Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

David Harbour as Gregory "Beard" Brown

Theo James as Edward "Ed" Lewis-Brown

PLAYLIST:

1. Birdy – Words

2. London Grammar – If You Wait

3. Jessie Ware – First Time

4. Charli xcx – Official

5. LÉON – Lost Time

6. Jess Glynne – Thursday

7. Des'ree – You Gotta Be

8. Petula Clark – Downtown

9. LÉON – Come Home to Me

10. RAYE – WHERE IS MY HUSBAND!

11. Little Mix – Holiday

12. Jessie Ware – You & I (Forever)

13. Charli xcx – forever

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fanfiction based on the Apple TV+ series Ted Lasso. All rights to the original show, characters, and settings belong to their respective creators and copyright holders.

Coach Beard's characterization has been expanded and reworked for this story. Edward Lewis-Brown is an original character created by me.

Chapter Text

Rebecca Welton sits behind her desk like a queen surveying a kingdom she's determined to burn to the ground, methodically, elegantly, and with impeccable posture. The morning light streaming through the windows of her Nelson Road Stadium office catches the sharp angles of her face as she stares at the financial report on her screen. Her jaw tightens. The numbers are... fine. Better than fine. Irritatingly fine.

She's still hellbent on running this football club. The one trophy from her divorce she actually wanted to destroy, straight into the earth. But someone, somewhere, keeps making that difficult.

Higgins stands by the window, tablet clutched to his chest like a shield, doing that thing where he's present but trying to take up as little space as possible. He's been bracing for this conversation since he printed the quarterly projections.

Rebecca's voice cuts through the silence, sharp as good crystal. "Explain to me, Higgins, how we are still under budget."

"Well, uh–" Higgins shifts his weight from foot to foot. "Our CFO is rather good at... creative accounting." He adds quickly, seeing her expression darken, "Legal creative accounting, to be clear. Very legal. Extraordinarily legal, actually. He's quite efficient."

"Efficient." Rebecca's laugh is brittle. She reaches for one of Ted's biscuits, the ones that arrive every morning in that pink box, another small invasion of relentless optimism into her carefully cultivated misery. "Brilliant. Handsome. Bloody irritating."

She bites into the biscuit with more force than strictly necessary, then pauses. Her eyes close briefly. "God, this is good..."

The biscuit makes her angrier, somehow. Everything that works when it should fail makes her angrier.

Higgins seizes the brief softening. "Well, to be fair, Rebecca... you did personally select him. Out of all the other candidates. You interviewed him yourself."

Rebecca sets down the biscuit and stands, smoothing her skirt with sharp, precise movements. "That was before I knew there was an actual brain behind that face." She crosses to the window, heels clicking against the floor with the rhythm of someone mentally calculating revenge. "I thought I was hiring a decorative distraction at best. Someone to look competent in meetings while the club quietly hemorrhaged money."

Below, on the training pitch, groundskeepers are busy with equipment that looks suspiciously new and well-maintained. Evidence of proper resource allocation. Another invisible efficiency, courtesy of a man she's never seen arrive late or leave early, who somehow makes every pound stretch further than it should.

Behind her, Higgins opens his mouth, then closes it. He's learned when Rebecca needs to vent and when she needs actual responses.

Rebecca lifts her teacup, proper tea, in proper china, because some standards must be maintained even in a planned demolition, and takes a sip. She stares out at the pitch, at Ted Lasso gesturing enthusiastically at Beard, who nods once and adjusts his cap.

"A man that handsome shouldn't be allowed to be smart," she says finally, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who's been personally affronted by the universe. "It doesn't make sense. It's not fair." She pauses. "Though he does sound like a robot."

"A very efficient robot." Higgins offers carefully.

"Yes. Thank you, Higgins. That's very helpful."

"I could... speak to him? About perhaps being less good at his job?"

Rebecca turns, and for a moment Higgins thinks he's pushed too far. Then her mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but not quite not one either.

