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Ted Lasso liked to think of himself who would never toot his own horn, but he was pretty darn sure that he was an excellent gift-giver.
Even Michelle, in their early years, had been charmed by his preternatural generosity. A fact that meant Ted had needed to work with the Doc to not take personal the fact his charm had eventually worn off. And, Doc being Doc, they’d made pretty good progress, setting Ted up for his best London Christmas yet. So, of course, Ted would want to do something special: a secret Santa.
He’d arranged it all, and when he’d drawn Roy Kent knew that he was up to the challenge of bringing his favourite ex-Richmond Captain some holiday cheer. It was all perfect. Or, it was going to be, until an unforeseen problem arose.
Ted had not been prepared for someone else to be a top-notch giver-of-gifts. Nor had he expected how anxious he’d feel when the gifter happened to be his secret Santa.
The mystery person had taken it upon themselves not to simply give him a gift on Christmas Eve. They’d decided to leave him a little something every day—a page taken so firmly out of his book he felt it might as well be plagiarism.
At first it was small: a wrapped chocolate here (wafer and nougat), a small knick-knack there (like a bookmark version of his very own ‘believe’ sign). They’d appear in his desk drawer, in the pocket of a jacket hung on a rack, in between paperwork he had to sign—it was charming, it was clever, and it was driving Ted Lasso up the wall.
“I’m just saying that, by best friendship law, if it’s you, you’ve gotta tell me,” urged Ted, light-heartedly fuming at Coach Beard while gesturing with the palm-sized, wrapped parcel he’d just unearthed from the toe of his shoe.
Beard didn’t miss a beat, “Secret Santa law overrides best friend law, you know that.”
Ted made a mildly grumpy sound of assent and picked the package open, searching for any clues left behind on the wrapper (generic, shiny, silver) while Beard leaned back in his chair and cracked his feet up on the desk. “Whoever came up with this secret Santa idea oughta be made to run laps, hey Coach?” Beard suggested, flat-faced as ever despite knowing the responsible party could hear him.
“Oh, trust me, he’s getting his just desserts,” Ted grumbled, gesturing to the now un-gift-wrapped Kinder Surprise in his hand, “Literally.”
“Mm. Can’t bring that back home.”
“Of all the things to ban! I mean, I get it. But also: I don’t. You know what I mean?”
“Get it but you don’t… Like the offside rule?”
Ted snapped and pointed a finger at Beard, then took all of his gifts and laid them out on the desk, one after the other. Taken separately they could be seen as a pile of sweet but otherwise meaningless nothings. But there was something else to it all. Something personal.
The wafer and nougat chocolate was his absolute favorite, and it was locally made from one of the shops on his lane. The Kinder Surprise banning was a rant he’d been on before. The bookmark seemed obvious, but it wasn’t just a simple printed rectangle: the paper weight was the same as his sign, the placement of the letters perfect, it wasn’t a rush job.
And there were others, one for every day in the week since they’d all drawn names out of Beard’s cap. A worn-out playbill from the original London cast of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, signed by Michael Cerveris. It was a show both he and Beard loved, but that Ted had never seen on stage. Then the well-loved pocket edition of Northanger Abbey, which had dog-eared pages throughout that felt like their own mystery to solve. It went on and on. All these little things that told him something quite plainly: Someone had paid attention.
“I gotta figure this out.”
“Well, that’s what I was saying,” Beard continued as if Ted hadn’t been ignoring his every word, “Our current defense isn’t going to work against Westham, not with Nate at the helm.”
Ted gave him a blank stare that the other coach easily matched.
“You’re talking about your secret Santa.”
“I’m talking about my secret Santa.”
Beard slapped the tops of his thighs with a sigh, standing and moving to spin the whiteboard around. “Let’s go over the suspects.”
**
Ted was able to narrow down the suspect list in short order—Beard assisted only with giving him questioning stares, shrugs, and cleaner penmanship with a whiteboard marker than Ted could ever muster.
