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Published:
2022-02-21
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2022-03-11
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6,589
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2/2
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i fell in love with a war (and nobody told me it ended)

Summary:

Rebecca might have fired George Cartrick and hired Ted, but that doesn't mean the team was ready for such a sudden change. Isaac grapples with the way both coaches impacted him.

Notes:

Title from "Pearl" by Mitski, but also titled: I project onto Isaac McAdoo for 3k words. Rated M for language and descriptions of verbal abuse and panic attacks, and a trigger warning for *accidental* self-harm that I have explained in the end notes if you need clarification.

Chapter 1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

Isaac had played for a lot of shit managers by the time he was at Richmond, but the older he got and the worse the team played, the less he was able to ignore the constant yelling, and the less he enjoyed the game that he’d dedicated his life to.

The air in the locker room was heavy with anticipation as the players filed in, muddy and disheveled and discouraged. They spread out along the benches, some sticking close together but most sitting alone, hunched shoulders and furrowed brows.

Cartrick stormed into the room like a man possessed, beet red and hair wild from the rain and wind on the pitch. Everyone in the room held their breath, waiting for the outpouring of vitriol.

Isaac held himself very still in his spot in the corner, eyes down and hands gripping the bench as tightly as he could so that he didn’t fidget with his kit.

“What the fuck kind of playing was that?!” Cartrick bellowed, turning around to look at each of the players like he was searching for someone to blame. Isaac could see from the corner of his eye the way that everyone avoided eye contact, some shuffling their feet or tapping their hands on their thighs.

“Bunch of goddamn pussies! Acting like you don’t have a fucking clue what you’re doing. Letting the other team walk all over you. Do you even want to fucking play? I should have just told the league all my players are fucking pansies so they shouldn’t bother adding us to the schedule.” Cartrick circled the room, waving his arms and leaning in to scream at the downturned heads. Isaac clenched every muscle in his body to avoid pulling away when the coach passed him, praying he wouldn’t be singled out.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” Cartrick said finally, throwing up his hands and retreating into the manager’s office. The kitman started nervously walking around and offering water and towels to the players.

“Fucking Christ.” Kent muttered under his breath, and the team glanced over at him.

Before anyone could speak, Tartt was on his feet, right in Kent’s face. “Oh, you think this isn’t all your fault, old man? If you hadn’t fumbled that last pass, we wouldn’t be losing.”

Kent stood to meet him, inches apart, and suddenly they were both snarling insults that increased in vulgarity until they were shoving each other, and Isaac was running forward to help get between them before someone started throwing punches. The volume in the locker room rose to a chaotic din as players were shouting, and Isaac could hear his own voice in the mix, but he wasn’t sure what he was saying.

Eventually, a few assistant managers stepped in, and everyone moved apart, looking at each other with simmering distrust.

Kent had stormed off somewhere and Tartt was flopped out in the corner, carefully fixing his hair. Isaac could see his fingers shaking where he was sweeping flyaways under his headband, but he didn’t say anything.

He looked over at Colin, who was re-lacing his boots with practiced movements. He walked over and sat next to him. Colin glanced up and offered him a smile that was betrayed by the haunted look in his eyes. “What’s up, boyo?”

Isaac offered a grunt in response, knocking their shoulders together.

Colin’s smile softened into something a little more real at the edges. “Gaffer’s really on one today, isn’t he?”

Isaac nodded. His brain felt fuzzy, like he’d been in the sun too long and couldn’t form a coherent thought, and there was a rock in his stomach that hadn’t been there before the game.

They sat like that, backs against the lockers, as the assistant managers attempted to talk the team through the plan for the second half, scribbling set pieces on the white board while the team sat mostly quietly. Given how much of it he retained, Isaac suspected that nobody on the team had really been listening, so he figured it would be a miracle if the next half of the match went any better than the first.

After the unsurprising loss and another round of screaming from Cartrick, Isaac showered as quickly as possible and left Nelson Road without saying anything to the other players. In the carpark, Colin caught his arm and offered him a beer at his place, but Isaac just shook his head and shook off Colin’s hand. He couldn’t bring himself to look up at the hurt expression he knew he would find on Colin’s face, and in his car, he pressed his forehead to the steering wheel and prayed for his racing mind and pounding heart to slow.

