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It happened because of a storm, and a flat tire.
Because as Rebecca was coming home, through the kind of driving rainstorm where she could barely see ahead of her, holding the steering wheel with white knuckles and persisting despite a certain amount of fear only because she was so close to her house – close enough that she was passing the green – there was suddenly a thud and a jolt and the car lurched to the side and limped forward in a jerky, plodding manner that she instantly recognized.
She was able to cruise into what would pass for a parking spot – out of the road, at least – and then stepped out into the pounding rain to inspect the damage.
She barely needed the torch function on her mobile. Soft but clearly audible even under the roar of the steadily beating rain she could hear the hiss of escaping air, and the front tire was already so low that the wheel rim rested on the pavement.
With a muttered fuck, cold water streaming down the back of her neck and running under the collar of her shirt, she considered her options. Call roadside assistance and make them come out in this deluge, while she sat shivering and soaked in the car waiting for them. Leave the car where it was until morning and run for home, dashing the half-kilometer across the green. Or . . .
Thunder rolled, and the sky lit up with the hard crack of lightning so close that it made her jump.
Hand on her forehead to keep the water out of her eyes, Rebecca looked around and took stock. She was mere storefronts away from the Crown and Anchor, its glowing windows like a friendly lighthouse.
On the other hand, she was sopping wet and her shirt was probably transparent by now.
Shoving her phone into her back pocket, she reached into the car to transfer her wallet to her other pocket before stashing her purse under the front seat, locking the doors, and then sprinting past the pub into the familiar little road behind.
In the first piece of good luck of the night – well, the second, after the fact that she was able to coast the car into a parking space – the lights in Ted's flat were on. With the way the rain was beating against the windows, pebbles wouldn't do her any good this time. Instead she huddled as close to the building as she could, taking a tiny bit of shelter from the inches of overhang, and called him on her mobile.
"Rebecca?" he said as soon as he'd answered. "Something wrong?"
"Sorry but can you let me in, please," she said, raindrops gathering on her lips and lending a wet sound to her words.
He made a sort of startled noise and the call disconnected. From inside she thought she could hear the sound of pounding feet, a guess which was borne out moments later by the door opening beside her.
"Come in, come in, come on up," Ted said, tugging her inside. She left little puddles on the stairs as she went up, her shoes soaked through and rivulets running off her hands. He waited until they were inside his flat before asking, "You okay? What happened?"
"I got a puncture," she said, trying to hold her wet shirt away from her skin without dripping on a larger portion of his floor than strictly necessary.
His theatrical alarm, and the way he immediately started looking her over, tipped her off that maybe that particular phrase did not translate.
"In a tire," she clarified. "I got a flat. As I was passing the green."
"Oh," he said. "Were you – where's the car?"
"It's parked, more or less," she said.
"Did you call – do you have triple-A over here?"
"We have AA," she said. "I think one of your As may be for 'American'."
"Oh. Yeah." He ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "So where do you go when you want to quit drinking?"
"Also AA."
"Seems confusing."
She didn't think hapless alcoholics were particularly likely to call the auto club by mistake, but it was such a Ted remark. Rebecca pushed her own dripping hair back from her face. "I didn't call," she said, answering his half-asked original question. "Seemed horrid to make someone come out in all this."
"No, sure." Ted leaned against the wall facing her. "Are you – I don't think it's supposed to stop anytime soon, if you were thinking of getting across the green. I guess – did you want to call an Uber, or . . . ?"
"To be honest," she said, "I didn't think any further ahead than getting out of the rain."
"No, course not, course not." He stared out into the flat for a moment before giving himself a bit of a shake. "Sorry, what am I – let me get you some dry clothes so you can warm up."
"And stop dripping on your floor," she said. "Thank you."
"No, no – I'm glad you came here." He gave her a small smile that didn't completely reach his eyes. "Hang on, be right back."
Rebecca toed off her wet shoes and looked around the flat while she waited. She'd been inside once or twice, but not for a long time now. Not since before – everything, last season. Sam. Her father. Nathan and Rupert. Not since just after Christmas, actually.
It was probably odd, how things still weren't back to normal. Whatever normal was. Maybe they'd never had a normal.