"No," she says, setting down her teacup with a decisive click. "No, let him keep juggling his spreadsheets and his cost-benefit analyses. Let him keep making my sabotage inconveniently difficult." She returns to her desk, settling back into her chair with the air of someone accepting a challenge. "Everyone has a breaking point, Higgins. Even robots."

"Yes, Rebecca."

"That will be all."

Higgins nods and edges toward the door, tablet still pressed to his chest. As he reaches for the handle, Rebecca speaks again without looking up from her screen.

"Higgins?"

"Yes?"

"These biscuits really are extraordinary."

"Shall I tell Ted you said so?"

"Absolutely not."

The door closes softly behind him. Rebecca takes another bite of biscuit, pulls up the CFO's file on her screen, and frowns at the professional headshot staring back at her handsome, composed, and giving away precisely nothing.

Somewhere, a man she hired to fail is succeeding.

How inconvenient.

Six months earlier…

Beard sits on the front steps of Ted's house, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the contact that still just says "Ed" even though it should probably say "Husband" or at least have a heart emoji like Michelle keeps suggesting everyone do. The Kansas night is warm, crickets singing their endless song, and inside he can hear Ted laughing at something on TV. That big, generous laugh that made Beard say yes to this absurd job offer in the first place.

Managing a football team. In England. In a sport neither of them has ever coached professionally.

It's the kind of idea that's either brilliant or catastrophic, and Beard has always been comfortable in that space between the two.

He presses call.

The phone rings four times. Beard counts them. He always counts.

It's been a while since they spoke. The visits used to be monthly, five days together, three weeks apart, a rhythm they could survive on. But then a month became two. Two became three. The phone calls got shorter. The silences got longer. The warmth that used to flood through him at the sound of Ed's voice has been fading, replaced by something that feels like grief for a thing that isn't dead yet but might be dying.

Nearly four years of this.

Four years of loving someone across an ocean, across time zones, across the growing distance that has nothing to do with miles.

Maybe it's true, what everyone says. Maybe long-distance marriages just don't work. Maybe they're about to become another statistic, another story about people who tried and failed. If either of them said the words "I think we're done" the other would follow through. Beard knows this. They're both too practical, too honest, too tired to drag it out.

But neither has said it yet.

They're dancing around it, this ending. Dancing slowly, sadly, waiting for someone to call it done.

On the fifth ring, Ed picks up.

"Hello?" His voice is rough with sleep, flat in that way it gets, that carefully constructed monotone that most people mistake for disinterest. Beard knows better. Beard knows it means Ed is protecting himself.

"Hey, Ed." Beard keeps his own voice soft. "I know it's late for you, but... how are you?"

There's a pause. Beard can picture Ed sitting up in bed, running a hand through his hair, trying to orient himself. Their flat, Ed's flat, really, Beard hasn't lived there in so long, will be dark except for the streetlight that comes through the bedroom window. Ed never remembers to close the curtains.

"...I'm good." Another pause, longer this time. "How are you, Greg?"

Greg.

Beard smiles despite everything, despite the distance and the lateness and the slow death of them. Ted knows his real name, of course, from the beginning, but respects that Greg is private, intimate, reserved for people who've earned it. Ted calls him Beard like everyone else, meeting him where he's comfortable.

But when Ed says it, it sounds precious.

"I'm great," Beard says, and realizes he means it, at least in this moment. "Listen, something happened today. Ted got a job offer. In England."

"England."

"Yeah. To manage a football team. Soccer team. AFC Richmond. They're in the Premier League."

"I know who Richmond is." There's something in Ed's voice now, not quite emotion but the shape of it. "I've seen them play."

"Right. Of course." Beard huffs a small laugh. "Well, Ted asked me to come with him. As assistant coach." He takes a breath. "I said yes."

The silence stretches. Beard counts crickets instead of rings this time.

"When?" Ed asks finally.

