appeared and then disappeared. They popped back up again. Then maybe keep liking him. The season's almost over. When Trent didn't write back, Allie sent one last text. I'm sorry.

He couldn't blame his sister for messaging him what she did because he was the one who told her to be honest. That night, after an afternoon of playing dinosaurs with Alice and reading her all her new books before bed, Trent poured himself a whiskey and sat down on the couch with the pink box in his hand. He hadn't opened it all day, nor did he give it to Alice to open. He knew they were biscuits for her. He knew he should have given them to her. But he couldn't do it.

The part of Trent that was still trying to fight his feelings was telling him to throw the box away. Don't even open it—just get rid of it. After two sips of his drink, Trent breathed heavily through his nose and then opened the box. There sat three pieces of shortbread, the ends a little crumbly, each with the number 4 piped in some sort of white frosting and topped with a mix of silver and pink sprinkles.

Tears ran down his face as he picked up one of the biscuits from the box and took a bite. Goddammit—somehow it tasted better than the shortbread Ted gave Trent last year on Alice's birthday.

Trent texted Allie a picture of the remaining shortbread cookies.

I can't write what I want to write.

Neither can I.

It was an odd spot to have an interview—a local ice cream parlor that still served its ice cream in glass cups with nary a self-served topping to be found—but it was where Roy Kent suggested they meet and Trent was not about to argue with Roy about that. Plus, a scoop or two of praline delight sounded literally delightful on this stunning spring day.

Trent got there about fifteen minutes early—enough time to go over his list of questions and find a spot away from the couple other customers. He spoke briefly to the owner of the shop to make sure it was okay that he was going to do the interview with Roy there (mildly insinuating that there might be some loud/salty language from Roy) and the owner just laughed. It turned out Roy had been going there for years with his niece and everyone was used to him/paid him no mind.

Good to know.

At the time when Trent was expecting Roy to arrive, he was surprised to see Nathan Shelley walk through the doors instead. Instead of ordering ice cream, Nathan made a beeline for Trent.

Without any sort of greeting, Nathan slid into the booth across from Trent, causing Trent to look around a bit in confusion.

"I told Roy you phoned and said the interview got pushed fifteen minutes, so he'll be here in fifteen minutes," Nathan said in a rushed voice. "He doesn't like when his time gets wasted so you shouldn't have done that."

"Well… I didn't do that," Trent said as Nathan seemed to adopt a somewhat commanding persona right in front of his eyes. "But I'll be sure to apologize to him." Trent cocked his head as Nathan smiled oddly at him. "I'm sorry… did you want to schedule a time to talk with me?"

"We'll talk now," Nathan said cooly. "I have a story for you that'll be more interesting than anything Roy Kent will tell you."

"And what's that?" Trent asked.

"I know why Ted Lasso left the field during the Tottenham Spurs match."

Trent didn't mean for his eyebrows to raise as high or fast as they did. It might not have mattered, though, because Nathan was smugly looking around the ice cream parlor seeing if anyone had noticed him. No one had. But, then again, there was hardly anyone in there.

"Yes, that's been reported on already," Trent said, knowing what was reported wasn't necessarily true. But at that point, the match in question was months ago and there was really no need to talk about it anymore because the big focus of the moment was on the upcoming Brentford game.

"He lied," Nathan said. Though his voice was low, he dragged out that second word enough for Trent to realize that the man telling him this was proud to do so. When Trent didn't make a move for his notebook or voice recorder, Nathan snapped. "Aren't you going to take this down?"

"You want to go on the record about this?"

"Yes," Nathan said, "but anonymously. That means you'll keep my name out of this, yeah?"

Trent's eyes squinted on their own. Ever since the Tottenham match, Nathan Shelley had been so quick to put himself in front of any camera or reporter he encountered, eager to take credit for the set piece that won that match, as well as others that had been used that season. Trent knew Nathan was very capable at coming up with strategy for the team—he had seen it himself firsthand the prior season while he was still a kit man—but coming to a reporter to expose the head coach of the team as a liar seemed hugely beneath him.

Or maybe not.

"Yes, I will keep your name out of it."

