Chapter Text
Ted stood on the sideline, one hand resting on his hip, the other shading his eyes from the late afternoon sun. The field was alive with motion—kids darting after the ball like bees around a hive, laughter mixing with shouts and sneakers scuffing the grass. He spotted Henry, number 7, weaving through the other players with that same scrappy determination he used to have when building Lego sets.
"Make the pass, Henry!" Ted called out, his voice warm but firm.
Henry didn’t. Instead, he cut to his right, left one defender behind, and fired the ball straight into the net.
The sideline erupted with cheers. Henry’s teammates swarmed him, their arms thrown around each other in a messy, joyful celebration. Ted clapped, a proud smile on his face. But it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He let out a quiet sigh.
The game wrapped up not long after. Kids grabbed their water bottles and scattered toward their parents, the golden hour light casting long shadows across the parking lot. Ted walked beside Henry in comfortable silence, the keys to the car jangling in his pocket.
Henry waved goodbye to a friend, and then it was just the two of them, the world falling quiet around their steps.
"Hey, bud," Ted said, his tone casual but not without weight. "Can I ask you something?”
Henry shrugged, stuffing his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. “Sure.”
"Back there," Ted began, gently, "when I hollered for that extra pass—why didn’t you make it?"
Henry let out a sigh of his own, the kind only a twelve-year-old can produce—half patience, half exasperation. “Because, Dad… they’re not good. If I pass it, we probably don’t score and we would lose.”
Ted nodded slowly, he know Henry was right. He watched his son develop his skills and become the best player on the team, he doesn't even know where all that talent came from, it certainly wasn't his. But Henry was really good, not that he could go around telling everyone about this without having parents yelling at him, since he's the coach.
"Look," he said finally, "I ain’t gonna say you’re wrong. You played a great game, and heck, I’m proud of you. But this isn’t just about scoring goals, is it? It’s about bein’ part of a team. About trust. Letting everybody get their hands—or, you know, feet—on the ball."
Henry looked down at the pavement, kicking a loose pebble.
"If no one else gets to play for real," Ted continued, softer now, "how’re they ever gonna get better? And what’s a win worth if we’re not bringing folks along with us?"
They reached the car. Ted unlocked it, but neither moved to get in.
Henry looked up. “I just don’t wanna lose.”
Ted gave a small, thoughtful smile. “I get that. But sometimes, it’s not about losing. Sometimes it’s about learning how to win the right way.”
Henry didn’t say anything, just nodded slowly, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance.
Ted ruffled his hair. “Let’s head home. You can teach me how to do that celebration dance of yours. I gotta up my game.”
Henry grinned, and for a moment, the silence between them felt lighter.
They got in the car, the engine humming softly as they pulled out of the lot. Ted took the long way to Michelle’s house, not because of traffic, but because it gave him a few more minutes with his boy. The streets were quiet, bathed in the fading gold of a Kansas evening. They didn’t talk much—just a few remarks about the game, a joke or two—but Ted was okay with that.
They pulled into Michelle’s driveway. Henry unbuckled quickly, already gathering his backpack from the back seat.
“Love you, kid,” Ted said, watching him.
“Love you too, Dad,” Henry replied over his shoulder, then jogged to the front door.
Michelle opened it before he could knock. She smiled, waved at Ted. He waved back.
“You wanna come in?” she called.
“Nah, I’m good,” Ted said with a small grin. “Just gonna head on home.”
“Alright. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
He waited a few seconds after the door shut, staring at the front porch, then shifted the car into reverse and pulled away.
The house greeted him the way it always did lately: still, dim, and too quiet. He closed the door behind him and stood in the entryway for a moment, keys dangling from his hand. No laughter from upstairs, no music from the kitchen, just nothing.
Ted had always been okay being alone. Or at least, he thought he was.
He hadn't planned for this part—how empty it would feel coming back to Kansas. He came for Henry. That part still made sense. But he hadn’t counted on how grown up his son had gotten, how much of his life now existed apart from Ted—school, sleepovers, soccer, friends. Henry had roots here. Ted, it seemed, had left his back in London.
He walked through the house, each room familiar and somehow foreign. A couple of boxes still sat unopened in the corner of the living room—things from Michelle’s garage, and from his flat in Richmond. His AFC Richmond mug was in there somewhere. Probably a few books Beard had slipped in without asking.
He missed Beard. Missed the late-night talks and even the long silences that came with shared understanding. He missed Higgins and Keeley, even Roy’s grunta. Missed the locker room smell and the tap of boots on tile.
He missed Rebecca.
He rubbed his chest absently, a spot just above his heart, as if trying to smooth out the sudden tightness there.
The panic attacks had come back not long after he got back to Kansas. Slower at first, like distant thunder. But some nights, they hit him like a freight train. He tried to manage them—breathing exercises, grounding techniques. Sometimes they worked. Sometimes they didn’t.