He drove home and poured himself a drink to bury the painful weight still resting in his gut. The liquid burned his throat and he struggled to swallow around the tightness there. When the glass was empty, he rinsed it out and sat in his darkened kitchen wrestling with the nauseating feeling that his bones were too big for his body. His thoughts were a terrifying tangle that he couldn’t begin to sort out, but over the rest of it, he could hear Cartrick’s voice and feel his presence like he had somehow appeared in Isaac’s kitchen.

After some unknown time had passed, the desire to crawl out of his own skin became too unbearable to ignore and he was surprised to feel a guttural scream ripping through his throat. He picked up the glass from the drying rack and flung it across the room where it shattered against a wall. His head was spinning, his vision blurred at the edges, and he barely felt his hands opening the cupboard and picking out another glass to smash against the wall. Another, and then another. He slammed the next against the countertop and it broke in his hand, glass skittering across the marble and catching the light of a streetlamp outside. He felt wetness on his hand, and when he lifted it up, he was startled to find a large shard of crystal still clenched in his fist, blood welling up and spilling down his wrist. The sharp sting bloomed suddenly in his palm, and he took a shuddering inhale. Like waking from a dream, he felt the warmth of the blood and the way his heart was pattering too fast in his chest. He noticed his ragged, shallow breaths and the tears that had slipped down his cheeks. He uncurled his fingers from around the glass and hissed at the pain and the fresh flow of blood from the cuts. On instinct, he moved to the sink and ran his hand under the tap, carefully removing the glass and putting it in the basin. When he felt mostly sure there was no glass left in the cut, he turned off the water and wrapped a clean dish towel around the still bleeding wound. His brain felt clearer, but he was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion. He gave a cursory glance to the floor below him for glass, then sank down to rest against the cabinets, head tilted back, and hand still pressed into the wound. He briefly considered getting up to clean, but the thought slipped away too quickly, and a heavy blanket of exhaustion pulled him into a dreamless sleep.

***

Lasso, by all accounts, was a much better manager than Cartrick. He seemed to genuinely care about all of the players, no matter how well they played. He didn’t scream at them when they lost, or when they messed up a drill in practice, or ever, really. Even Roy seemed to like him, and that was apparently enough to prompt the ex-Chelsea legend to start acting like a real captain, looking after the younger players and offering more advice to the team. Isaac was cautiously optimistic that Lasso was actually a nice enough guy and a decent manager.

He was surprised, though, that Lasso had pulled Jamie off the field during a match just because he was being a right twat for the hundredth time, and he felt a little admiration for the courage that must have taken.

Jamie, unsurprisingly, disagreed, and when he walked into the locker room the next day, had announced quite loudly to O’Brian that he was hurt and couldn’t practice. The rest of the team exchanged a few raised eyebrows at the sudden injury, but no one questioned him further.

Most of the team was dressed and ready to head onto the pitch, with the notable exception of Jamie, when Lasso came striding out of his office, the door swinging behind him.

The particular swing of his arms and the way he came to a stop in front of Jamie sent a trickle of fear down Isaac’s spine.

He started laying into Jamie about practice and how he was letting his team down, while the rest of the team watched in a slightly shocked silence as their normally mild-mannered coach displayed a distinctly less gentle side. Jamie was smirking at first, but the expression hardened into annoyance and discomfort after a minute.

Everything Lasso said was fair, and there was a part of Isaac that was glad Jamie was getting called out. But there was another part of Isaac that opened up that pit in his stomach that he had thought was closed, and it was like he had slid through time, and it was another day with a coach that cared about the league rankings and a paycheck and not a lot else. He was watching Cartrick scream at Roy that he was weak for letting his knee keep him off the pitch for a day, after a bad fall that had even the great Roy Kent holding back tears. He was watching Colin trembling violently in the driver’s seat of his ridiculous car after Cartrick berated the team for a mistake that everyone knew was Colin’s. He was watching Jamie with that same camera-ready smirk on his face when Cartrick was in his face for something stupid, putting on a performance that would have won him an Oscar. And he was watching Jamie come out of the showers after that tongue-lashing, eyes red and swollen and body curled around himself and looking impossibly young.

