TW: Some emotionally abusive language is used.

Dialogue from the car park scene in S2E12 is used.

After dropping Alice off at pre-school, Trent pulled into his parking space at The Independent. He had thrown a few boxes into the boot of his car, almost hoping Eric would accept his resignation immediately so this mess wouldn't have to drag out longer than it needed to.

Because it was a mess and, when Trent thought about it on the drive, it had been a long time coming. Ever since Claire was fired, things at The Independent hadn't felt right for Trent. He understood some of the changes that had been made (a stress on increasing readership and expanding brand awareness online through social media were logical adaptations to the ever-evolving landscape of news dissemination), but he himself hadn't been allowed to change and grow in his position under Eric's incompetent reign.

Trent's work had become some odd combination of glorified puff pieces and gossip better suited for The Sun. While he enjoyed the profiles he worked on, everything was fairly surface and crowd-pleasing. And while sports were meant to be crowd-pleasing, Trent had hoped at this point in his career he could have been allowed to dig deeper. The piece about Ted was sort of that (with regard to the information about mental health and sports), but it was also going to be interpreted as a negative jab at the American for something no one should ever be made to feel bad or ashamed about.

With Ted in mind, and his resignation letter in hand, Trent strode into Eric's office without knocking.

"Did you see how many other papers are trying to pass this off as an exclusive?" Eric asked as he scrolled through an article about Ted's panic attack from a competing publication. "Jealous twats."

"About that," Trent said, tapping his fingers against the outside of the envelope his letter was in. He had never quit a job before and the uncertainty of not knowing what was next for him was already crawling up his throat and making him queasy. "I still don't feel good about how we made Coach Lasso's mental health status into some sort of spectacle."

Eric looked up at Trent with a fairly annoyed look on his face. "You were the one who brought in the story."

Trent sighed. "I realize that. But I felt I had to because the source would likely have gone somewhere else if we didn't run it and I imagine that would have ended up so much worse for Ted—I mean Coach Lasso—in the long run."

"Hang on… did you talk to Lasso even though I told you not to?"

"No," Trent said immediately. "Well, not before I turned in the piece. I did text him last night to give him a heads-up the article would be in the papers today. I didn't think it was fair to him to be blindsided by a news story this morning when he's got that Brentford match tomorrow."

"Since when are you text-buddies with the Richmond coach?"

"We're not," Trent said. "Last night was the first time I ever reached out to him."

"But you have his number?"

"Well, yes, but only because he offered to babysit my daughter," Trent said, realizing as soon as the words were out of his mouth how weird that sounded even though it was the truth.

"He knows your kid?"

And my sister, Trent thought to himself, but didn't say so. "He's interacted with her at a few games and once in the park," Trent replied. "But I've never asked him to babysit, for fuck's sake."

"But you've socialized with him outside of work," Eric said. "Doesn't that seem like a conflict of interest you should have told me before I let you keep this article for yourself?"

"Here's a conflict of interest for you," Trent said frustratedly. "I told Ted who my source was."

"You WHAT?" Eric bellowed. "Christ, Trent…" He shook his head. "You know what? Fine. You want to throw your career away over this—that's your choice. We're done here. You're done here."

Trent's eyes dropped to the envelope in his hand that contained the letter of resignation he no longer needed. He felt an odd mix of anger and relief. Once again, a choice was made for him, but this time he had thought of a way out first.

A couple hours later, Trent was sitting in his car in his parking space for his building. More than two decades worth of books, awards, photos, and mementos that once had a home in or on his desk and allotted shelf space at The Independent had been quickly, but neatly, packed away in boxes that now lined the entire boot of the vehicle. He would bring it all upstairs to his home office at some point. Then, though, he was too distracted for any next step.

The sound of the ringtone he had designated for his sister rang out loudly and it startled him. He fumbled his phone, taking more than one attempt to slide the bar on his lock screen to accept the call.

"Allie, hi," he said.

"What the hell?" Allie asked, without any sort of preamble. "I thought you liked him?"

"What?" Trent said.

"Don't 'what' me… did Ted tell you you could write about him lying about his panic attack? Because it sure read like it was hearsay," Allie said, accusingly.

Trent took off his glasses and scrubbed a hand across his face. "It wasn't hearsay, Al. Someone credible came to me with the story."

"But not him?"

"No," Trent admitted. "Not him."