Nathan nodded to the notebook and Trent picked it up even though something deep inside him didn't want to. The near-giddy man in front of him would not start talking until Trent flipped to a fresh page and picked up his pen.

"Ted didn't have food poisoning, he had a panic attack." Trent's heart felt like it stopped for a second, his pen frozen above the notebook. "Aren't you going to write that down? He had a panic attack. He's in therapy for his 'anxiety.'" Nathan actually used air quotes for a very real mental health concern. "Does breathing exercises and everything."

Trent wrote down what Nathan said because that's what he was supposed to do. "Is there anything else?"

"Anything else? Isn't that enough? A head coach ran off the fucking pitch and then lied about it. That's news," Nathan said, angrily jabbing a finger onto the table to make a point. "He's not fit to coach. Hasn't been since he got here, but this is proof, right? He shouldn't be here. He hasn't earned this. Everyone loves him but he's a joke."

That word sat in Trent's stomach and it weighed a ton. That word was something he thought about often and regretted the moment he said it to Ted the first day they met. Yet here was one of his assistant coaches, on the cusp of the team's promotion under Ted, calling the American the same childish weapon of a word Trent had once wrongly flung himself.

"You have one match left in the season," Trent couldn't help but say. "Why are you coming to me with this now?"

"Your readers need to know," Nathan said cooly.

The door of the ice cream parlor opened, causing the bell above it to jingle. Roy Kent strode over to where Trent and Nathan were sitting and glared at them. "I'm getting ice cream before we talk."

"Sounds good," Trent replied with a small smile. Roy growled and walked over to the till area, his face splitting into a grin Trent had never seen before. His shoulders relaxed for the briefest of moments watching Roy interact with the owner. Maybe he wasn't so scary after all.

When Nathan cleared his throat to get Trent's attention back on him, Trent thought to himself that Nathan was scarier than he could have ever even imagined. "So when will that be in the paper?"

"I beg your pardon?" Trent asked.

"What I just told you," he said, annoyed. "When's it going to be in the paper?"

"Oh," Trent said. "Well, I need to talk to my editor. I'm not the one who decides what gets printed. There's a chain of command."

When Nathan didn't even blink his eyes at Trent's chain of command comment, Trent knew that Nathan felt zero qualms about coming straight to him without even talking to Ted about his concerns. It made Trent feel bad, mostly for Nathan. That somehow this man sitting in front of him was so full of… something (jealousy? hate? anger?) aimed at Ted that he couldn't see that what he done wasn't going to help anyone. Not even himself.

Nathan scrambled out of his seat and didn't say anything to Roy or Trent as he exited the ice cream parlor. Trent quickly flipped his notebook back to the questions he had prepared for Roy. Though wholly flustered, Trent cleared his throat and thanked Roy for agreeing to the interview. Trent clicked on his voice recorder and Roy's interview went off without a hitch. He was glad he recorded it, as Trent spent half the time thinking about Ted and his secret Trent felt like he was being bullied into telling.

That night, Trent spent his time not sleeping thinking about what he was supposed to do with the information he had been given. Though impossible to un-know, Trent wished he could take his page of notes and hand it over to Ted and apologize for knowing something about him that he shouldn't. Having a panic attack was nothing to be ashamed of (Trent knew this), but it was also something that people have a right to share—if at all—at their own pace and at their own time. It was careless of Nathan to tell Trent about the panic attack, Ted's therapy, and his breathing exercises.

And how could someone care less for Ted because of it?

For Trent, this bombshell from Nathan allowed even more pieces of the Ted Lasso puzzle to slide into place. The hands in his pockets. The nervousness. The measuredness of his speech when he knew he was on the spot. It all made sense and that broke Trent's heart. Trent didn't pity Ted—he empathized with him. Though Ted's panic attacks likely had different triggers and certainly manifested differently than Trent's, the umbrella experience of having one was relatable. Trent knew how his had made him feel and if Ted's were anything like that… well, shit.

It was why when Trent walked into work the following morning, he went straight into Eric's office and told him what he was told and immediately framed it as a piece about mental health in athletics so there was no way Eric could try and argue otherwise. Mental health was such a popular topic ("I'll get a list of SEO friendly jargon from marketing," Trent said, unprompted.) and mental health in sports was such an underreported topic that they'd get traffic from the popularity, but also traffic from being one of the few sites to cover the subject. A veritable win-win for The Independent. Clicks, clicks, clicks.

