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Ted's been underestimated most of his life. Now, he's well aware of what he looks like. He's got all-American boy all over him, he's nothing if not Midwest charm and hospitality, which to some folks creates an image of his upbringing and preferences. Being married to the same woman for twenty plus years puts the flavour of heterosexuality on people's tongues and well, if no-ones bringing it up then certainly there's no need to correct assumptions. And he's not stupid. He knows that the circles he moves in have a history of homophobia, and that sometimes it's better to let people think something false then open up the floor for discussion or worse, potentially paint a target on your back.
He knows it's changing, this new generation of athletes being out and proud and putting the rainbow on every dang thing they can, which he thinks is outstanding, because who doesn't love a bright, beautiful rainbow. Ted can't think of a single soul who doesn't stop when they see one in the sky, who doesn't point it out or take a picture to send to their friends. Rainbows make the world a more colorful place, and maybe Ted should get a small flag for his desk, although he recently became aware that bisexuals got their own flag and that would be more accurate to have flying from his pen holder.
But the aforementioned twenty plus years of marriage means Ted's rustier than a beat up truck in a Kansas cornfield when it comes to thinking about his sexuality. It's not that he stopped appreciating the way people looked when he was married, it's more than he was committed to one person and to building a life with Michelle. Sure, he could appreciate a nice window display, but he wouldn't call it window shopping, and there was certainly no chance of him ever stepping inside the store to buy.
So now, newly divorced, 4000 miles away from the place he used to call home and facing the challenge of getting his team back into the Premier League, Ted decides to blow the dust off the box in his brain labeled sexuality and start really considering his options again.
He starts small, setting his preferences on Bantr to men and women, figuring that's enough to be getting on with, not so secretly pleased with the thrill it sends down his spine at the thought of relearning who he is again, and who he has the capacity to be.
---
“Trent Crimm--”
“The Independent,” the press room says in unison. Trent dips his head to hide his smile.
Trent Crimm, The Independent has a professertorial fashion sense that really does something for Ted, now that he has time to properly consider it. Ted loves knowledge. He loves learning fun, interesting facts he can impart to friends and colleagues, little tidbits that help open the world up and make it seem vibrant and exciting.
Trent is also one heck of a writer. If he ever wrote a novel, Ted would devour it in a heartbeat, but until one appears Ted will have to settle for illuminating articles about the beautiful game and arguably still favourable reviews of yours truly despite the recent streak of ties.
Not to mention that Trent is a very attractive man, what with his stunning head of hair, the grey streaks only serving to make him look more dignified and handsome. He's got a good smile, wry and a little smug but still genuine. Good jawline, pretty trim figure and deep brown eyes you could easily find yourself lost in.
Trent is a witty, articulate, well dressed man, who at the very least thinks Ted is likable. Ted fondly reminisces about the surprised-but-pleased smile Trent gave him when Ted complimented his glasses at that first press conference. A bright spot in an otherwise fumbled performance.
Sleeping with a member of the press, especially one invested in the trajectory of your career as it pertains to their readership, is inadvisable. Downright silly. As much as Ted believes in Rom-Communism, he's well aware that he's no Renee Zellweger. He's no longer that New in Town, and while he's not trying to shut down the factory so to speak, that doesn't mean that Trent Crimm is his Harry Connick Jr. For one thing, Trent doesn't seem like the type to own plaid shirts, though he might look good with a few days of stubble.
Still, Ted is placing Trent Crimm, The Independent in the nice fantasy but don't even think about it box.
“I’m sorry Trent, would you mind repeating the question there?”
Besides, Trent probably wouldn't be interested in a proverbial roll in the hay anyway.
---
Banter it turns out, is not just a dating app encouraging the world to understand each other based on their words not their appearance, but also an integral part of British culture, especially amongst young men or lads, as Baz explains in great detail before being distracted by the Great British Baking Show (sorry Bake-Off), and the conversation quickly diverting into how Paul Hollywood is a fucking bellend.
Ted returns his attention to his phone, not that interested in bread sculptures this evening. Getting back on the bisexuality horse is a lot harder than Ted thought it was going to be, though he’s somewhat grateful for the lack of pictures to shield his identity. Still, after his lovely one night stand with Sassy, he’s not opposed to taking that concept out for a spin for a few more times, remember what he enjoys about sex and his body, the whole kit and kaboodle. He’s one eager beaver but the thing about dams is they are a lot easier to build with two sets of teeth.