Isaac stepped back as his brain snapped back into place, the rough tone of Lasso’s words carving lines in the space behind his rib cage. He was glad he was standing behind the gaffer, so he couldn’t see his face, but he could imagine it, the tightness and the way his jaw would clench, and his teeth would flash behind curled lips, the wild look in his eyes. Isaac was still as stone, his chest and stomach aching, hands wrapped in the fabric of his shorts. He dared to glance at the others, some of whom seemed satisfied at seeing their trouble-making teammate in their place, and some who looked the way he remembered them looking around Cartrick. All of them seemed surprised at Lasso’s behavior.

Everyone laughed a little when Lasso finished his rant and told Jamie to set up the cones, sweeping back into the office with that same heavy gait that hinted at a barely contained aggression. Isaac felt his brain come back online again and shook his head in surprise at Colin.

Jamie tried to pass off the task on Colin, and Isaac snapped back at him. A familiar anger welled up under his skin, anger that Jamie might have woken up that familiar coach’s anger in Lasso, ruining the stability that had started to settle over the club. Colin echoed his sentiment, and the team left Jamie still sitting in the locker room.

On the pitch, Lasso acted like nothing had happened, although he kept glancing across the field where the reserves were practicing with Beard.

Despite his best efforts, Isaac couldn’t focus for the rest of the day. He felt like he was draped in sandbags, unable to move with his usual agility, and at one point, he knocked Colin flat on his back when he failed to move around him quickly enough.

“Isaac!” Lasso called from the side of the pitch. “What’s up today, son?” He jogged over to where Isaac had stopped after hauling Colin back onto his feet.

“You look like you’re playing with concrete shoes.” Lasso tilted his head to the side, concern on his face and in his voice.

Isaac nodded. “Sorry, Coach. I’ll fix it.” He glared at the grass, flicking his gaze up to meet Lasso’s for only a moment before the anxiety dragged his eyes back down to the muddy ground.

“Right, okay then.” Lasso said. “If there’s nothing wrong, I’ll let you get back to it then.”

Isaac nodded again, watching Lasso’s back as he walked away. He tamped down on the deep discomfort running throughout his body and tried to continue training like normal.

He wasn’t surprised that he failed at the task, and Lasso noticed.

After training, he rushed to shower and change as quickly as he could manage, but before he could slip out the door, he heard Lasso’s voice calling him into the office.

His heart climbed into his throat as he shuffled into the office, where the coach was sitting alone. He gestured for Isaac to sit in Beard’s chair, which Isaac did. He also popped up to shut the door, which sent Isaac’s stomach

He gritted his teeth in preparation for the shouting that he knew was coming, tucking his hands under his thighs to keep them still.

When the silence lingered, he glanced up at Lasso. The man was watching him quietly, a curious expression on his face.

“How was your day, Isaac?”

Isaac tried not to show any emotion on his face. “Was fine, Coach.”

Coach hummed a little in acknowledgement.

“I know I haven’t been here too long, but I’d really like for you boys to trust me enough to come to me if you need something.” He looked at Isaac like he wanted Isaac to tell him something, but Isaac couldn’t fathom what.

“Sure, Coach.” He replied. He wondered what kind of game Lasso was playing.

“Are you sure there’s nothing I can help you with?” Lasso asked.

“No.” Isaac said shortly. He wished Lasso would stop beating around the bush and just yell if he was going to yell.

“Hmm. Well, alright. Have a good night then, Isaac.”

Isaac looked up sharply, searching Lasso’s face for some explanation.

“What?”

Lasso raised both brows, tilting his head. “What?”

Isaac felt his equilibrium tipping, like standing on a boat that was shaken by crashing waves. “I– well, uh…” He stopped suddenly. If Lasso wasn’t going to yell, he might as well get the hell out before he changed his mind.

“Never mind.” He stood quickly to leave, but Lasso reached out and touched his shoulder.

“Whoa, whoa, Isaac, c’mon man. You seemed like you had something you wanted to say, and I’d love to hear it.”