Ted came back with his hands full just as a particularly loud rumble of nearing thunder started up outside. "Got some warm sweats and a clean towel, so you can dry off," he started to say, but anything he was planning to add was cut off by the thunder reaching its full potential, a clap that rattled the windows followed by a flash of light outside and then all the lights inside going out with an audible pop.
"It's done that twice," Ted said in the dark quiet that followed. "Always comes right back on though."
They both waited in silence for the telltale hum of resuming power. For five seconds; ten; twenty.
". . . or not," Ted said. Something soft brushed against her arm, and she realized he was trying to hand her the stack of clothes. "You can find your way to the bathroom?" he asked. "Why don't you go and change, and I'll look for the candles I bought because you should always be prepared for a power outage, and then put away somewhere so clever that I'll never find them."
With a huff as a gesture toward a laugh, Rebecca felt her way through the dark flat to the bathroom. Her soaked shirt landed in what she hoped was the bathtub – time enough to hang it up when she had a torch, or a candle – and after a moment she tossed her equally wet bra after it. The towel was identifiable by texture, and she was rubbing her hair with it, her bare back to the open bathroom door, when a dim light bobbed up behind her.
"Ah – sorry," Ted said, and the light bobbed a bit more, making shadows dance up the bathroom walls. In the mirror she could see him with his head conscientiously turned away, one arm extending a thick pillar candle in her direction. "Here you go."
"Got it, thanks," she said, taking it from him and setting it on the edge of the sink.
"Okay." Without turning back to look at her, his mirror image bobbed away down the hall again.
She could now see that he'd given her both a t-shirt and a hoodie, as well as a pair of joggers. After a moment's pause she layered the shirts to compensate for her lack of bra, and then got out of her wet jeans as quickly as she could and traded them for the sweats. Already she felt significantly less like the half-drowned Viola she'd once played at school.
"I can make you a cup of tea?" Ted called, without coming back. "Gas is still on."
"Lovely, thank you," she replied, pitching her voice to carry even as she collected her candle and made her way back out to find him. "I am sorry for pushing in on your evening."
"Heck no," Ted said. "If you weren't here I'd be in the dark with no entertainment. I mean I have been meaning to practice my shadow puppets, but that's only fun until your hands start to cramp up." He had an array of lit candles spread across the flat now; a few in the kitchen and more on the coffee table. It was still dark, but the flickering was enough to see across the room by.
"When I was a child and the power went out, I loved to read by candlelight and pretend I was Anne of Green Gables or Jane Eyre or something," Rebecca said. "Nowadays I'd give myself a migraine if I tried."
"Aging isn't for the weak," Ted said. "You can go on and get comfy on the couch if you want. Water'll boil in a minute."
A flash of lightning was followed almost instantly by a loud crack of thunder, and Rebecca jumped and banged her shin on a table leg. "Christ," she said. "That must have been on top of us."
"When we had storms like this at home," Ted said, "they were usually in the summer. We'd sit on the porch and watch the lightning off in the distance, watch the curtains of rain just blowing on across. I liked it, you know – kinda dangerous but not really. 'cept for that one time a guy got struck by lightning out by the lake."
"Ouch."
"Yeah, he did not make it." The kettle whistled, and Ted busied himself with making tea. "All I've got is almond milk, by the way. Dana's gone vegan and I was experimenting for Julie."
"Almond milk is fine." She paused and wrinkled her brow. "Have you been making my biscuits with almond milk?"
"Busted," he said. "You didn't notice?"
"No. I can't believe it."
"Well, I did use extra butter to make up for it. In your biscuits. Haven't quite hacked the vegan recipe yet."
"I hired fucking Nigella to manage my club."
"I can only dream," he replied seriously.
Rebecca wrapped her arms around one knee and watched the shadows outside the flat windows, lightning flashing far more frequently than she liked. As Ted was bringing her a cup, she mused out loud, "I feel as if I haven't been here for ages."
"You, uh, you probably haven't." Ted sat down beside her, his eyes on the coffee table. "Hey. You know. I, uh – I know I wasn't the most present, last season."
"Present?" Rebecca echoed. "You're the manager. If you'd been any more present we'd have had to start charging you hotel rates for your office."