"What the fuck, Trent? Is this how you're trying to get over him? By making him hate you?" Allie sounded confused.

"I wrote it because I'm not over him, Al," Trent confessed. "I just got fired for it too."

It was so quiet on the line that Trent thought for a second the call either dropped or Allie hung up on him.

"What do you mean you 'got fired for it too'? You got fired because you fancy Ted?"

"No, I got fired because I told Ted who the source was."

"Shit," Allie said softly. "When did you talk to him?"

"Last night… I texted him the article after it went live. I didn't want him to be surprised about it this morning."

"Did he say anything?"

"No."

"Have you heard from him at all today?"

"No."

"Are you going to reach out to him?"

"Christ, Al. If I was him, I wouldn't want to hear from me after what I did."

"You don't think he would want to know why you shared his private business without his permission?"

"He's a public figure," Trent said with a sigh. "His private life is for public consumption."

"That's bullshit and you know it, Trent," Allie said. "You don't work for the fucking Sun."

"I don't work anywhere now."

It got real quiet again.

"Please tell me you're at least going to tell him you're sorry?"

"I'd like to."

"So tell him," Allie said. "See if he'll let you say your peace and give him the chance to let him say his. What's the worst that could happen?"

"He says no," Trent replied.

Allie scoffed. "Do you really think he would?"

"No," Trent said quietly. "I fucked up, Al."

"It happens," she said. "But only you can fix it. An apology is a start."

"And what if he doesn't forgive me?"

"Then at least figure out how to forgive yourself," she said. "You did what you thought was right, right?"

"At the time, yes," Trent said with a sigh. "I should have told him sooner. I wanted to and I didn't because fucking Eric told me not to."

"I'm so sorry you got let go."

"I'm not," Trent said. "I was going to quit, actually. I typed up a letter of resignation last night after I texted Ted."

"So, you were going to lose your job for him either way?"

"I don't know if 'for him' is right… but everything surrounding this article made me question what kind of journalist I've become."

"What are you doing to do?"

"I honestly don't know," Trent admitted. "But I'll figure it out."

"You always do."

After Trent hung up from his sister, he opened up the messages app and clicked on his recent conversation with Ted.

I'm so sorry about the article, Ted.

Can we talk after the presser tomorrow?

I know you were just doing your job.

But thank you.

And yes. We can talk tomorrow.

Thanks for reaching out.

Good luck with the match.

When Ted liked Trent's comment, Trent knew their conversation was over for now. He never should have doubted that Ted would agree to talk with him.

Since Trent was supposed to be at the Richmond match anyway, Alice was already scheduled to be dropped off at her grandparents' that morning for the rest of the weekend, so Trent was glad he didn't need to come up with any sort of last-minute arrangements for his daughter. One less thing to panic about….

… Except his mum wasn't home when he knocked on the front door of the Crimm residence. Gerald Crimm answered the door and smiled only at Alice, who had immediately wrapped herself around his legs.

"GRANDDAD!" Allie squealed as he patted her on the head.

"Al, my girl," Gerald said with a laugh. "Your grandmum's not back from her errands yet, so I thought we could make her some paper flowers. Does that sound fun?"

"I'm gonna make blue ones!" Alice declared as she unlatched herself from her granddad and ran inside the house, leaving her dad and grandfather alone at the front door.

"Paper flowers?" Trent asked, wholly unable to stop his face from morphing into an Oh, really? expression.

Gerald shrugged. "She likes crafts."

"I know she does," Trent said. "I didn't know you did." He held out Alice's overnight bag for his dad to take. "Thank you for taking her this weekend. I'll call later to say goodnight to Al." He offered his dad as kind of a smile as he could for how exhausted he felt before turning on his heal and heading in the direction of his car.

"They let you into the stadium looking like that?" Gerald asked, causing Trent to stop and turn around.

"I beg your pardon?" Trent asked as he took a few steps back toward his dad.

"You look like a dosser. Do you even care that you hair looks like if your gran broke her brush and her mirror?" Trent's eyebrows shot up. "I don't know what has more wrinkles, your face or your trousers."

"You've got wrinkles too, you know," Trent said as he glanced down at his rumpled pants, t-shirt (which he had slept in the night before), and old flannel shirt. "And, not that it matters, but I was going back home to change before I head out later."

"Later? Don't you usually head straight to the field from here?"

