#rebecca welton I am so sorry but i know you’d hate her

[coachbeards]

when rebecca told keeley that Jack was lovebombing her ,,, but was like. Nooo Leslie Jane is just adorable!!! She lurks outside and has stalked keeley and all these other things <33

[professortennant]

Ok, how about Rebecca consoling Ted after the team loses a big game?

For a moment, just a moment, she--along with the rest of the AFC Richmond crowd--had thought they had pulled off a miracle, a Cinderella story that the press would be talking about for ages. Relegated only to win a Championship League final in the very next year, a team with a vengeance and a coach with a chip on his shoulder.

He hid it well, Rebecca thought. But now that she knew he hated being underestimated, counted out before the match even begun, she had seen a real change in him. She’d asked Beard about the change during a training session she was observing, the sun and blue sky too tempting to not go out for a bit. Ted was running right alongside his players, yelling words of encouragement and correction in equal measure. 

“I think he’s realized he’s not in Kansas anymore.” A beat of silence and then, “And I think he wants to prove himself to y--everyone.”

She hummed in acknowledgment and watched as Ted blew his whistle, jogging to midfield, and animatedly demonstrating the run he wanted for his players. It seemed now that the team was on the same page, it was time to put the real work in.

But Lady Fate had other plans for AFC Richmond this evening, a night that should have been victory. A dirty tackle on Richard left him with a torn ACL, lifted off the field on a stretcher, a drizzle of rain made for less-than-ideal field conditions, and a series of simple turnover errors had left the team in disarray and confusion. It was over before it could start. 

In the locker room, she watched as Ted tried to cheer his team up, noting that third place didn’t mean they were down and out for the Premier League, that they just had to work a little bit harder for a little bit longer. But even Ted’s heart seemed to be a little bit broken, a little disappointed. 

“Ah hell, who am I kiddin’? This flat out stinks. I really wanted this for you boys, I really did. Maybe I let y’all get ahead of yourselves. Let myself get ahead of myself,” he amended, eyes flicking down to his Nikes. “And I’m sorry for that. I should have kept you focused on tonight’s game. We can’t help injuries and field conditions, but we can control energy and the fundamentals. We were sloppy tonight. That team wasn’t better than us. I know it. Y’all know it.” He sighed, looking around the room. “We are going to be promoted this season, fellas. But tonight: Be sad, be disappointed, be angry. Be whatever you gotta be tonight to light a fire under your butts because we are gonna work that much harder starting tomorrow morning.” He nodded his head at each of them before turning on his heels, shoulders hunched inward, leaving his players behind and Coach Beard to wrap up the evening. 

Rebecca frowned, following him into his office, shutting the door with a soft click. It had become custom for her to join the team--win or lose--in the locker room, his words from so many months ago still ringing warmly in her ears. You liven up the place.

But this was not the Ted Lasso she was accustomed to seeing: not angry, not encouraging, not blissfully optimistic. Just wilted. Disappointed. 

He looked up at her from his slumped position in his chair, a small, tired smile on his face. “Hey, boss,” he sighed, rubbing his hands over his eyes and through his hair, ruffling it and making it stand up. “Not our best showing.”

She stood in front of him, hip leaning on his desk, as she considered him. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” she teases. “There were some real lowlights last season. You yelling like a maniac about stopping the clock comes to mind.”

“Yeah, well, I still think it’s a stupid rule. Why keep the clock running when no one’s playing? Don’t make a lick of sense to me."

“You know what doesn’t make a lick of sense to me?,” she prompted, earning a delighted look from him for using his own phrase as a segue. She tilted her head towards the locker room where she could see players milling about, heading for the showers or crowding around Coach Beard and his whiteboard. “That speech out there wasn’t exactly the Ted Lasso motivational speech I’ve come to expect.”

He groaned and quite suddenly lurched forward, forehead smacking the desk with a loud thunk. She acted without thinking, hands immediately going to the back of his head, fingers sliding through the thick hair, rubbing his head. “Ted! What the bloody hell?”

“‘m fine,” he said, voice muffled against a stack of papers, still facedown. She laughed, relieved to know he hadn’t completely lost his marbles, and tugged gently on his hair, encouraging him to sit up.