Ted laughed quietly, but said, "Not . . . physically. I've been – I was – working through some stuff. Not new stuff – shouldn't've been a surprise or anything, it's all been pretty much sitting there for years, but I guess with one thing and another . . . getting divorced, being away from Henry, all that – it all kinda came to the surface and I wasn't . . . ready for it." He sighed out a long breath, both hands on his knees, still not looking at her. "I never used to have panic attacks before."
"You mean before I callously dragged you across the ocean because I wasn't working through my 'stuff'?" Rebecca said, not even trying to ignore the twinge of guilt.
"You didn't exactly – shoot, I was gonna say 'impress me' but that sounds rude – I mean the thing they did with the sailors, you know. Is 'impress' the word I want?"
"What, like the press gang?" Rebecca worked her way mentally back to year seven history. "I think just 'pressed,' maybe. Right? ‘Pressed into service’?"
"Oh right," Ted said. "Yeah. That. You didn't 'press me into service'." He paused. "Michelle kinda did."
Rebecca grimaced sympathetically and took a sip of her tea.
"Anyway," he said. "Doctor Sharon really helped me, but it – well I'm not gonna lie, it took it out of me. And I was still in my head more than I was out of it. I'm sorry about that."
"Don't apologize for that," Rebecca murmured. "I wasn't any more 'present' than you."
"We're doing better," he said, not exactly a question but he looked to her for confirmation anyway.
"We are."
"I, um." He rubbed his hands nervously over his knees and then leaned back into the couch. "That's why I was late to your dad's funeral. I had a panic attack when I was getting ready. I'm sorry."
"There's nothing to be sorry for," she said, reaching out with her own hand to lay it on his knee.
He was quiet for long enough that Rebecca took her hand back, drinking her tea in the silence between them. It was still anything but silent outside; rain pounding against the windows, the scrape of tree branches, the rumbling of thunder.
Then Ted made a noise, a soft one, that made her turn to look at him. He licked his lips and said, "You know my dad died when I was young."
She nodded. "You said. When you were eviscerating Rupert. I don't think I've forgotten a second of that."
She'd meant to break the tension a bit, and he did smile, and almost breathed out a laugh. Then he took a deep breath and said, "He killed himself."
Cold horror flooded through Rebecca and settled in her stomach. She shivered in perfect synchronization with a roll of thunder. "Ted," she said quietly, setting her cup on the table.
"I was home," Ted continued, his eyes fixed straight ahead. "He didn't know I was. I don't think. But I heard the – gun, I found him . . ."
"Oh my God, Ted . . . shit." It was a completely insufficient reaction, but she couldn't come up with anything else. She twisted sideways and wrapped her arms around him, awkwardly, his shoulder pressing against her breastbone.
"It's – okay," he said. "You don't have to – ”
"Who says this is for you?" she quipped, forcing the words through her tightened throat. She rubbed his far shoulder and dropped her forehead to rest on the near one. "I'm so sorry. And I'm sorry – my father's . . . funeral, everything, that must have been a nightmare. I'm sorry I couldn't – I'm sorry I didn't know."
"No way you could have, if I didn't tell you." He reached up with one hand to hold her arm, rubbing back and forth, and leaned his chin down onto it. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her arm, and she flashed back on a street in Liverpool, where he'd bowed his head over their clasped hands and she'd thought for an instant that he was about to kiss the back of hers. He was calmer now than he'd been then, at least.
Rebecca pulled a knee up onto the couch so that she could turn and settle more comfortably, and keep holding him. "And you'd never seen a therapist or anything, until Sharon?"
He grumbled in the negative, rubbing his chin against her arm like a cat. "In 1991 in Kansas, no ma'am. Therapy was for people in Woody Allen movies. Idea always made me feel a bit icky. Though I guess there was a pretty good reason to feel icky about Woody Allen movies, in retrospect." He sighed. "No, just the couples counseling with Michelle. And that went – how it went."
She nodded against his shoulder.
"Not that I talked about my dad in the couples counseling," he added.
Rebecca hesitated, then asked, "Does Michelle know?"