Isaac looked at Lasso suspiciously, but there was nothing on his face except that strange inquisitiveness.

Isaac worked his jaw, thinking. After a moment, he squinted at Lasso and asked, “Why didn’t you yell at me?”

Surprise unfurled across Lasso’s face, and he blinked slowly. “Well, Isaac, why would I do that?”

Isaac hesitated. “You yelled at Jamie.” He shrugged. “Coaches yell.”

Something changed in Lasso’s face, and he frowned. “I’m not going to yell at you for having an off practice. That’s not gonna help you play better, and it’s not gonna make you feel better.”

Isaac didn’t argue with that, but the rising confusion made his head swim.

Lasso glanced around the room, studying the posters on the walls. Isaac waited, still standing halfway to the door but waiting to see what he would say.

“I yelled at Jamie because I didn’t know how to get through to him.” Lasso said finally. “Maybe it wasn’t the right choice.” He looked at Isaac.

“Nothing we haven’t heard before,” Isaac offered.

For some reason, that only made Lasso frown more. “Doesn’t mean I should have said it like that.” He held Isaac’s gaze as he continued. “I really don’t intend to be the kind of coach that yells to make his team feel bad. I want to help you become the best players and the best people you can be. I apologize if I didn’t do that today.”

Isaac could only nod, more than a little overwhelmed. “Um, thanks, Coach.” He glanced toward the door, and Lasso laughed a little.

“Go on, have a good night, Isaac.”

Isaac nodded his acknowledgement and made his way out of the clubhouse as quickly as possible. The car park was empty, thankfully, so he didn’t have to explain his late exit to anyone.

He felt dizzy and distracted on his drive home, and by the time he pulled into his driveway, he just wanted to lie down. Grabbing his bag from the passenger side, he walked up to the door and fumbled with his keys for a minute before he found the right one and made his way inside. He turned to secure the lock, but before he knew what had happened, he was on his knees on the tiled floor.

He looked at the strong oak of the door in front of him as he tried to stand, but his limbs were liquid, and he could do little more than stay where he was, stomach heavy with fear. His heart was drumming again at that breakneck pace, like he was in the middle of a close match, and his breathing matched it. He tasted his own tears and heard the ragged sobs that tore through his own throat. He gripped his knees until his hands ached with the effort. He wept like a child, and he would have been ashamed but there was nothing to feel except the all-encompassing agony of whatever had just happened.

He cried until his breath came only in weak gasps, and his body trembled with exhaustion. He tried again to stand and found the feat difficult but manageable, walking on wobbly legs to his sofa. He laid down on the plush cushions, using the collar of his shirt to dry his face.

The fear and discomfort had faded, leaving behind a hollowness and a blessed quiet in his brain.

He hoped Lasso didn’t think he didn’t like him or didn’t trust him. Everything Lasso did went against what Isaac expected of a coach. But Isaac liked it. He liked the way the team was now, how they seemed to like each other, like when he played as a kid before he got scouted and it was about the love of football and being with his mates.

He hoped Lasso meant what he said. He hoped he wasn’t playing games. He hoped the moment with Jamie wasn’t the first in a pattern. He hoped that Richmond wouldn't get relegated. He hoped that Lasso was able to do everything he said he wanted to, about making the players into the best people they could be.

He hoped Cartrick fell into the Thames and fucking drowned.

Notes:

Notes on TW: Isaac has an anxiety attack and throws a couple of glasses and accidentally cuts his hand. I don't consider this intentional SH, he doesn't mean to hurt himself, but there's a pretty graphic description, and I think that necessitates a warning.

Thanks for reading! This is a personal vent fic, because I had a hard time watching the scene in “Two Aces” where Ted yells at Jamie. He needed a kick in the pants, but it reminded me of some emotionally abusive coaches I’ve known, and I wanted to explore how the other players might have felt.

Also, I love Isaac. I think he doesn’t get nearly enough credit, and I hope I did him justice.

Constructive criticism is welcome, this is my first fic lol.

Chapter 2

Summary:

The appearance of “Led Tasso” confuses the team, and specifically, Isaac. He deals with that as best as he can.