Trent should have felt good about getting to frame the piece how he wanted to, but skulked to his desk in defeat when Eric said under no circumstances was Trent allowed to reach out to Coach Lasso for a quote because they had to respect the anonymity of Trent's source.

(That ladder-climbing prick, Nathan Shelley. Didn't care who he hurt on the way up.)

Trent still couldn't figure out why Nathan came to him with the story when there were any number of people he could have gone to. For a brief moment, Trent considered sitting on the information to let Nathan find someone else, but realized that Nathan would likely get mad if his story wasn't printed in the paper he first approached. And then not only would he take the story elsewhere and likely provide more information about Ted, but he might blast Trent and The Independent for not running it in the first place.

On the plus side, Nathan hadn't really told Trent much. Yes, he said that Ted had panic attacks, was in therapy, and doing breathing exercises, but that was it. Not really damning information, but also not a lot of information. Trent knew the other man was flustered. He couldn't even imagine the ire he could spit were he more comfortable.

Trent spent the day doing as much research as he could. His deadline was that evening, as it would run online late that night and then go to the presses in the morning. Once the article went live on the internet, other outlets would pick it up. That's why Trent needed to make sure what he wrote was as informative as possible about mental health in sports, because he wanted that to be the biggest takeaway from the article. He would still have to point out that Ted Lasso did not have food poisoning, as had been priorly reported, but by making the article majorly about something other than Ted, Trent hoped Ted would realize that Trent wasn't out to hurt him. Even though this was going to hurt him.

(A scoop wasn't worth hurting someone, especially if that someone was Ted.)

"Are you sure I can't call Coach Lasso and just get one good quote?" Trent asked Eric when Eric got back from a lengthy late lunch.

"No," Eric said loudly before slamming his office door shut.

"Fuck," Trent muttered to himself as he went back to his desk and looked over the outline he had jotted down. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."

Trent sent his article to Eric ten minutes before his deadline with a note at the end saying he would really rather they didn't run the piece. The mental health information was solid, but it felt wrong to expose a man's mental health status without his knowledge or consent.

Eric wrote back that Ted was a public figure, so his lying/panic attack was news. End of story.

Alice knew something was up with her dad that night when he was helping her get ready for bed. She hugged him tightly around his thighs, as that was as high as she could reach.

Trent chuckled and ran his hand through her hair as she looked up at him. Her hair was thick like Allie's. Thick like his. The only difference was that her's was lighter brown, like Thomas's had been. She had Allie's eyes, though. Thomas's nose. Trent's whole heart.

"What was that for, Al?" Trent asked, always glad to be on the receiving end of a hug from his kid.

"You're sad," Alice said. She didn't say it meanly, just matter-of-factly. "Your mouth laughed but your eyes don't."

He peeled Alice's arms from around his legs so he could squat down and look her in the eyes. "Thank you for the hug," he said as he held her small hands in his. "I am sad, but your hug helped loads."

"It's okay to be sad," Alice said slowly, as if pulling the sentence from the depths of her memory.

Trent smiled. "That's right. It's okay to be sad."

"Is it okay if I'm not sad now?" Alice asked.

That made Trent laugh, including his eyes. "Yes, my love. It is more than okay that you're not sad now." He gave her a hug. "Can you tell me what you are feeling?"

"Sleepy," she said.

Trent pulled out the hug and tried to put on a serious face. "Well then we should probably get you to bed, huh?"

Alice nodded. "Probably."

"Are you too sleepy for stories? Trent asked. Alice's eyes widened as she shook her head. He gave her a kiss on her forehead and stood up. "Best go pick some out."

Without any response, Alice hightailed it out of the bathroom to her bedroom. By time Trent got in there, she was in bed with a stack of four books next to her. She started to drift off during the last book, but Trent finished it anyway. When he was done, he straightened the blankets on Alice's bed, whispered he loved her, and turned out the light.

Trent sat on the couch with his phone in his hand. He wanted to call his sister, but he also didn't. This was his mess and he was the one who had to deal with it, only he didn't know how because he couldn't really do anything about it. The article would likely be posted online by 10 and then there was no going back.