"That my dad shot himself? Yeah." Ted settled against the back of the couch, not breaking her hold. "She kinda had to, what with seeing my mom all the time and all. Would've come up at some point in some awkward way. I just kinda – you know, I didn't want to talk about it. Just told her what she had to know. That must've been, oh, twenty years ago now."
"Is this year the first time you've talked about it in twenty years?" Rebecca asked a bit incredulously.
"Yep. Yes it is."
"Christ." She drew her other knee up, too, and let her hand fall to his chest, keeping her other arm behind his shoulders. "All right. I believe your panic attacks aren't entirely my fault."
Ted laughed, just as a sharp crack of thunder split the air.
He jumped, but no more than she did. After a moment she asked, "Does that bother you? The . . ."
"The thunder?"
She nodded.
"No. You'd think it would, I guess. But like I was saying before – there's a lot of thunder in Kansas." He paused. "It sounds different."
It was strange, sitting here like this so close to him; something they didn't do, a degree of contact that hadn't felt natural in some time. But it didn't feel strange. She was warm and comfortable and tired, and the storm and the power outage and the flickering candlelight had created a little bubble for the two of them where everything felt easy, somehow. Right. His shirt against her cheek, his familiar smell surrounding her, the way he accepted her presence and her touch. It felt like something sliding into place.
Rebecca suddenly was aware that she very much wanted to be held. Not in general; by Ted specifically. Slowly, she unwound her arm from behind his neck and scooted down, resting her head against his upper arm, hoping maybe he'd take the hint.
He did. Just as easily, careful not to jostle her too much, he lifted his arm and wrapped it around her, letting her head settle against his chest instead.
"You're feeling better?" she asked after a while.
"With – everything?" His hand tightened on her arm. "Yeah. Talking to the doc really did help."
"Maybe I should have tried it after all," Rebecca muttered. "Instead of getting myself into ridiculous situations on fucking Bantr. Thought I could fix my whole life by finding love again . . ." She was aware she'd said the word love with a certain level of disgust. "But try to fall in love while having no idea who you might be talking to, what an excellent fucking idea. No pitfalls there whatsoever."
Ted gave a little hum of a laugh, but then squeezed her arm again. "Wait. Is that what happened?"
"With – Sam?" She thought the pause had been small enough to be unnoticeable. Almost unnoticeable.
"Yeah."
"Yes. What did you think – I just woke up one morning and thought 'yes, think I'll have it off with our youngest player, what could go wrong'?"
"Well, you didn't give me a lot to go on."
I had a torrid affair with Sam. "No, 'spose I didn't." She shifted against him. "Yes. That is what happened. We'd been talking for months without sharing any personal information, and then we finally agreed to meet in person and . . ." She shrugged and lifted her hand from his chest before letting it fall theatrically. "I was horrified. He was amused. I wanted to flee like the hounds of hell were after me; he convinced me to stay and have dinner, and somewhere along the line . . ."
Ted had been honest with her about something awful. She owed him whatever honesty she could summon up.
"I suppose I knew that bravery was a problem for me . . . in this arena," she said, speaking slowly. "I convinced myself that my apprehensions about the situation were just me being a coward. And after all – he wanted me." She shrugged again.
"I get it," Ted said.
Frowning, Rebecca said, "You don't have to – ”
"No, I do. I totally – everybody goes through divorce differently, and everybody reacts differently . . . I felt like my divorce was about me being too much for anybody, you know, my personality being the wrong kind for long-term exposure – ”
"Ted," she chided quietly, pressing her hand into his chest.
"No, I know. But that's kinda the point isn't it, it's hard to get past how we feel. I guess your divorce made you feel – well I mean, I know Rupert made you feel . . . like you weren't attractive enough, or something. I got that from the first ten seconds I spent with the man."
"He thinks he's subtle," Rebecca mumbled, turning her face into Ted's shirt to hide from being read quite this well.
"Yeah. He's about as subtle as a vegan at a steakhouse."
Rebecca snorted.
"So yeah. Somebody like Sam, being . . . interested . . . I see how that could be – something."
"It was," she said. And then confessed the rest. "And I knew I never had any intention of anyone else finding out. Which was – unfair to him, for one thing, but also . . . not a relationship. Not lasting. It couldn't be."