Ted downs the last sip of his pint, wondering whether he should get another or head back to his crisp, almost clerically white apartment with it’s empty queen size bed, when a certain reporter sits at the bar stool next to him.
“Well, if it isn’t Trent Crimm, The Independent,” Ted says, aware of how his voice has gone low and intimate and plowing on regardless, “you ever get tired of saying your name like that? I mean, it’s like a top forty hit with how catchy it is, definitely a soundbite that’s stuck up in the ol’ noggin.”
Ted taps his temple a few times to illustrate his point.
“Would you believe that sometimes, I just introduce myself as Trent.”
Ted hums.
“Ya see, I need something to come after your name, or it'll drive me mad.”
“Can I get you another?” Trent asks, raising a hand to flag down Mae.
“So long as your notepad and recording device are safely stowed away in your bag, you can get me anything you like.”
Trent nods, slipping his wallet from the back of his jeans. “Tonight, everything is strictly off the record.”
“I appreciate it.”
Pints secured, Ted takes a chance and suggests they move to a quieter booth, letting Trent assume it’s because the Bake Off noise makes it difficult to have a conversation. He’s still keeping Trent firmly in the not-going-to-happen box, but that doesn’t mean they can’t be friendly with each other. Ted loves having friends. Friends are great.
“So,” Trent asks, his tone relaxed but still with his no nonsense journalistic manner at the edges, “what does Ted Lasso do when he’s not encouraging his team to become better men?”
Ted shrugs. “Oh you know, this and that. Been trying to take in all the sights on my days off, get to seeing what London has to offer. Y’all got a lot of history over here, makes sense to try to learn as much as I can about some of it. I also like reading, big fan of books me. You know, I gifted the team a novel each, hoping it would encourage and inspire them, though I reckon some took to it more than others.”
“Ah, that explains your conversation with Roy Kent about A Wrinkle in Time.”
“Yes sirree, I think he really enjoyed it, though he never would say. He leant it to Sam though, so fingers crossed it makes its way around the whole team.”
“An interesting tactic. Is this something you’ve employed with all your teams?”
Ted gives Trent a sly look over the top of his pint.
“That’s a pretty leading question.”
Trent gives Ted an equally sly look back.
“Well, is there anywhere in particular you’d like to be led, Ted?”
Arousal fizzes in Ted’s gut something fierce. They’re close enough that Ted could just reach out, tuck those loose strands of hair behind Trent’s ear. He keeps one hand on his pint, the other tucked under his thigh instead.
Trent takes off his glasses, slipping them into the top pocket of his blazer. Now Ted knows it’s a cliche, the whole geeky girl takes off her glasses and gee whiz she’s been beautiful the entire time, who would have thunk it, but the problem with that cliche at the present moment, is that Trent has taken off his glasses and is fixing Ted with a gaze that has all kinds of implications. The toe curling, thigh quivering kinds. Ted clears his throat.
“Ted,” Trent says, leaning forward, “you’re a smart man.”
“Thank you kindly.”
“And I won’t say you’re not subtle, because surprisingly you can be. But if you know how to look for and interpret certain glances, well, I think we both know we’re not in this booth to get away from the noise. Also I may have peeked over your shoulder at the bar and seen the gender identity of some of your Bantr matches.”
“Trent,” Ted says, faux scandalized and clutching pretend pearls.
“I do like confirmation that my theories are correct,” Trent continues, placing a hand on Ted’s thigh under the table. Not so high as to be improper, but certainly implying it could go there. If Ted wanted, which he does, a little desperately.
“And what theory would that be?” Ted asks. He licks his lips, takes an extensive mental note on how Trent watches him do it.
“That your flat is quite nearby here. That we’re both consenting adults, interested in knowing what makes the other tick.”
Ted downs the last half of his pint with astonishing speed.
---
Because they’re respectable adults who are aiming to be a little discrete, there’s no passionate make out against the front door. Trent slips his shoes off in the entryway, giving the apartment a cursory glance. His eyebrows raise at the open peanut butter jar on the counter but he refrains from making a comment on Ted’s perfectly reasonable peanut butter habits.