He tried to play out every scenario of what would happen that night. There was no chance the article wouldn't miraculously not get posted, so Trent sadly let that thought go. Ted would see it. There's no way Ted wouldn't see it. Would Ted see it on his own? Would someone send it to him? Would he hate Trent? Would he ban Trent from the press room? Would he never want to speak to Trent ever again? Would Trent be okay with that?

No, he thought. I wouldn't.

But if that meant Ted would be okay—having Trent out of the picture—then Trent would do it in a heartbeat. It would hurt him, but he would much rather hurt than have Ted hurt.

It was never just a crush. Deep down Trent knew that, he just hadn't wanted to admit it to himself. Telling his sister that he liked Ted wasn't the whole truth either. He wondered if Allie knew that. She probably did. Nothing ever got past her.

Trent clicked his phone on and it was 10:16. He went to the website for the paper and clicked on the Sports tab. There is was. You didn't even have to scroll down to find it, it was just right there for everyone to see—Coach Lasso suffered panic attack during FA Cup match says anonymous source. Trent's breath caught in his throat as he scanned the article. It wasn't a flattering picture of Ted on top of his private life being handed over to the public. This wasn't necessarily an open invitation for ridicule and judgment, but Trent knew it would be taken as such by people who took pleasure from seeing others fall. He wondered if Nathan Shelley was happy about this. He wondered if Nathan expected a harsher take on a man who actually deserved to be held close and accepted, not pushed off a ledge with no net below.

Around 11, Trent went to his office and sat at his desk, thinking he should write up a resignation letter. Everything surrounding the article felt wrong. He should have told Nathan off. He should not have written the article. Trent always wanted his writing to be important and informative—not be a weapon to wield against a kind man by a petty subordinate.

Trent ran his hands through his hair and leaned back in his chair. A small white rectangle on his peg board caught his eye with numbers that had character.

It wouldn't right any of the many wrongs, but Trent knew what he had to do. He grabbed his phone and typed a new message to the numbers on the card.

Hello, Ted. This is Trent Crimm. (The timestamp indicated it had been read right away, so Trent knew Ted received the text.)

The Independent. (Trent chuckled sadly to himself as he hit send, hoping it would make Ted smile, if only for a moment.)

This will be in the print edition tomorrow morning.

Trent copied the link to the article and pasted it into the text message. His eyes welled up as he hit send.

As a journalist, I had to write that. (A weak explanation, but a mostly truthful one.)

But as someone who respects you… (Respects was not the first word Trent thought to put there. But it was the one that needed to be used. It was never just a crush.)

My source was Nate. (Well… he did it. He revealed his source. Definitely no going back now. You are worth more to me than my job, Trent thought.)

The timestamp showed that the text was read, but no three dots appeared on the screen. Trent wanted to know what Ted was thinking. Needed to know.

Would you care to comment?

Trent held his breath as those three dots appeared. He flipped his phone over, screen side down, on his desk. It let out a soft chirp, but he left it there for a minute, afraid once he saw what Ted wrote that everything would be worse than it already was.

When he finally looked at his phone a few minutes later, he was met with Ted's response.

No comment.

Trent deserved that. He knew he did. It wasn't his business what Ted thought of the article. It wasn't his business that Ted was probably upset for a multitude of reasons including Trent being responsible for putting him on blast about lying and his mental health.

He wanted to text back that he was sorry. He wanted to write that he didn't mean for this to happen and that if there was anything he could do to make things less bad he would. Anything at all.

The letter of resignation was easy to write up. Each word he typed was one step closer to not being able to hurt Ted again as a sports journalist for The Independent. As a journalist anywhere, probably. The industry didn't look kindly on journalists who revealed their sources, even (especially, probably) if it was done out of unrequited adoration. Trent wasn't a religious person in the slightest, but would have worshipped Ted Lasso in another life. In this life, though, Trent was more than willing to offer himself up as a sacrifice.

As he printed out the letter and signed his name, Trent realized he had never put Thomas before his job. Nor had Thomas ever put him before his.

Trent wasn't expecting anything of Ted, but he certainly expected more of himself.