Sharon was easily ruled out, being a remote employee. Ted briefly entertained the idea of her enlisting the help of someone at the club (Dani? Colin?), but nothing else about the gifts had been her style.
It wasn’t Roy, who (in spite of his soft and gooey center) was hard to convince to participate in the event at all. He wasn’t the type to make more work for himself when he could save it all until the actual day of giving.
Neither could it be Rebecca, who Ted couldn’t imagine giving anyone a worn-down copy of anything when a pristine one could be bought, and who, like Roy, would do one grand gesture on the day.
Will, while he had the necessary access, wasn’t someone Ted tended to have out-of-office conversations with, so that eliminated him from a ‘uniquely personalized gifts’ perspective.
Stepping back from the board, hands on his hips, Ted gazed upon the remaining suspects. There was Beard himself, of course, who checked all the boxes and had the best poker-face this side of Lady Gaga. Higgins, who was the exact kind of person who would remember small details about everyone else, making him an excellent gift-giver. And then—
“Huh. I think I’ve got it.”
**
Trent Crimm had once thought his days of lurking in the Richmond carpark were over. Yet here he was on his day off, bundled up for the winter chill, tucked into a shadowy alcove as he waited for the last of his coworkers to hurry on their merry way to whatever holiday festivities they had waiting for them.
Trent couldn’t say he was ever big on the holidays. It wasn’t that he was a Grinch, not by any stretch of the imagination, he just lacked the enthusiasm that everyone around him had seemed programmed with. Things had shifted somewhat when he and his ex had adopted, of course. That, though, was less the magic of the holidays and more the magic of a child’s wonder and love of attention. Adults traipsing about in fur-trimmed hats and felt antlers, radio stations taken over by vaguely differing versions of the same seven and a half songs, and shoulder-to-shoulder crowds lined down every thoroughfare? They had no chance of pulling Trent Crimm, once of The Independent then independent now of the Richmond Greyhounds, into their aura of jolly spirit.
Ted Lasso, on the other hand, didn’t even need to lift a finger. A little slip of paper with Ted’s name scrawled over it had effectively sent Trent down a holiday spirit rabbit-hole of shopping, crafting, sneaking, fretting, and—in this moment—shivering, all for the sake of making one damnable American feel special. One kind, forgiving, painfully attractive American.
The worst part of it, Trent mused as he finally slipped inside the warm clubhouse corridor, was how much fun he was having. All of the waiting, all of the hiding, all of the secrecy… It was like a game, and one Trent felt he was rather good at.
Quiet as anything, he stalked through the halls to the dressing rooms and coach’s office, shaking off the snow that had dusted his hair. He’d already planned where to hide this gift, and strode purposefully to the mini-fridge in the corner when his heart nearly jumped out of his throat.
“Trent Crimm, after hours!”
Trent spun on his heel to see the subject of his efforts–grinning ear to ear–at Beard’s desk. Well, shit.
“Or, hang on, weren’t you out today? Gonna have to start calling you Loverboy,” Ted paused for effect (the effect perhaps being ‘give Trent a heart attack’), before quipping, “On account of how you’re Working for the Weekend, and all.”
“Coach Lasso,” He finally managed, smoothing out his jacket as if that would better hide the contraband, “Er, no. Not at all. I realized I left something.”
“Down here?”
“Yes. I… believe the last I saw it was… At last meeting of the Diamond Dogs,” He cleared his throat in a way he hoped didn’t come across as guilty, “And you?”
“Oh, well that’s a secret,” Ted’s gaze bored into Trent with something of a thoughtful glint. His heart rate already running high, Trent looked away, swiping his glasses off his face in as thoughtful a way as he could manage.
“Promise not to tell?” Ted asked.
“Hm? Tell… Er, yes, no, of course. On my honour.”
“Well,” Ted dropped his voice into a stage whisper, “I’m lying in wait.”
“Lying… in wait?”
“In wait, yeah.”
“For what?”
“For my secret Santa! He’s—“
“He?” Trent’s heart dropped.