"Usually I do, yes," Trent said. "But I don't need to today because I was… fired." He was proud of himself for being able to say that while looking his dad in the eye.

"Fired?" Gerald repeated. "Does this have to do with that article you did about the American? Is he trying to sue you?"

"What? No. No one's trying to sue me," Trent said. "Besides, it's fine. I was looking to quit anyway. Maybe do some freelance work or something." Trent hadn't really thought about what his next step was, but his dad didn't need any more ammunition than he already had.

"Oh, so you can be Trent Crimm, Independent, now," Gerald quipped. "You can't just leave a career on a whim at your age. Who's going to want you now? I doubt anyone's in the market for a sloppy middle-aged man who writes about footie."

Trent's jaw clenched on its own accord and he took a deep breath in and out through his nose. "Thank you, again, for watching Alice this weekend. Please give my love to mum." He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked quickly to where his car as parked.

Once in the car and the door was shut and locked, Trent slammed his eyes closed and inhaled as much as his lungs would let him. He wanted to yell. Instead he took off his glasses and tried to run his other hand through his hair, but he quickly hit some snags. Trent shoved his glasses back on, yanked his seatbelt out of its slot and clicked it into place, and then started his car, revving the engine in a way that made it sound like the car was angry for him.

"Who's going to want me now?" Trent said to himself as he mulled over his father's words as he drove back toward Richmond. "Who's in the market for a sloppy middle-aged man who writes about footie? Certainly not The Independent." He kept going straight when he meant to make a left turn. "Fuck," he muttered. "Who's going to want someone who gets lost when he's mad? Who's going to want someone who's lost?"

He looked around to see if he knew where he was and it turned out he did. It was a street full of shops he had been to with Alice quite often in the past couple years. There was a toy shop and a used book shop. An old fashioned candy shop that handmade all of its sweets on-site. A chip shop. A curry shop. The hair salon Trent took Alice to because it seemed to be the only place nearby where the stylists knew how to handle thick hair.

Still mad about his dad, Trent pulled over and parked. He dug around in his pocket for a few coins to feed the parking metre and then walked purposefully over to the salon.

"Mr. Crimm!" The receptionist, Lisa, greeted him with the same warm smile she always did when he and Alice walked through the door. Her hair was purple today. It was a different color every time he saw her and he was sure Alice would ask someday if she could have rainbow hair too. Lisa flipped through the appointment book and then looked back up at Trent with a confused expression. "Alice isn't in the books for today. Did you want to make an appointment?"

"Is Jes on the schedule this morning?" She was Alice's favorite of the stylists. Jes was probably in her late 20s and always had a bright headband of varying widths holding down her platinum bob.

Lisa smiled. "She is. Would you like me to see if she has an opening?"

"Please," Trent replied.

"Well… it looks like her 10 o'clock cancelled, actually, so there is a slot now. Would you like that one?"

"Yes, thank you," Trent said with a forced smile.

"Great," Lisa said. "Why don't you grab Alice and head back to station number four? She'll be right with you."

"Alice isn't here today," Trent said. "The appointment's for me. If that's okay?"

"Oh!," Lisa said. "I'm sure that's fine." She nodded toward the back of the salon. "Station four."

"Thanks," Trent said as he walked to the designated area and sat down. He turned the chair so he wouldn't have to look at himself in the mirror and see the mess his father saw.

"Mr. Crimm," Jes said as she approached a few minutes later. "Lisa says it's just you today. How are things?"

He sighed. "I got sacked from my job of 20+ years, I've hurt the only person I've had feelings for since my husband died, and my dad thinks I look homeless and that no one will ever hire me again. So, yeah… I need help. Please." He looked up at her, defeated.

"Now, when you say 'help,' you mean…" Jes said as she kept eye contact.

"I don't know… get rid of it?" He gestured to his hair. "Start over?" Trent was shifting around in the chair.

"Is that what you really want?" Jes asked, her voice kind. "Or are you just kinda spiraling right now?"

"Mostly the latter, I suppose," Trent said quietly.

"You know… you have great hair," Jes said. "Not many guys in your… demographic… can pull this look off."

"You mean, sloppy middle-aged man who writes about football?"

Jes scoffed. "More like confident rockstar of a single dad who writes really heartfelt stuff about a sport I could not even care less for." She frowned. "Can I be honest, Mr. Crimm?"

"Of course," Trent replied.