"Yeah," he said, nothing in his tone but sympathy.
"And I spent an awful lot of time trying to convince myself I was a coward for being ashamed of being with him, when of course I should have been asking myself why I was ashamed."
He nodded. After a few moments had passed, he took an audible breath and said, "Just for the record, it was the age thing and the boss thing, right?"
"Oh, of course."
"Good, okay."
She supposed there were other reasons why someone, not her, but someone, might be ashamed of dating Sam. At least she wasn't that much of an arsehole.
She heard Ted take another breath, but he seemed to be holding it for a while before he finally asked, "Were you – are you – was it . . ." He exhaled hard. "How self-sacrificial were you being by ending it?"
He could tell her the most horrific thing about his past, but he couldn't ask her if she was in love with Sam.
"A bit," she said. "It was – nice. It was really nice. But I think I knew all along I was . . . playacting. Hoping it was love and pretending it was. When it was really – a pleasant time with a pleasant person."
She felt his answering hum as a vibration through his chest, more than she actually heard it.
His fingers stroked through her hair and he commented, "Hair's drying."
"God, have I been getting your shoulder wet?" She tried to sit up, but he tugged her back down.
"No, not too bad. Stay." One fingertip trailed across her cheek on its way into her hair. "So what's next?" he asked.
"Next?"
"For you. Are you . . . Bantring, again?"
"God no." She gave his chest an emphatic pat. "No, I think we've conclusively demonstrated that whatever I need to figure out, I'm not likely to do it by chatting to anonymous strangers. Especially if they turn out not to be anonymous strangers."
"I don't know. One of 'em might've turned out to be a therapist."
Rebecca laughed. "Yes, that would have been convenient. But no. No, I – ugh. I suppose before I go looking for love I need to figure out what 'love' is, don't I. As opposed to . . . whatever happens when you give a twenty-one-year-old whatever he wants." She paused. "I realize that sounds highly unethical, in a professional context, so let me just clarify I'm only talking about sex."
"Oh, yeah, good," Ted said. "Thanks, that's much better." He was laughing, and his hand covered hers on his chest as he spoke.
They should have talked about Sam ages ago, really.
"What about you?" she asked. "Did Keeley manage to drag you onto Bantr, too?"
"Oh no," he said. "No, I am not ready for – any of that. Figured I needed to sort myself out first."
She snorted. "What a thought."
"Hey, like I said, everybody's different."
Her mind helpfully supplied the image of him leaving her father's funeral with Sassy, and before she could stop herself she'd already gotten out, "What about – ”
"Hmm?"
"Oh – no, nothing."
After a beat he asked, "Sassy Smurf?"
"You know, I don't think there was a Sassy Smurf," she said, ignoring the odd dropping in her stomach.
"Yeah, no, I think we decided there wasn't. Too bad." His thumb stroked the back of her hand. "She's great. Obviously. But that was – how'd you put it? A pleasant time with a pleasant person?"
She hummed in reply, her focus drawn by the movements of his thumb against her skin. Outside the windows, lightning flashed and the thunder cracked, close and loud again, and she shivered.
Ted's other arm moved from around her and reached back for something that turned out to be a blanket, which he flung over her and tucked around her shoulder. "Let's get you warm," he said softly.
She wasn't really cold, but it was nice to be tucked up like this and she wasn't going to complain.
Time passed. The storm didn't seem to lose any strength, and the power didn't come on. They seemed to have talked themselves out, but it wasn't uncomfortable.
After she didn't know how long, Ted – his voice a bit scratchy, a bit husky with the lateness of the hour – asked, "Want to get some sleep?"
She considered only briefly, and nodded.
"Okay. Come on."
They untangled themselves and he picked up a candle and led her back toward the bathroom. "Should have anything you need in the cabinet there," he said, handing her the candle. "Some extra toothbrushes and stuff, that kind of thing."
She shut the door this time. There were indeed a few wrapped toothbrushes in the cabinet under the sink, along with a neatly lined up supply of hand soaps and bar soap and –
"Is that a box of tampons?" she called through the door. She was teasing, but a split second too late she remembered to wonder how often Ted had a pleasant time with Sassy. "Sorry, completely not my business."