Instead, he groaned appreciatively in a way that made her heart pound double time in her chest, fingers hesitating in their movement. She went to withdraw her hand but he turned his head to face her, the movement entangling her hands further. 

She looked down at him, eyebrow arched. “Did you turn into a canine while I wasn’t looking?”

He panted at her playfully, a small, half-hearted woof escaping his mouth. “New deal boss: You keep doing what you’re doing and I’ll tell ya the God’s honest truth.”

“You’d tell me the God’s honest truth regardless of my petting, but go on,” she conceded. It was living out a harmless fantasy, she told herself. It wasn’t her fault his hair always looked as it did: perfectly coiffed and styled until it wasn’t, strands falling into his eyes, causing him to develop a new tic of running his hands through his hair, flipping it back into place. It had been maddening to watch and she was self-aware enough to acknowledge the urge to run her own fingers through his hair weren’t platonic in the least (the other images and fantasies accompanying the urge were definitely not to be explored in a packed locker room). 

He grinned lazily up at her as she continued stroking his hair, nails scratching ever so slightly at his scalp, causing him to stutter as he spoke, eyes falling closed. “I let them down,” he confesses softly. “I let them get ahead of themselves, horse before the cart, counted those damn chickens before the eggs hatched. I let them think this one was in the bag--didn’t stop ‘em from goofin’ around at practice--training, whatever. I let them down.”

His eyes flickered open, peering up at her, sorrowful. “I let you down.”

Her hands tightened in his hair reflexively. “Me? Ted, how could you let me down? You’ve done everything I’ve asked of you.” 

“I told you we’d win the whole fucking thing,” he reminded her. “Close but no cigar.”

"I never thought you’d be one to throw pity parties, Ted Lasso,” she reminded him, tugging at his hair once more before sliding her hand down to his shoulder and pulling, encouraging him to sit up. He did so, exaggerating the motion as if every movement cost him something. She bit back a smile.

He swiveled in his chair and it was only then she realized the position they were in: him in the chair, legs splayed while she stood between them, leaning back against the desk. Her cheeks flushed warm and she shook her head slightly, clearing the fantasy from between her ears.

She reached down to take his hand in hers, squeezing slightly. He clung back, fingers wiggling between hers so they were interlocked. She forgot sometimes that he was as desperate to touch as she was to be touched. 

“You did promise me you’d win the whole fucking thing. But I don’t recall a timestamp on that promise,” she reminded him. “And this is not over, Ted, not by a long shot. We have one more chance to make it to the Premier League for next season. The season is not yet over, Coach. And I don’t want your players--our players--thinking it is, either. We have work to do and I need you pushing every single one of those men to believe in themselves and this team the way that I believe in you.”

The words came earnestly but awkwardly, a year of walls and shields and a lifetime of British distaste for sincerity and emotions making the speech stilted. It certainly wasn’t a patented Ted Lasso speech, but she thought it a rather good Rebecca Welton.

Ted was looking at her with something akin to awe, mouth parted and eyes bright and gleaming. 

“Rebecca?” he asked, voice low, standing from his seat, still holding her hand. With him standing and her leaning against his desk, he towered over her ever so slightly, just enough that she had to look up to him. “I would really, really like to kiss you right now, if that’s alright.”

She blinked at him for a moment, mind racing, before giving a single, jerky nod. The moment she indicated her consent, he was there, fingers disentangling from hers so he had both hands free to cup her face on either side, cradling her gently as his lips pressed softly, quickly to hers. The combination of the warmth of his lips, the tickle of his mustache, and the sudden shift in action had her gasping into the kiss, her hands steadying themselves on his hips, clutching at one of his ridiculous jumpers, kissing him back as insistently as he was kissing her.

And then it was over.

But Ted kept his hands on either side of her face, thumbs stroking over the soft curve of her cheek, his forehead pressed to hers. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time now, but, uh, never seemed like the right time.”

“And now was the right time?,” she asked breathlessly, her own fingers and thumbs making abstract geometric shapes along his hips and sides, tracing the lines of him.

He pulled back, grinning, and she was delighted to see that his eyes were once again gleaming with the positive, radiant, sunshine force she had come to associate with him. 

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good pep talk.”