"I don't want to cut all your hair off just because you're sad right this second. People do it all the time and they sometimes regret it," Jes said with a sigh. "But, if it's what you really want, I'll do it. Or…"

"Or what?" Trent asked, finding himself eager for her suggestion.

Jes squinted at him, like she was trying to see something that wasn't actually there. "I do have an idea."

Stuck between thinking he should probably leave and not trusting himself to be alone with his thoughts until he had to head to Nelson Road, Trent exhaled through his nose. "You know what? Do whatever you want," Trent said, resigned to the fact that the past seemed to be repeating itself, before adding quickly, "though I am meeting up with someone later. So please no colors or anything—I don't want to scare him off. Or give Alice any ideas."

"Are you trying to impress him?"

"Apologize to him," Trent said softly.

Jes gave Trent's shoulder a squeeze. "It's going to be okay."

He chuckled sadly as she nodded over toward the sink. "I hope so."

The tension in Trent's shoulders eased ever so slightly for the next hour as he let Jes do whatever it was she had envisioned. He didn't say so, but he was grateful when she didn't hack off his hair like he had asked and as his sister had done for him when he was a kid. He was mad at himself for letting his dad get in his head like that again. It was something he had talked about with his therapist, though evidently not as much as he should have.

The sustained blast of air from the hair dryer felt good and allowed Trent to clear his mind of his thoughts for a little bit while he concentrated on the whir of the handheld machine making its way around him. Jes's brush slid easily through his hair, unlike his fingers earlier. He hoped that was a good sign.

When Jes shut off the hair dryer, Trent felt a small surge of nervous energy creep up his spine.

"Okay… I think this looks fucking great—pardon my language—but I'll let you be the judge," Jes said as she took off the cape she had put on Trent and turned his chair around to fully face the mirror.

He unfolded his glasses which he had been using sort of a fidget spinner throughout the appointment and slid them on. His first thought was that he had never seen his hair that shiny before. It looked and felt soft and smooth, the thick white stripe a beacon amidst the dark brown that looked closer to gray most days. Jes had added some layers around his face so his hair no longer hung in a solid heavy curtain to his shoulders. He hadn't looked this put-together in ages and wondered if other people had noticed too.

"This looks…" He shook his head as didn't quite have the words, but he offered Jes a grateful smile. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Jes replied. "Good luck with eveything, yeah? I'll see you at Alice's next appointment."

Trent paid and left Jes a tip equal to the bill. He walked out of the salon knowing he looked more confident on the outside than he felt, hoping he could wrangle his nerves and match his insides to his outsides before meeting up with Ted later.

Once home, Trent spent an embarrassing amount of time putting together his outfit. Jacket or no jacket? Button up or t-shirt? Jewel tone pants or a neutral color? Trainers or a dressier shoe? So, maybe he was trying to dress to impress just a little. (Not that he thought Ted would be impressed by him, but the extra effort went along with the intended apology.) Trent wanted to show up for Ted, but also for himself. Starting over started now.

Before he left to walk to Nelson Road, Trent took a full-length picture of himself in a mirror and texted it to Allie. She responded almost immediately.

I thought you were going to apologize to him, not seduce him.

So this is okay?

More than okay – you look great.

Your hair looks aces like that.

This could be the last time I see him, Al.

Well, he'll certainly remember those shoes.

Too much?

They're perfect. Try and relax.

Why don't you come around to mine when you're done?

Ant's gone for the evening. We can get plastered.

Thank you for being my sister.

I didn't have a choice.

But, as I'm stuck with a brother, I'm glad it's you.

Since he was now going to his sister's afterward, Trent drove the short distance to Nelson Road, parking in the car park near the exit Ted would come out after the press conference. He was still a bit jittery, but trying his best to calm down. Knowing he would see Allie later was helping—something to look forward to no matter what happened with Ted.

Ted. Ted who had already told Trent that he knew he was just doing his job. Ted who was the kindest man Trent had ever met and in all likely would not hate Trent until the end of time, even though if Trent were in Ted's shoes he might not be able to say the same.

It was odd being at Nelson Road and not being in the press room when he knew a press conference was happening. He looked at his watch—it should be over soon. He wondered what the energy was like in there with the Greyhounds doing the unthinkable and earning their promotion back up to the Premier League. It would have been thrilling to see that firsthand, but Trent felt it was fitting he had not. He hadn't earned that privilege with what he had done the past few days and he was determined to accept it.