His voice came from right outside the door. "You remember when you had Nora for the weekend, and we were all in your office?"
Dreading where this was going, she said, "Yes?"
"Well, I know Sassy likes to stir things up when people are feeling a little too comfortable, but she had a point about that. It occurred to me I possibly had a blind spot when it came to providing for the unforeseen needs of female guests."
"I don't think that was her point at all," Rebecca said, smiling. "So you went to the shop to stock your bathroom with feminine hygiene products?" Of course he had.
"I also asked if we kept them in the bathrooms at the club," Ted said. "Turns out we didn't, but we do now. Claire in Facilities took care of it."
Ted fucking Lasso. The sudden urge to kiss him was not any kind of logical response to that story, but nevertheless, she had to work fairly hard to put the image out of her head.
When she came out of the bathroom he waved a hand at her and asked, "You okay like that?"
She nodded. "Quite comfortable, thank you."
"Okay." Awkwardly he took a few steps into the bedroom. "So. I can take the couch if you'd be more comfortable . . ."
Two things hit her immediately. One, that she would have expected him to take himself to the couch as a matter of course, without even asking. Let alone asking in a way that implied they might share his bed. Second – that he didn't want to sleep on the couch. It was all over his face, even in the dim candlelight.
Come to that, she didn't want him to sleep on the couch, either. And that wasn't something she was going to be interrogating at this hour.
"We can share," she said, and watched him nod and turn his head, as if he knew how open his expression was.
The bed was oddly small. They didn't quite have to be touching, but avoiding it meant both of them would be sleeping at the very edge of their respective sides of the mattress. "You did blow out the rest of the candles?" she asked as she rolled to her side, facing him.
"Good catch, Smokey the Bear," he said, "but yes. I did."
With a deep breath she finally just shifted closer and put a hand on his chest. "Is this all right?" she asked. "You won't be uncomfortable?"
There was just enough wiggle room in the situation for them both to pretend she was asking about his physical comfort.
"No," he said, taking her hand in his. "This is good."
*
Nothing changed. Not immediately. Not after he walked her to her car in the morning, through a Richmond strewn with bits of tree detritus, and put the spare on for her; and brought her biscuits at the club when she arrived an hour later. She assured him that the car had been taken to the shop, and they marveled at the clear skies, and they went on pretty much as before.
Except maybe he lingered a bit longer in her office in the mornings, and a bit longer, and a bit longer; and then began dropping by in the evening when, she supposed, any longer of a visit in the morning would have made him late for training. Maybe they spent more time together when the team went out for a victory drink, instead of splitting off to be, respectively, with Keeley and the coaches. Maybe they texted more often. Maybe they talked more, about all the things that both of them had gone so long without talking about.
Maybe they touched more, tiny little things. Her hand on his back when they walked. His fingertips brushing against her palm when he handed her the box of biscuits. Their arms touching as they stood close together. His hand on her wrist to get her attention. Slowly, over the months, it added up.
Until one day in the spring he'd come up to her office after a 2-1 win over Crystal Palace, and she hugged him, and breathed in that perfect, clean, comfortable smell that had grown so familiar to her; and as they were separating she just, almost accidentally, brushed her lips across his. And then stood very still looking at him, and waiting.
He took in a deep, slow breath and then let it out again, both intake and exhale audible, his chest rising and falling. He swallowed. Then he took the step closer and kissed her, his hands going to her hips.
Her lips parted as if she were trying to breathe him and it went all at once from a chaste kiss to something deep and needy. She was gasping when she pulled away, and all she could think of to do was to bury her face in his neck and hold onto him.
"I know," he said, rocking her, his hands splayed on her back.
"God," she said, her lips moving against his skin, not knowing if she was talking about the kiss or the shivers running through her.
"I know," he repeated, and kissed her temple. "But it's gonna be okay."
"Think so?" That time – despite how upside-down she was feeling, how nervous and terrified – she darted the tip of her tongue out and made sure to taste him while she spoke. His shudder was almost as good as his skin against her tongue.
"Yeah. I do," he said, pressing her closer.
And in the end, that was really all that needed to be said.