Ted is jittery. Not pre-game nerves jittery, or too much caffeine better cut down on those espressos jittery. This is sex jittery. The butterfly feeling of all the ways someone could take you apart and how you’re hoping to enjoy every second of it. This is getting back on the bisexual horse, yeehaw cowboy jittery.
“I gotta admit,” Ted says, “I haven’t really fooled around with a boy since I was sixteen. In the back of Jeremy Hicksfield’s brother’s pick up, if you’re interested. And a couple more times under the bleachers. Y’all have that word here? Bleachers I mean.”
Trent kisses Ted, which is a tried and tested method of getting him to shut up. It’s gentle but not hesitant. Ted rucks up the bottom of Trent’s shirt, happy to get his hands on warm skin. Trent turns the kiss downright dirty in retaliation. Ted can’t help the soft moan that escapes, his thumb rubbing circles on Trent’s hip.
“Bedroom?” Ted pants, once they take a second to breathe.
“Lead the way.”
Trent presses Ted against the duvet, bracing himself above Ted as he licks into Ted’s mouth. Ted goes pliant immediately, happy for Trent to take the reins and turn his spine to butter. Ted lets his legs fall open, Trent settling between them. He rolls his hips against Ted’s, all that swagger from his signature walk in one easy movement. Ted gasps, arousal increasing tenfold.
“Hot damn,” Ted murmurs against Trent’s mouth, “Shakira was right, those hips don’t lie.”
Trent nips Ted’s bottom lip in response.
“Do you have supplies?” Trent asks, rolling his hips again. Ted whimpers a little, the friction not quite enough.
“Around here somewhere,” Ted replies, wiggling up the bed to go for the bedside cabinet. Trent follows, reaching under Ted’s polo to splay his hands across Ted’s stomach. He makes an approving noise, dipping down to lick a stripe at the v of Ted’s hips. Ted looks down at him, noting the way Trent’s eyes crinkle at the edges with amusement, a contrast to the heated lust in the pupils. Ted smiles, a soft, giddy thing. He follows through with his earlier impulse, tucking a lock of hair behind Trent’s ear.
“How do you wanna do this? In case you haven’t noticed,” - Ted wiggles his eyebrows - “I go both ways.”
"Usually I'm a top, but you mentioned not having done this in a while. I don't mind either way."
Ted swallows, already picturing both scenarios. His imagination is working a mile a minute, creatively conjuring various ways their bodies can come together and if it doesn’t stop that, this party is going to be over pretty quickly.
“You topping, we could, er… we could do that. I mean I haven’t done this in a while, but that area of my body isn’t exactly unexplored.”
“Is that so,” Trent says. He trails a hand along Ted’s hips before reaching down to cup Ted through his khaki’s. Ted swears. Colourfully. Trent tuts, his other hand cupping Ted’s chin, thumb rubbing on his lower lip. “The mouth on you.”
“My mouth could be on you if you’d like,” Ted replies, showing he may be down but he’s certainly not out. He takes the thumb into his mouth, a demonstration of what may come.
“If you’re going to do that,” Trent says, voice taking on a husky quality, “we should be wearing significantly less clothes.”
Ted lets Trent’s thumb slip out of his mouth, fingers going to the buttons of Trent’s shirt. As Trent leans back to slip the shirt off, Ted yanks his polo over his head, throwing it across the room. He unbuttons his khakis, shimmying them down and off. Trent is slipping out of his jeans, revealing lean muscled legs. He has thick hair on his chest, as salt and pepper as that on his head. Ted gives himself a couple of tugs, appreciating the view. Trent smirks, making a small show of pulling down his briefs.
Trent pulls Ted into a fierce kiss, grinding their hips together. Ted grips onto Trent’s biceps, moaning softly as pleasure zips up his spine. It feels good and easy and Ted is happy that this is happening with Trent. Not Trent Crimm, The Independent, Trent the man who’s read A Wrinkle in Time.
“On your front or your back?” Trent asks as Ted hands him the lube.
“Front will probably be easier, like I said, long time since this particular kind of horizontal tango. I can do the other kind of tango by the way, I’m a regular Fred Astaire.”