Tonight, he felt it lurking. Not a full storm, but the pressure building.
He walked to the fridge and pulled out a frozen meal. Chicken pot pie, or something like it. He tossed it in the microwave without much thought and headed to the bathroom to shower.
The steam helped a little. Always did. A hot shower was one of his only remaining rituals, the kind that made the world feel just a bit more manageable.
After, he changed into an old t-shirt and sweats. The microwave beeped from the other room. The sound echoed in the stillness.
Ted hated the silence.
He moved through the house with a practiced ease, every step a distraction. He took the meal out, poked at it. Barely warm in the middle. Back in it went. The microwave hummed again, a lonely kind of sound.
Then, his phone rang.
He grabbed it off the counter, grateful for the interruption, for anything.
“I swear, if I have to sit through one more meeting where a man in a too-tight suit explains to me what ‘long-term investment’ means, I am going to scream, Ted. I’m serious. I nearly launched my laptop across the fucking boardroom.”
Ted blinked. A slow smile started to spread across his face. He leaned against the counter, the microwave still humming behind him.
“Evenin’ to you too, Rebecca.”
“Ugh,” she groaned, not acknowledging the greeting. “And then , just when I thought I could escape, I get a call from Higgins telling me that our new women’s team coach has once again managed to lose the locker room in under six weeks. Six! Can you believe that?”
Ted let her go on, his smile widening with each word. There was something deeply comforting about the way she barreled through her frustrations. She didn’t even know what it did to him, how much lighter the air felt just hearing her voice.
He waited until she paused for a breath
“So this would be…” He did the mental math, “What, coach number four?”
There was a beat of silence.
“ Yes, ” she finally admitted, dragging the word out. “Don’t you dare say a word.”
“I wouldn't dream of it,” Ted said, though the grin in his voice betrayed him.
Rebecca sighed, the frustration seeping out of her now, replaced with that familiar undercurrent of weariness. “I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”
“You’re not doin’ anything wrong,” Ted said gently, his voice softer now. “People are messy. Leading a team—especially a new one—that ain’t ever a straight line.”
She didn’t reply right away, but he could hear her breathing slow a little on the other end. The worst of the storm had passed.
Truth was, Ted lived for these calls.
When he’d first left, they hadn’t kept in touch. Not really. No late-night texts, no long-distance calls. Just… silence. He’d told himself it didn’t matter. That it was natural. That they weren’t in each other’s lives anymore, not in the daily, routine way that mattered.
But then, one night—after a particularly brutal panic attack, the kind that leaves you shaking and hollow—he’d texted her. Just three words: How ya doing?
He’d been too drained to talk himself out of it. And to his surprise, she had answered. And from there, slowly, they started checking in. First every few weeks. Then more. Then came the day he’d accidentally pocket-dialed her. He was with Henry at the grocery store, and it was Henry who heard a muffled voice coming from Ted’s back pocket.
When he pulled the phone out and saw the call in progress, her voice echoing faintly from the speaker, his knees nearly buckled.
It was the first time he’d heard her voice in a year. (He may have been avoiding watching Richmond’s press conferences or any interview for that matter)
And he’d almost cried.
Now, they texted regularly. They called sometimes—when she was excited, or stressed. Just like tonight.
“You still there?” Rebecca asked now, her voice quieter.
“Still here.” In Kansas, away from you, all of you…
Rebecca let out a long breath on the other end. “Thanks for letting me rant. I know it’s not exactly thrilling to listen to me complain about football politics.”
“I dunno,” Ted said, shifting his weight and glancing toward the microwave. “Kinda miss it, to be honest. The chaos, the drama, the very British sighs of disappointment.”
That earned a soft laugh from her. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t contribute to a few of those.”
“Well, yeah, but I did it with biscuits. That softens the blow.”
A pause hung between them, filled with everything they weren’t saying. Then Rebecca broke it.
“So… how was your day?”
Ted’s brows lifted. “You want to hear about a game—uh…match—with a bunch of twelve-year-olds?”
“I’m desperate for a change of topic,” she said.
“Henry scored a goal, which I guess shouldn’t surprise me anymore, but the way he moves… I swear, it’s like watchin’ someone twice his age out there.”
“Sounds like you have your own Jamie Tartt over there,” Rebecca said, encouraging him to go on.
He hesitated, then added, “Y’know, the other day, Henry told me he need to figure out a celebration for when he goes pro”
“Of course he said that,” she said grinning
“Yeah, I told him—”
“Ted, I’m so sorry,” she interrupted, voice suddenly flustered, hurried. “I’ve got to go. Matthijs just got here,”
Ted blinked, caught off guard by how fast it turned. “Oh—right, sure.”