Notes:

Wasn’t originally going to write a second chapter, but I am very attached to this character and I wanted a backstory for his plotline in s2e5. Also, most people found Led Tasso funny but it kinda stressed me out and I once again chose to project my feelings onto Isaac.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

In Isaac’s opinion, the sudden return of Jamie to the team went about as well as anyone could have hoped.

He credited the general surprise of everyone on the pitch with the lack of punches thrown on that first day. Everyone looked a little off-balance for the rest of training, but the collective decision to ignore him kept the distraction to a minimum. It was only the second day, when Jamie decided to address the team, that things started to really fall apart.

His apology seemed genuine enough, but Isaac wasn’t interested in listening to someone who had held a starring role in their relegation and whose absence had seemingly done so much good for the culture of the team.

Isaac wasn’t under any delusions that he himself had been a great teammate prior to Lasso’s arrival in Richmond. He had done things he wasn’t proud of in order to fit into the culture already in place. That was what he knew, the jostling and power plays of performative masculinity that upheld the hierarchy of every team he’d been on since he was a kid. With Jamie gone and Lasso running the show, it became easier to look at that and realize what was so wrong with it.

Now, though, he was a captain. He needed to lead the team. He needed to look out for them. And now the one person who could ruin all of their progress was standing in front of them, looking thoroughly overwhelmed while his former teammates shouted at him.

Isaac felt the swirl of anger in his chest growing stronger to match the chorus of voices explaining in detail the many ways Jamie had treated them like shit. Half the team was on their feet, and Isaac was about to join them when Ted stepped in to quiet everyone down and send them out to training.

The skepticism and animosity lingered for the rest of the day anyway, and the scrimmage with the reserves landed Jamie on the grass over and over until Lasso finally called for the end of training. Isaac could only laugh as he watched Sam muss Jamie’s hair and snap something clever at him. He felt a rush of pride for Sam for sticking up for himself this time around.

Still, he couldn’t bury the confusion and suspicion he felt toward Lasso for bringing the young player back after everything. He watched from his locker as the coaches appeared to be in deep discussion in their office.

He puzzled over why they would have brought him back. After everything he did at Richmond and everything he said about them after going back to Manchester, it couldn’t have been more obvious that Jamie didn’t deserve to be there with the rest of them. Lasso generally didn’t get too worked up over their performance in matches, so Isaac figured that bringing him back just for his talent seemed unlikely.

The picture of him in the pub with Lasso had been nothing, according to Sam, and yet here Jamie was, and Lasso had that concerned look on his face, and Isaac couldn’t fucking stand it.

He showered and drove home and ate and slept with a cloud of discontent following him, and by the time he made it to the clubhouse the next day, he was itching for a normal day of training where he could throw himself into work and wash away all the uncertainty.

Stretching on the pitch with the others, he was unprepared for the sight of Lasso walking onto the pitch only to immediately upend the table with the water cooler, startling Will.

That wasn’t quite the “normal” Isaac was hoping for from the manager, and he cursed internally.

The team turned as a group to watch in confused silence as their mild-mannered coach started kicking the loose balls haphazardly. One of them sailed into the stunned group, forcing them to duck before looking back at the man with astonishment as he started yelling nonsensically.

Isaac didn’t like the strange tone Lasso had adopted, and his movements, jerky and tight, spoke of restrained aggression. He knew from experience that “listen and don’t talk back” was the smart move, so he kept his head down and tried to ignore the familiar discomfort rising in his stomach.

The other coaches stayed on the side of the pitch, just watching as Lasso ran drills, growling and pacing. Isaac watched them in turn, wondering why they were acting like nothing was wrong when everything was.

Everyone was on edge from the baffling 180 that their manager had done, so it was no surprise when Bumbercatch eventually fumbled the ball. What was surprising was the rambling speech that Lasso launched into, picking up the ball to demonstrate his nonsensical hypotheticals.

Isaac felt like he was trapped in a fever dream, listening to Lasso’s voice dripping with a kind of anger and condescension that sounded so wrong in his funny American accent. Nothing he could think of would explain the unthinkable change, and he wondered if maybe this was all some ill-timed joke.