Ted arranges himself, presenting his ass to Trent who palms it casually. There’s the soft slick sound of the lube being opened, then Trent grabs Ted’s hip with his left hand. He traces the rim of Ted’s hole, a fleeting touch before he slips one finger in. Ted breathes through the discomfort, whining as Trent leans over to press a few kisses to the base of Ted’s back. Ted’s hands shake, gripping the covers.
“You’re doing great,” Trent murmurs, adding a second finger. The stretch and burn makes Ted moan. He pushes back onto Trent’s fingers, eager and ready for the main event. Trent hits Ted’s prostate, that magic little button that makes Ted’s nerves zing electric.
“Please Trent,” Ted pants, “I’m Bon Jovi here.”
“What?” Trent asks against the nape of Ted’s neck.
“Livin’ on a prayer, please Trent, fuck me.”
“If you’re still making pop culture references, then clearly I need to try harder.”
Ted hears the sound of the condom wrapper being opened as Trent’s fingers disappear. They’re replaced by the blunt head of his cock, a slow, steady push that has Ted hiding his face in the crook of his arms. It’s perfect, it’s just what he needs.
Then Trent puts his hips to work. The rhythm draws a sound out of Ted that he didn’t know was possible. It’s low and continuous; Ted is a mess and he’s loving every second of it. He forgot sex could be like this, rough and fierce. Trent nails his prostate again and every nerve ending sings in response. Ted’s not that religious but maybe Trent is an angel, what with how he’s playing Ted’s body like a harp.
“You’re so good at this,” Ted pants, never able to not give credit where it’s due, “I must have left the manual to my body lying around cause you definitely have read it.”
Trent wraps himself over Ted’s back, sliding a hand around for Ted to fuck into his fist. Trent’s teeth scrape the tender skin right below Ted’s ear and that’s it, Ted’s coming. Trent is not far behind him, hips losing their rhythm a little as he chases his orgasm.
Trent pulls out, slow and steady. Ted slumps on the bed, taking his time to turn over while Trent disposes of the condom and goes to the bathroom to wash his hands. He comes back, climbing back into bed so they can lazily tangle their limbs together. Ted idly plays with Trent’s hair. It’s as lucious as he imagined. Trent is watching him with hooded eyes, contentment written across his face. And yet, despite the fantastic orgasms they’ve just had, there’s still an inquisitive glint in Trent’s eye.
"What?"
Trent averts his gaze, not embarrassed per say but perhaps feeling that the next words out of his mouth might be. "Oh nothing, I just thought you might be the type to say good game after all this. Great hustle out there."
"Good game," Ted deadpans, barely managing to keep the smile off his face, "great hustle out there Trent."
Trent makes a show of rolling his eyes.
“You want me to slap you on the ass to round this whole thing out too?” Ted asks, “does me telling you to hit the showers do it for you?”
“If it were anyone else, no,” Trent replies, leaning forward to place a sweet kiss at the corner of Ted’s mouth. “I won’t stay if that’s alright, I have an publisher’s meeting in the morning, which if I’m late to, my agent will, for lack of a better term, lose her shit and decapitate me.”
“Well, I quite like your head where it is, so that’s probably best. You need me to call you a cab?”
Trent shakes his head, getting to his feet and retrieving his clothes from where they’re scattered on the floor.
“You don’t happen to have a pen do you?” Trent asks, once he’s redressed, though Ted is pleased to note he hasn’t buttoned up his shirt all the way, a tasteful amount of chest hair on display.
Ted retrieves a pen from the bedside drawer, tossing it over to Trent who catches it with one hand. Ted whistles.
“Good reflexes, there a hidden jock side to you I should know about?”
Trent is bent over the other bedside cabinet, scribbling something on the back of a card.
“That’s a story for next time.”
“Next time huh?”
Trent hands Ted back the pen, along with a small eggshell white business card. His own, it turns out, embossed black letters spelling out TRENT CRIMM, THE INDEPENDENT, along with various ways to contact him. On the back is a newly written phone number.
“My mobile, or as you would say cell, in case you’d like a repeat performance. Off the record, of course.”
Ted grins. “Well Trent, I just might take you up on that.”