She didn’t offer more. Didn’t explain. She didn’t need to. And he didn’t ask, even though he wanted to. The name still landed like a cold stone in his chest.
He’d found out she was dating someone from a photo Keeley had posted—champagne, smiles, Rebecca with her hand on some tall, bald guy’s arm. He’d stared at it longer than he should’ve. Told himself he didn’t mind. That it made sense. She didn’t owe him anything.
Especially after they’d stopped talking. After he’d left.
But still.
“Okay,” he said, trying not to sound as deflated as he suddenly felt. “Well, tell him I said hi.” He winced at himself. Why would he say that?
“I will,” she said brightly. And then, “Talk soon, Ted.”
The call ended before he could reply. Just a click. Then nothing.
Ted stood there, still holding the phone to his ear, listening to the dead silence on the other end. Slowly, he lowered it.
The microwave beeped behind him, almost as if it, too, was reminding him he was alone.
He stared at the blank wall across the kitchen, then at the frozen meal now fully cooked, sitting in its plastic tray behind the glass.
The house was quiet again. Too quiet.
He took a deep breath and released it, shaky, through his nose.
He didn’t move at first.
Just stood there in the dim kitchen, the only light coming from the microwave’s pale glow, casting his shadow long against the floor. The beeping had stopped, but the silence afterward felt louder somehow, like it was pressing in on him from all sides.
He finally pulled the meal out, set it on the counter, and stared at it without appetite. The smell was vaguely like chicken, vaguely like cardboard. He grabbed a fork anyway, because that’s what he was supposed to do—keep moving, keep going, keep functioning.
That was the thing, Ted still got up every morning. He packed Henry’s lunch. Drove him to school. Showed up to soccer practice with a whistle around his neck and a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. He laughed at the kids’ jokes. Gave them pep talks. Called out drills like he used to in Richmond. Most of the other parents thought he was doing great.
And that was the point, wasn’t it? That he could look fine. That he could be the version of himself everyone expected. The cheerful coach. The loving dad. The guy who made people feel a little lighter when he walked into a room.
But nobody saw him when he walked back out.
Nobody saw him pull into his driveway and sit in the car a few extra minutes just to delay stepping inside an empty house. Or how he sometimes forgot to eat dinner until it was too late, and then just didn’t bother. Or how he’d wake up at 3:17 a.m. sharp, nearly every night, with his heart pounding like he’d run a marathon in his sleep. He’d lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to breathe past the knot in his chest.
Sometimes he turned the TV on, kept it at a low volume. Just to hear voices. Just to fill the space. But even that didn’t always help. The quiet wasn’t just outside—it was inside him too, spreading wider every day.
Ted poked at the food, took a bite. It was hot now, burned the roof of his mouth a little. He didn’t care.
Talking to Beard and Rebecca helped, but then they would hang up, and Ted would remember again that he was alone.
He missed Jamie’s swagger, even though he’s better with it now. He missed Sam’s optimism. Roy’s growl. Keeley’s spark. Hugging gags, Even Nate, in his own awkward way, after everything he did.
But most of all, he missed who he was when he was with them. The man he was at Richmond. The man who believed people could change and grow and heal, not that he didn’t believe that anymore, but it was hard to believe in something when he’s sinking in his own mind. He’d built something there. Found something. And then he’d walked away from it.
Because that’s what you do when you’re a father. You put your child first. Always.
And Ted didn’t regret that. Not really. Henry needed him. That was clear. Henry still looked to him, still asked the hard questions on car rides home, still wanted bedtime stories sometimes, even if he pretended otherwise.
Ted would’ve done it all over again just to be near his son.
But some days… some nights, like this one, he wondered if he’d given up too much of himself. If there’d be anything left to give by the time Henry stopped needing him.
He pushed the tray away and stood, walking toward the living room. The couch still had a folded blanket on it from when he’d fallen asleep watching an old Western a few nights ago. He didn’t even remember which one. They all blurred together now.
He sat, the old cushions creaking under his weight, and picked up the remote. Scrolled through endless rows of thumbnails—comedies, dramas, things he used to like. Nothing looked worth the energy. He set the remote down.
The silence filled the space again.
But this time it felt like grief. The slow, daily kind. The kind you carry, not because you want to, but because somewhere deep down, you believe it’s the price of love. Of being a good dad. Of doing what’s right, even when it costs you everything else.
***
Rebecca ended the call, the screen going dark in her hand. For a second, she just stood there, the hum of the fridge and the faint clinking of dishes grounding her in the moment.
Then she turned, catching sight of Matthijs entering the kitchen from the hallway.
“Rebecca,” he greeted warmly, his Dutch accent wrapping around the syllables. “Hello, my darling.”
He greets her with a kiss on her temple as he reaches the bench she was sitting on.
“Hi. You made it.”