“Or she, or they, but I’m pretty sure it’s a he, c’mere,” Ted waved him over, hopping up from the chair and approaching the whiteboard. Less than willingly, Trent obeyed, positioning himself so that his gift-pocket was as far from Ted as possible.
Trent was certain he was done for (leave it to Ted Lasso to make this ‘gotcha’ overly dramatic), but when the American flipped the board, he decided he was perhaps still in the clear.
The board was a web of the gifts Ted had received, each accompanied by a list of statements or questions, and each pointing to different members of the Richmond administrative team. Trent’s eyes scanned swiftly for his own name, and discovered it to be stricken, along with all but one: Leslie Higgins.
Trent restrained his sigh of relief, and feigned thoughtfulness in it’s place. “This is quite the project,” He finally commented, his voice laced with mild judgment.
“Come on now, Trent. You sound like my college lit prof when I tried to convince him Dolly Parton was the modern Jane Austen.”
He scoffed. “I’m simply recalling how many hours remain until our next game.” This was what Ted Lasso spent his days doing? Yes, Trent was not one to judge given the time he’d devoted to being the actual subject of Ted’s investigation, but at least if Trent had done such a thing as this, he would have gotten the right answer.
“Trent Crimm, bringing the heat. I’d expect nothing less,” Ted feigned mock hurt, the smile in his dimples betraying any attempt at seriousness. “I just got this whole thing stuck in my craw and needed to get it out of my system.”
Trent leveled him with a withering glance, “Out of your system? And that’s why you’re still here, is it?”
This earned a blush from Ted, the kind of thing that reached his ears in a way Trent could only describe as ‘horrendously attractive’. He looked away to fiddle with his glasses once more, unable to stop himself from asking, “And if I were to humour you, Ted, how did you come to this conclusion?”
“Glad you asked, Trent! Y’see, as I looked at all of the incredible things that’ve been popping up with my name on ‘em, it became clear that my Santa had to be someone who values a personal touch over something purely material. Someone with access to the whole facility, who’s got a heart the size of Texas. Someone who pays attention to little details and remembers ‘em. But it’s not just that… what this stuff must mean to me. It’s what it means to them, you following?”
Trent’s mouth was dry, but he nodded.
“Right, so what does it mean that they got me those wafer-nougat doodads? Or the Hedwig playbill, right? It’s like they’re telling me what we have in common, and that they think I’m something special, something sweet, something… Deserving of all this. And of course, the kindest heart in this joint, is…” Ted spread his arms in pride, as if the answer could physically manifest between his hands, “Our very own Higgy Pop!”
The ex-journalist-pining-for-the-man-he-quit-his-job-over couldn’t be stopped: “Leslie is certainly a man of inimitable kindness. Yet… I’m sure many Richmond faithful would think you plenty deserving of these little favours.”
“I don’t know about that,” Ted admitted with a shrug, “And I don’t know if I’d call these little.”
Trent hid the prideful smile that threatened the corners of his lips with a dramatic huff.
“I’m sorry, was that a good ol’ English scoff there? The sounds of derision y’all got up here, my goodness.”
“I’m afraid I need to carry the burden of derision for us both, as you dwarf our regional tendency toward modesty by a shocking margin,” Trent sniped, not quite certain if he was being flirtatious or insulting. Perhaps a bit of both, given how he felt at least partially offended that Ted had not considered he might qualify for such a list of kindly suspicions. “Sorry,” He added after a moment of quiet between them.
Ted leaned over, knocking Trent’s shoulder with his own. “Nah,” He goaded, curiosity alighting in those big brown eyes of his, “Say what you wanna say, Trent.”
“Ted Lasso…” Trent considered biting his tongue, but instead his gaze to look up at the other man, eager to play this out to whatever frustrating conclusion awaited him. “You are a singular sort of man.”