Everyone had been so silent all of training, quiet and lost and uncomfortable, and Isaac felt the sharp pull to look after his team.

This was stupid, he thought to himself. If someone would just fucking say something, everything would snap back to normal and Lasso would turn back into the man they all trusted.

“You want to be married to a ball?!” The man formerly known as Ted Lasso asked.

When he offered up that question, which in retrospect was probably rhetorical, Isaac almost laughed. It had to be a joke. “No,” he scoffed.

He wasn’t at all prepared for the way Lasso rushed into his space, leaning into him, demanding that he repeat himself.

The momentary certainty that everything would be fine drained out of him, and he pulled away, a pang of discomfort in his stomach at the creased, hardened expression on Lasso’s face. When Lasso assigned them laps as punishment, he protested, a part of him still certain that the coach he knew wouldn’t go on a power trip like this, but he was only met with the further absurdity of “a thousand laps,” and Isaac felt his agitation harden into something darker.

They ran until even the fastest players were dragging their feet and gasping for breath. As he ran, legs burning, Isaac tried to chase down his racing thoughts. There was something terribly wrong. Everything Lasso had done that day was in direct conflict with what he had said and done for the year they had known him. He didn’t yell because someone messed up, he didn’t lecture, and he didn’t use any kind of exercise as punishment. It was like they had all stepped into the Twilight Zone, and there was no way back.

He couldn’t even muster the energy to be angry at Jamie when the younger player popped up at his left elbow, puffing along beside him without saying anything. There wasn’t enough to spare for him.

When Lasso finally directed them back into the drills, Isaac was still turning the thoughts over in his head, searching for some explanation that would let him step back onto solid ground.

Of course, there was one last move for Lasso to make, and he said something that hardened the discontented feelings in Isaac’s gut into a white hot anger.

“Richard! I haven’t seen a pass that soft since my high school drama teacher asked me to mow his lawn.”

The team had no visible reaction to the words, but Isaac suddenly couldn’t breathe. This was the only thing the man could have said that was untenable. The kind of comment that Cartrick made constantly but which Isaac would have considered impossible coming from this coach. The kind of joke that just didn’t need to be made, because Isaac looked across and met Colin’s gaze and watched a glassy emptiness appear there and Isaac wanted to scream. He wanted to shake Colin’s shoulders until that lifeless look left him, and he wanted to scream at Lasso that the locker room had been different without Cartrick there, and those kinds of jokes had all but disappeared. Colin had told him he was thinking about coming out to the team because he trusted them and he trusted Lasso and now Isaac knew that wouldn’t happen, Colin would have retreated all the way back into himself and it was all because of some stupid joke on this stupid day with their coach who had apparently lost his goddamn mind, but then Jamie was speaking.

He was talking back to Lasso, and that didn’t quite make sense, but he was standing up for the team and that was something, wasn’t it? Jamie was saying what none of the team had been brave enough to say, and maybe Jamie had been a prick but he also didn’t let anybody treat him like shit, and the team needed that, apparently. And that was good, because Isaac couldn’t have said any of that if he’d tried.

Lasso responded by ending training then and there, and a chorus of voices and hands offered quiet thanks to Jamie as they left the pitch.

Isaac jogged off the pitch, praying that he could keep himself together long enough to make it off the property.

Who the fuck did Lasso think he was, pulling all of this shit out of nowhere for no reason, he fumed silently. The anger, at least, was safe, easier than the fear and shame. It was a known entity, and that was a welcome replacement for the confusion. He knew how to be angry at his coach. And he was furious.

He considered just leaving the clubhouse and showering at home, but he watched Colin moving like a ghost, eyes unfocused and feet scuffing the floor. He took a deep breath, and then another, and then stripped and showered in the coldest water he could stand, letting the shock bring his head back into his body. The anger settled into a dull thrumming, and he managed to get dressed without looking in on the coaches in their office.

He walked over to Colin and put a hand on his shoulder. “You alright, bruv?”