“Of course I did,” he said with a tired smile, shrugging out of his coat. “Thought you’d be sleeping by now,”
Rebecca shook her head lightly, her hand drifting toward the wine glass on the counter. “Not a chance. I had a full day and needed something to remedy it,” she said, lifting the glass slightly before taking a sip. “This seemed like the most civilized option.”
Matthijs smiled, stepping closer and eyeing the bottle. “That bad?” He reached for a second glass from the shelf.
She gave a soft laugh. “Football politics and corporate stubbornness are a hell of a cocktail.”
“I thought I heard you talking when I walked in,” he said casually, pouring himself a glass. “Was that Keeley? Did she land that client she’s been chasing for weeks now?”
Rebecca hesitated for a beat, then shook her head. “It wasn’t Keeley, actually. It was Ted.” She kept her tone even, easy. “He says hi.”
Matthijs paused briefly, then gave a small nod, his expression unreadable. “Ah. That’s nice.” He didn’t ask anything else, didn’t comment on it. Instead, he took a sip of his wine and settled onto a stool. “Jelka nearly set fire to the boat yesterday,” he said, tone shifting, lighter.
Rebecca raised an eyebrow. “Should I be concerned?”
“She tried to make stroopwafels from scratch. It went fine until it didn't,” He chuckled, shaking his head. “But she was proud of them in the end. Made me eat three, nearly choked.”
Rebecca offered a grin and leaned her elbow on the counter, sipping slowly. “Sounds like she’s got your stubborn streak.”
He didn’t argue that.
They talked a bit more about their days, then Matthijs stood, stretching slightly. “I’m going to head up and shower.”
Rebecca gave a small nod but caught his eye before he turned to go. “Are we still on for dinner tomorrow night?” she asked, trying to sound casual, light. It was a date they’d been meaning to go on for weeks, something always seemed to come up.
He winced—just a flicker, but it was enough. “Shit, I meant to tell you. I’ve got to fly out tomorrow. Berlin turnaround.”
“Oh,” she said, forcing a smile. “Right.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” he added quickly, stepping back toward her, cupping her shoulder with one hand. “Something nice next week. Maybe Paris? Hmm?”
Rebecca nodded, her smile still fixed in place. “Sure. Of course. Just let me know.”
He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “Won’t be long,” he said, then disappeared up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps fading with each step.
He disappeared upstairs, the sound of his footsteps fading slowly down the hall. Rebecca stayed where she was, alone again in the kitchen, her fingers wrapped around the stem of her glass.
She took another sip—this one deeper than the last—and stared at the place on the floor where his bag had been, just minutes earlier.
Then she exhaled quietly, set her glass down, and reached for the cork.
She slid the cork back into the bottle, slowly, almost absentmindedly. The clink of glass on granite echoed a little too loudly in the quiet kitchen.
This is what dating Matthijs is , she thought, resting both hands on the counter and staring at the bottle like it might offer a better answer. Different schedules. Late flights. Cancelled dinners.
And that was fine. That was expected. He was a pilot, after all. He had a daughter. A life that didn’t orbit around hers.
And that’s okay. Right? She’s okay with that. She doesn't need someone here every night. She has her own life.
They were adults. Independent. They gave each other space. Which was healthy. Supposedly.
Since Ted left—nearly two years ago now—so much had changed.
The early months were the hardest—she remembered waking up and feeling like something had been carved out of her chest. Like part of the world had gone out of focus.
She hadn’t spoken to him in… God. Had it really been over a year?
Matthijs came into her life, right after Ted left, like a slow tide—steady, charming, undemanding. He never tried to replace anything or anyone. He just… existed alongside her. She liked that. Needed that, maybe.
And Richmond was thriving. The men’s team had stayed solid, even after the loss of their coach. They’d fought their way through tough matches, scraped out wins when it counted. The women’s team had finally become a reality, and despite the messiness, the pressure, the constant fixing and finessing—it was hers. Her project. Her pride. It wasn't something she inherited from her divorce from Rupert, it was entirely hers.
Her friends were still close. Present. Even Ted, eventually, returned contact with her. First time was a message that was suspiciously late—his time—for him to be sending. Then he accidentally called her. God, she was not prepared for the reaction she would have hearing his voice after almost a year. It was like finding water in the desert. Now they're okay, in contact, constantly.
So she's fine. She's doing fine. Better than fine., actually. She built something strong around her.
And yet…
Why does it still feel like something’s missing?
She told herself it wasn’t about Ted. It couldn’t still be about Ted.
Yes, it had been awful when he left. And yes, the not talking afterward—that had been harder than she’d expected. People had noticed. They would avoid talking about Ted around her. The smile that didn’t quite reach. The way she sat too long in her car after getting home.
But that had passed.
Hadn’t it?