He couldn’t help but take pride in the way Ted turned bashful at the direct compliment. And so he couldn’t help but carry on, “You carry a Midas touch of genuine love and empathy, a touch you grace even the least deserving with, and a touch you yet refuse to turn inward. And that… Is perhaps your fatal flaw. You seem unconvinced you’re even deserving of thoughtful gifts from friends. Yet to anyone else that has traded even the most minimal of conversations with you, you’re deserving of so much more. You’re clever, determined, curious—“
“And easy on the eyes, too, don’t forget that.”
It was impressive, just how quickly Ted was able to turn the tables on Trent, who could now feel his own face warming. But as he looked at the other man, at the eager tilt of his chin, and the tempting quirk of his mustache, Trent couldn’t convince himself he’d yet said too much, that he’d crossed a line. Perhaps, in fact, he’d not said enough at all.
“Some might say so,” He supplied in a lowered voice, turning to face Ted in place of the white-board. The coach’s eyes flickered downward, and Trent felt fool enough in the moment to imagine he could be thinking about Trent’s lips as much as Trent was thinking of his.
“Trent Crimm, I didn’t realize you delivered compliments without a side-helping of snark.”
“Then you must have misheard me, Coach Lasso.”
“Hmm, mind repeating it for me?” Ted shuffled his feet thoughtfully, edging a half inch closer.
Trent was overcome with the urge to seal that distance. To grasp Ted by the collar and whisper the words into his ear, or to breathe them upon his lips, or to say ‘to hell with words’ and just devour the man before him like he had long fantasized he could. But before Trent’s traitorous tongue could do anything he’d regret, his brain reminded him that, as far as he knew, Ted was straight. He was egregiously friendly, yes, but straight. And likely just mirroring whatever energy Trent was sending him, people-pleaser that he was.
“I think I better go,” He croaked, stepping back before moving past Ted to get to the door. He needed to get out of this man’s atmosphere.
“Without your… Whatever it is you were looking for?” Ted asked, voice laced with mischief. He leaned back on the nearest desk, casual as thought he hadn’t just set Trent’s blood on fire.
Trent was stuck. “Right,” He managed, stepping back into the room and scanning swiftly for anything he could pass off as his, “I… Forgot.”
“You know, that’s probably why you left it behind in the first place. I can relate, get distracted pretty easy, too.”
“I don’t get distracted,” Trent asserted, knowing he was just digging his hole deeper and deeper.
“Just around me, then,” Ted teased, watching Trent scour the room as if there were actually something to find, “Need any help?”
“No, I’m fine, Ted, I’ve got it,” Trent grabbed a pen from the side-table, spinning about to prove his hands weren’t empty before slipping it into his pocket, leaving no risk for a closer inspection.
“You know, Trent, you remind me of this guy I used to know. Marcus Girard… I ever tell you about him?” Ted straightened, drawling slowly as he wandered over, hands shoved in his pockets. Something about it was hypnotizing. It must have been, for Trent couldn’t find it in himself to move.
“It’s the glasses, mostly. And the smirk. You win the hair competition, by a long shot, though. I had such a crush on him.”
I lost my ability to hear, and I’m terrible at reading lips, Trent thought, coming up with the only plausible explanation he could think of that didn’t end with the question ‘Did Ted Lasso just imply he’s bisexual?’
“I’m telling you this, Trent, ‘cause I just think you should be in the know that… Well, I’m bi.”
Did Ted Lasso just say he’s bisexual? Did Lasso just look at his lips? Was Trent’s mouth gaping like a fish? Did he have garlic for lunch? Was he going to have a heart attack?
“And also…” Ted stopped his approach and looked down at Trent’s pocket with a smile, “That’s not your pen.”
Wordlessly, thoughtlessly, Trent’s fingers closed back around the pen and lifted it out of his pocket. Ted took it when offered, holding it up so Trent could see the school logo stretched across its length and the word ‘KANSAS’. Then Ted did something even worse: He leaned around Trent bodily, placing the pen back on the table. Trent could feel the heat, and hear his own heart thumping.
“Trent, can I ask you something?”
“Yes,” The word came quick but hoarse. He’d dreamt this. He had to be dreaming. Was he awake? “Anything, Ted.”