Trent propped himself against the wall of the clubhouse as he had done after many home games, waiting for players or coaches to exit the building so he could grab them for a quote to pad his writeup.

He busied himself in his phone, scrolling through Twitter for a bit to see what people were saying about Richmond's promotion. He smiled when his mum texted a picture of the paper flowers Alice and his dad had made for her. The whole bouquet looked to be about the same level of craftsmanship, so either Gerald Crimm's crafting skills were on the same level as his four-year-old granddaughter, or he had let Alice make them all. A new Bantr message popped up from a username he wasn't familiar with, but he didn't open it.

Reporters began filing out the door, chatting among themselves. A few of them waved and said Hi as they passed. One of the guys he had been friendly with, Lloyd, stopped and Trent stood up so they could chat.

"Everyone was looking for you in there," Lloyd said as he stuck a hand out for Trent to shake.

Trent was grateful for the quasi-update that his absence was noticed. He hoped it wasn't a cause for celebration. "I'm afraid I'm no longer covering Richmond games." It wasn't the whole truth, but it was a truth.

"Hell of a presser to miss, although you were somehow still front and center," Lloyd said with a chuckle as he shook his head. "Thinking back, I can't believe it's taken this long to talk about men's mental health and sports. People always seem to be focusing on the ladies, but it's not just them, is it?"

"No," Trent agreed, thinking about his own experiences with panic attacks and therapy since Alice was born/Thomas died. "It's good to see you, Lloyd."

"You too," Lloyd replied. "We'll have to get drinks soon."

"I'd like that," Trent said, finding he actually meant it. Lloyd started to walk away, but Trent called after him. "Hey Lloyd—is Coach Lasso still in there?"

Lloyd turned around, but didn't walk back over. "I think so. He was headed upstairs when I was walking out."

"Thanks," Trent said and gave Lloyd a friendly nod. Though Trent himself never had cause to go upstairs in the clubhouse, he knew that's where the executive offices were. Knowing Ted, he was probably checking in with Ms. Welton before he left.

Trent settled himself back against the building and turned back to his phone. He went to his recent text conversation with Ted and wrote I'm in the car park, whenever you're done. No rush.

He thought he would get more nervous the longer he waited, but instead he was overcome with an odd sense of calm. Talking to Lloyd, however brief, offered a bit of relief he hadn't been expecting—Ted didn't hate him and the other reporters didn't seem to either. It allowed Trent to stop beating up on himself just enough to think that whatever conversation was about to take place might turn out okay.

After a few minutes, his phone softly chirped with an incoming message.

On my way.

Less than a minute later, Trent saw familiar khaki pants and bright trainers out of the corner of his eye. "Coach Lasso," he said with a smile, surprisingly smooth and mostly free of self-doubt.

Ted had his head down in his phone when he exited the building, likely dealing with a barrage of congratulations about the win. As soon as he heard Trent, though, he turned around and grinned. Trent's heart immediately felt full.

"Hey! There he is! I was worried about you," Ted said. "I thought you might've been in a bike accident."

"Actually, I don't know how to ride a bicycle," Trent replied. He was shocked how easily that admittance rolled off his tongue, though his face didn't show it.

"Really?" Ted asked. "That surprises me."

"Why? 'Cuz of the hair and the whole vibe?" Trent gestured to himself.

Ted thought for the briefest of moments. "Yeah, I guess so." Trent watched Ted study his face, squinting like there was something different about Trent that he couldn't quite put his finger on. (You always notice when something's different, Trent tried to telepathically relay to Ted. See me for who I am now. I've changed for me because of you.) "Why the heck weren't you at the press conference?"

Ted reached over and almost swatted Trent on the shoulder, leaving Trent pining for the contact that never was. Ted was a very hands-on person when he talked with people—a touch on the arm, a pat on the back, a hug for pretty much any reason. He hadn't been that way with Trent, though, with only a few handshakes over the past season and a half. (Ted's hand strong, warm, and sure in his own.) Trent had never been very open with his own displays of affection outside of what he did for his daughter. Even with Thomas, he would almost always wait until they were alone to touch him, even if it was something as innocent as a kiss on the cheek or brushing a finger along the back of his wrist.

Now wasn't the time to think about that, though. Now was the time to clear the air and make amends for writing the article.