Colin nodded, still in his kit, staring at his locker with sightless eyes. Isaac sighed and shook him a little. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

Colin nodded again, and this time he actually started fumbling with the clothes in his bag. Isaac sat down on the bench to wait. He caught Jamie’s eye across the room, and gave the other man a single nod of acknowledgement. Jamie offered him a twisted half-smile in return before turning to look in the window at Lasso and Beard.

Isaac kept his gaze far from the coaches, scrolling aimlessly on his phone until Colin tugged the strap of his bag onto his shoulder, looking at Isaac with a practiced neutrality that betrayed nothing of the emotion Isaac knew was right below the surface.

Neither of them spoke as they walked to the carpark, but Isaac bumped Colin’s shoulder to direct them toward his own car. Colin was enough of a hazard in his Lamborghini when he was in a proper head space, and Isaac figured it was easier to drive them both to training in the morning than it would be to pick the Welshman up from the hospital after he inevitably wrapped himself around a tree.

Where Colin might have protested playfully on a normal day, he only climbed into the passenger seat of Isaac’s car, bag in his lap and hands drumming out an anxious rhythm on his knees.

Isaac stayed quiet, the anger slowly rising up in him again as he drove. Conversation between the pair usually consisted of Colin doing the lion’s share of the talking while Isaac listened, so he only needed to wait for the silence to force Colin into filling the empty air.

“Is it just me or was Coach having a weird day?” Colin asked with a forced laugh. “Everything out of his mouth had me wondering if I’d gotten another concussion without noticing.”

Isaac grunted, which Colin recognized as an invitation to continue.

“It was like he was trying to copy a coach he’d seen in a movie? Only he didn’t know what to say so he was just yelling. I mean, I don’t get all his references on a good day.”

Isaac listened to Colin’s rambling, gaze focused carefully on the road and hands wrapped in an iron grip around the steering wheel.

“Right.”

“And he acted like every mistake was some kind of personal insult, which is so out of character. Usually I wonder why he isn’t more upset. I didn’t think we were even playing that poorly.”

He could feel Colin’s eyes on him, expectant. There was an uncomfortable warmth in his chest that was expanding into his throat, making his tongue feel too big for his mouth.

“You think he’ll snap out of it tomorrow?” Colin asked. “Not sure if my legs can take another day like that. We’ll all be too stiff to move at the game this weekend if we run any more laps.” He rubbed his leg thoughtfully as if anticipating the soreness.

“Fucking hell!” Isaac snapped as he finally pulled into Colin’s driveway and turned off the car. He looked at his friend, face pulled into a deep frown.

Colin frowned at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“What do you mean, what? I’m fucking angry! Why aren’t you?” Isaac said.

Colin pulled back slightly. “I mean, just because the gaffer was in a funny mood doesn’t mean anything. He’s not Cartrick.”

Isaac shook his head. “Cartrick was a wanker. And Lasso sounded just like him.”

Colin rolled his eyes. “That’s not true and you know it.”

“Wasn’t it?” Isaac asked.

Colin only sighed. “Look, Isaac, I’m not gonna assume the worst just because Lasso had a weird day. Maybe he’s feeling odd about bringing Jamie back.”

“He should feel weird about that.” Isaac growled.

“You’re more upset about this than I am.” Colin said, but his voice tilted in question.

“Guess so.” Isaac felt himself withdrawing internally, immediately suspicious of the searching way Colin was looking at him. Anger aside, he wasn’t interested in having his own emotions interrogated.

Colin either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because he soldiered on. “You just seem off, alright?” He hesitated. “Do you think you might want to see Dr. Sharon?”

Isaac felt his chest tighten, and his face grew heated. “What the fuck, bruv? I’m fine, I’m just trying to help you!”

That’s what he got for trying to be vulnerable and comforting and shit, he thought to himself. Colin was looking at him like he was fucking worried about him, and everything about this was on it’s head.

“Whatever, mate. Just thought Lasso was out of line. Didn’t want you in your head about it.” Isaac said, clenching and unclenching his jaw. It took everything in him to keep still in his seat, hands back on the wheel like he was itching to drive off as soon as Colin got out.

A hand landed on his shoulder, a solid pressure that softened a little of the tension holding Isaac in place. “Thanks. Might try looking after yourself, too, yeah?” Colin’s voice was soft, and it punched a little hole in Isaac’s chest.