“Are you just real happy I trust you with that, or is that a secret Santa present in your pocket?”
Fuck. Trent glanced down and could see the gift in his pocket had shifted, making it more than evident. “No, I…” Shit fuck. Was this all… A trick? Trent wanted in that moment to do nothing other than fall through the floor. Ted knew all along who his secret Santa was. He’d been playing Trent this entire time. Fucking shit bollocks fuck.
Stiff and robotic, Trent fished the gift out and proffered it to Ted, who took it with excitement, analyzing the shape and heft, before noticing Trent’s discomfort.
“Hey, whoa, I’m sorry. Trent, hang on—I’m sorry. Look, I know I should have waited for the big reveal, but those presents were just too good and I just needed to know and—“
“That’s what this was,” Trent intoned, trying to wrest any emotion off his face.
“That’s what… No, hey, no.”
“Enjoy your present, Coach Lasso. If you would do me the respect of forgetting this absolutely mortifying interaction, I would very much appreciate it. I apologize for any misunderstanding, I promise you this shall not happen again. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“Don’t go,” Ted was faster than Trent, grasping his elbow and pulling him back before he could make more than half a step. “I’m sorry.”
“As am I… I should have known better. I’m afraid I let my hopes make me the fool.”
“Trent.”
“I’ll be fine. We’re fine. Please let go.”
Ted obliged, but he held Trent’s gaze with more firmness than any hand could muster. “Trent, I like you,” He confessed, “A lot. A lot a lot. That’s why I knew, or at least I hoped, that this… These gifts, that they had to be you. Cause you… Listen. Not just listen, you hear. You hear me, and see me. Everyone else around here has ideas of me in their head, and, sure, you had one once… But you figured me out quick, and I don’t think you ever looked back.
“I feel appreciated here every day. I know I matter to these people. But… When you give me one of those thinking smiles of yours, I feel like I really earned it. Like it’s just for me. And that feels like nothing I’ve ever felt before. So maybe this wasn’t how this all should have happened. Actually, it definitely wasn’t. But I’m not gonna regret that it did happen. Or forget about it, either.
“So… I’m really sorry. You can go. I just… Needed to make sure you knew that this was real for me, too.”
Although Trent had learned long ago what a bald-faced fabrication from Ted Lasso was like, he still asked: “You’re serious?”
“No, I’m Ted,” He smiled, unable to resist the joke, “But yeah. I am. Maybe you can… Stay a little? And I can open my present?”
“Alright, but… It’s not anything special,”
“Oh me oh my, is that modesty I hear?” Ted teased.
Though still unsure what the situation was, Trent rose to the challenge, smirking as he retorted, “Is that snark I hear?”
Ted chuckled, and some of the tension thawed. He took to unwrapping with a joyful abandon, revealing a small jar of thick liquid, dark and reddish brown in colour. The coach’s eyes narrowed as he held the glass up to the light to get it a better look.
“Kansas City barbeque sauce,” Trent supplied, “Though made by an Englishman and his four year old.”
Ted’s eyes became limned with a threatening collection of tears, giving Trent second thoughts about his gift. He’d hoped it would be something pleasant, and now worried that perhaps it was reminding Ted too much of what he’d left behind and—Ted opened the jar.
“You really don’t have to try it right now, I won’t be offended.”
“Nonsense! You made me home-made U.K. K.C. barbeque, Trent. I’m not just gonna try this dress on, I’m gonna walk out of the store wearing it.”
Trent wasn’t going to linger on the strange picture that painted. Or rather, he was: until Ted dipped his pinky finger into the sauce, brought it to his lips, and licked. Trent watched in heavily restrained desire as Ted’s eyes closed, and barely continued to stay standing as a sound of utter pleasure arose from the man’s throat.