"Because I'm no longer a reporter," Trent said as he took off his glasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket. "I was fired when they found out I revealed an anonymous source." It shouldn't have given him such pleasure to share the news, but it did. It was if his subconscious finally realized that Trent no longer had any work connection or professional dealings with Ted or the team and these feelings he still had were no longer a conflict of interest.

Ted didn't find that same joy in Trent's news. In fact, he looked extremely concerned. "Oh, snap. I didn't say anything, I promise."

"No, I know, Ted," Trent said, almost conspiratorially, as he reached toward Ted, but then pulled his hand back. "I did. I'm looking for something different. Deeper." He still had no idea what, but it had to be something that wouldn't crush his soul. He knew he had it in him to write about things that mattered, he just needed to find the right outlet for it. (A problem to solve another day.)

"Hmmmm," Ted hummed in support. "Well, as the man says, you gotta follow your bliss, right?"

Trent's eyebrows flew up. He was not expecting a Joseph Campbell reference from Ted, though maybe he should have, as he had dropped a Gay Talese one the day Trent spent with him for that day-in-the-life profile. It was a reminder that Ted's twangy accent and sometimes simpleton persona was not to be mistaken for ignorance. No… Ted was kind and learned and Trent felt foolish for the time he spent trying to ignore his true feelings for the man standing before him.

"Sorry you're out of a job," Ted said sincerely. "You know what this makes you now, though, right?"

Trent sighed. For all the knowledge bouncing around in that head of his, of course Ted was a purveyor of dad jokes. "Trent Crimm, Independent."

"Yeah." Ted seemed delighted that Trent knew the intended punchline.

Nowhere near as delighted, Trent tried to roll with it. "Yeah, yeah. My father made the same joke." He also pretty much said no one would ever want me, Trent thought. Please let bad jokes be your only similarity to that man.

"Yeah," Ted said, still enjoying the joke. "He sounds like a cool guy."

"Mmmm." It was the most neutral sound Trent could muster. Ted didn't need to know that Trent's father still bullied him as recently as that morning.

Ted's hands found his way into his pockets and Trent took that as a sign that he had probably taken up too much of Ted's time.

"Well, I hope our paths cross again soon, Trent."

Trent was right—that was what one said to get out of a conversation. But he had to let Ted know that he hoped they'd find themselves in each other's company again. "As do I, Ted. I love our chats."

It was the closest he could get to I love you without saying those exact words. He wasn't afraid of being ridiculed for it, but there was a genuine fear of entirely ruining the potential of an actual friendship. An invitation to remain in Ted's orbit in any capacity after that article came out was far more than Trent expected. He couldn't jeopardize that in any way.

Hands still in his pockets, Ted started walking toward the exit gate as Trent headed to his car. "You want a ride?" The question was out of Trent's mouth before he knew he was saying it.

Ted stopped and turned. "Well, I prefer to walk, but I appreciate ya."

Before Ted could turn again, Trent called, "And Ted, good luck next season." The finger gun was new and Trent wished instantly he could take it back. (He had never been this weird around Thomas, so why was he around Ted?)

Ted was gracious enough to nod and salute him before re-pocketing his hand and walking out of the car park.

To tell Al, or not to tell Al, that is the question, Trent thought to himself as he yanked on the door handle to his car. The car door didn't open, though, as it was locked. When Trent looked inside the driver's side window, he saw his key ring dangling from the ignition. "Shit."

Locking himself out of his car was also new. Turned out this New Trent he thought he had unveiled today was more of a mess than any version of himself prior. He was just glad Ted wasn't there to see it.

Ted. Fuck. He never actually apologized to Ted. And that was literally the whole point of meeting up. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Trent pulled out his phone. He was half-tempted to call his sister and let her know he'd be later than he thought getting to her place because he needed to call someone to unlock his car. She would take the piss for that, for sure. But she would also call him a knob for not apologizing to Ted. And rightly so.

Instead of calling Allie or a car locksmith, Trent opened up his messages and texted Ted.

Wait. Please.

He didn't even look to see if Ted got the message or wrote back, he just held tight to his phone in his hand and jogged toward the exit. There was no way Ted could have gotten too far on foot and, thankfully, he hadn't. When Trent came out of the car park exit, he saw Ted just ahead staring at his phone. He stopped to see if Ted was going to write back or if he would ignore the text and keep walking.

To Trent's relief, Ted turned around.