“Right.” He didn’t move as Colin climbed out and went up and let himself into his house, but as soon as the door closed, he pulled away, wheels screeching a little in protest.

His chest felt like he’d stuffed it with cotton, pressing on his lungs and heart and making them work twice as hard to keep him alive. The silence of the car felt oppressive, and he tapped angrily at the radio until something started playing, too loud but better than the sound of his own thoughts.

Directionless, he turned onto random streets and wove his way through London, away from Colin’s house but without a destination. The pressure behind his ribs wouldn’t let up, and he had an itch on the inside of his head like something was clawing to get out. He shook himself, turning onto the motorway and accelerating to merge into the traffic streaking by.

He kept his foot on the gas, a sudden urgency pushing him forward, and he was struck by the desperate desire to crack open his chest to release the swelling that threatened to suffocate him. The only thought he could keep track of was a desire to run. He wondered how far he could get before morning, if he kept driving and didn’t stop, just got on the M1 and followed it north. The recognition he felt at the insanity of the thought quickly gave way to logistical planning. He figured he could make it to the edge of Scotland and then find a boat to get to Norway, and then he could keep going. And people might notice, but that wasn’t really very important. He wasn’t sure what he’d do about his flat and all his shit but he could pay someone else to sort that. His passport was in the glove compartment, and he had a phone and a bank account so he was fine. If he kept moving, the haunting sensation of being chased would go away eventually. He could find somewhere far, far away where he could breath and nobody gave a shit who he was and where he wouldn’t even have to look at a football, much less play.

His nonsense plan was interrupted by the blare of a car horn, and he felt his focus snap back onto the road. He saw the car in front of him slowing and swerving suddenly to avoid a truck that veered out of its lane to nearly strike the other car. Isaac slammed on his own breaks, narrowly avoiding rear-ending the car, cursing wildly as he slowed. He noticed the sharp inhales and heavy drumming of his heart, and the sudden blank static in his head replacing the frantic freight train of thoughts that had him hurtling toward nothing.

The blinking red of the fuel gauge surprised him, and a glance at the time told him he’d managed to get himself almost two hours north without noticing. A sense of shame and faint relief washed through him at the realization that he probably wouldn’t have noticed what he was doing and ended up running out of gas on the road if he hadn’t been shocked out of his head by the other cars.

He pulled off at the nearest exit and got back on the motorway heading south. It was already evening, and he had training in the morning, and he’d have to pick up Colin, assuming he wasn’t mad at Isaac for being a bit of a twat when he’d meant to be acting like a good friend.

He pressed down on the bubbling discomfort and anger that had reappeared in his stomach, uninterested in a repeat of his episode of temporary insanity. He turned off the radio and played something off his phone, letting the familiar songs provide him a modicum of peace.
With his mind actually focused on the task at hand, the drive back into London seemed to drag on for ages, crawling at a snail’s pace in a sea of red taillights. The monotony combined with the adrenaline crash left him struggling to keep his eyes open, but he was nervous enough from the earlier near-collision to get himself home safely despite his exhaustion.

Once he had finished the journey, however, and the last of his strength had drained from his limbs, it was all he could do to get into bed without collapsing in on himself.

The physical strain of the grueling training session made his limbs heavy, and his thoughts fell blessedly silent at the opportunity for sleep. The night passed uninterrupted by dreams, and the gray light of morning spilling across the grass at Nelson Road offered him the calm that had eluded him the day before.

The lingering dread pooling behind his sternum at the sight of his coach, bright-eyed and cheerful as ever, was not worth his attention.

Notes:

Not at all sure if I stuck the landing on that one, but there it is. I am firmly in the “Colin is gay” camp, and that comment Lasso makes is so completely antithetical to the rest of the show. It’s probably silly, but it really bothered me. I also wanted to push Isaac toward more of the anger that we see in his episode where he needs Roy to talk him down, and I think that since he’s been captain for a few months, there might need to be something there beyond the “stress of leadership” when they’re losing. Will I write more about that episode? Who knows, not me!

Anyway. Thanks for reading!