“The… Er, the recipe online said it would be something like Arthur Bryant’s, which I believe you enjoy,” He rambled, trying to avoid thoughts of how else he could get that sound, “Although it’s likely not as good, admittedly I’d never made a sauce before and—“
Ted opened his eyes and met Trent’s gaze moments before removing his finger with a lewd popping sound. “It’s good,” He reassured Trent, licking his lips to catch any trace left behind, “Not the same, but it’s real good. I am… Honoured, Trent.”
“Good. That’s… That’s a relief. I don’t have much experience with the stuff.”
Ted’s smile grew at this, and without a second thought he dipped the same finger back into the jar, shifting towards Trent. “Here.”
“Oh, trust me, I had plenty as we were making it and…” Trent could find no further words as Ted lifted the finger up to his lips. He could smell the tangy sweetness of the sauce, and couldn’t forget where this finger has been just seconds ago. And then there was Ted himself, looking down at him with gentle, urging eyes. If this wasn’t a trick, and it wasn’t a dream, then fuck it: Trent was going to take his chance. He leaned forward, parted his lips, and let his tongue brush Ted’s fingertip.
Whatever remained of uncertainty between them shattered in that instant, subsumed by the undeniable intimacy of the moment. Not missing a beat, Ted leaned toward Trent just the same, his finger pressing forward and down on Trent’s tongue. Not enough to feel forced, just enough to be an invitation so that when Trent’s tongue ran further down it’s length, they both knew it was what they had hoped for.
Trent let himself be consumed by the moment, closing his eyes to revel in the fact that he and Ted Lasso were… God, what were they even doing? He didn’t know, but he did know that this wasn’t the last piece of Ted he wanted to taste.
Opening his eyes, he could see Ted’s were just as heady and glazed and wanting as he was sure his own were. Trent needed him, wanted nothing more than him, and he was going to have him.
Trent grasped the back of Ted’s neck, pulling him closer in desperation. The other man didn’t resist, pressing his lips to Trent’s faster than he could think to remove his hand, the finger still pressed into Trent’s mouth.
“Sorry, sorry,” Ted breathed, pulling away to try and extricate his hand. Trent halted the attempt with a firm grasp of Ted’s wrist.
He locked eyes with Ted and sealed his lips around the digit, sucking it clean of an imaginary trace of sauce before pulling off with slow purpose. “Stop talking,” he warned.
Ted’s eyes swerved from the grasp on his wrist, to Trent’s lips, and back up to his eyes. Biting his lip, he made a challenge, “Make me.”
It took everything in Trent’s power not to take Ted’s lips in another kiss, but he needed to savour this. He needed to make this moment last. A small part of him warned him about misstepping, about ruining this tentative thing that was forming between them. A bigger, hungrier part of him told him that this was not so easily broken. To do what he really wanted.
“Is that an item from your wish list?” He asked, keeping his grip on Ted’s wrist but leaning back out of reach of the coach’s lips.
“Yeah, I’d say so. Yup. Very tippy-top of my Crimm’s-mas list.”
The noise that came from Trent was something of a disgusted growl. “Do not say that again,” He warned, mostly teasing.
“Oh no, Trent, that’s the thing you’ve gotta get used to. If you want allllll this, the cost is being my sounding board for new jokes. …You still in?”
Though Ted was playing it up, Trent could sense there was a real ask there. He briefly recalled what Ted had shared about his ex-wife, when the two had first traded ‘ex’ stories. He narrowed his eyes and released Ted’s wrist, using both hands to instead cup the man’s cheeks. He tugged down gently, urging Ted’s forehead against his own. “As your secret Santa I feel bound to share my darkest secret…”
“...Oh?”
“I… rather enjoy your jokes,” And before Ted could say more, Trent kissed him again. Tenderly, but firmly, his lips making promises they both hoped to keep.
As they melted into one another, Ted sighed softly. He slid his hands into the warmth of Trent’s jacket, finding purchase on the soft fabric of the shirt at his waist before sliding down further to grip at his hips, pulling the two of them closer together.
Trent’s mind wandered as Ted’s hands did, landing on last question to ask: “…What else is on this Christmas list of yours?”