"Six weeks, maybe less. They want us there for pre-season." Beard shifts on the steps, phone pressed tight to his ear. "Ed, the team's doing a complete reconstruction. New ownership, new management, new everything. They're hiring for all sorts of positions."

"Yeah," Ed says slowly. "I heard about it on the news. Billionaire's wife got the club in a divorce settlement."

"You were laid off, right?" Beard keeps his voice carefully neutral, trying not to sound too hopeful, trying not to make this bigger than it is. "From the firm. A few months ago."

"Three months."

"If you're looking for a new job... maybe you should apply there? They'll need financial people. Someone to handle the budget, contracts, all that."

Another pause. Beard can hear Ed breathing.

"I'll look into it." Ed says.

It's not a no. It's not a yes either, but it's not a no.

The silence settles again, different this time. There's something in it neither of them wants to name yet. Something that might be hope, or might just be the last gasp before drowning.

Beard clears his throat. "Ed... if–when I get there." He corrects himself deliberately, putting intention into it. "You mind if I stay in your apartment?"

"I'd love to have you in my flat." Ed says, and there it is, the smallest hint of warmth, of personality breaking through the careful monotone. That tiny correction, Ed gently fixing Beard's American terminology the way he always does, the way Beard has always secretly loved.

Ed continues, and his voice is softer now, unguarded in the way it only gets at 3 AM when he's too tired to maintain the walls. "Living and working together, huh? Wouldn't that be a dream."

"It sure sounds great." Beard's throat feels tight. He looks up at the Kansas sky, stars scattered like spilled salt. "I love you, Ed."

"I love you too, Greg."

The words sit between them, fragile and true. It's been months since they ended a phone call like this, with "I love yous" instead of "talk laters" or "take cares" or the worst one, "okay then." Months since it felt safe to be this vulnerable, this honest about still wanting this, still wanting them.

Maybe, just maybe, this bizarre job offer in a sport they don't understand, in a country they'll have to navigate together, might save them from this limbo they've been living in.

Maybe distance has been the problem all along, and proximity could be the solution.

Or maybe they're about to spectacularly fail at both football and marriage in a whole new country.

Either way, Beard thinks as he ends the call and sits under the Kansas stars for one more moment, at least they'll finally be failing together.

He stands, pockets his phone, and goes inside to tell Ted he'll need help packing.

Chapter Text

The car park at Nelson Road Stadium is nearly empty this early in the morning, just a few vehicles scattered across the painted lines: Rebecca's sleek black Range Rover, Higgins' sensible sedan, and now Ed's understated Volvo settling into a spot near the entrance. He turns off the ignition and sits for a moment in the sudden quiet, hands still on the steering wheel.

A week ago, the email arrived. Professional, brief, pure Rebecca: "Your physical office space will be ready Monday. Report to reception at 8 AM."

Ed had read it three times, then once more, then looked up from his laptop to where Beard was reading on the other end of their sofa, feet tucked under him, completely absorbed in whatever philosophy text he'd picked up this week.

"I'm getting an office." Ed had said.

Beard had looked up, met his eyes, and smiled, one of those rare, full smiles that Ed has been seeing more of lately. "That's great."

"At the Dog Track."

"Even better."

And it is better. It's significantly better than the couch that's been serving as his office for the past six months, the couch that felt less like a workspace and more like isolation with a laptop. Working remotely sounds ideal until you realize you're talking to spreadsheets all day and your only human interaction is with your husband when he comes home from actual human work, smelling like grass and liniment and the particular energy of twenty footballers and their chaos.

Ed has been over the moon about it, though he'd never use that phrase. Beard had used it for him: "You're over the moon about this." Ed had replied, "I'm pleased," and Beard had kissed his temple and said, "Over the moon," and Ed hadn't corrected him again.

Things have been going well since Beard arrived. Not perfect, they've discovered new things about each other that neither is exactly fond of. Beard leaves books open face-down on every surface, spines cracking. Ed apparently makes a specific face when he's annoyed that Beard describes as "a disappointed headmaster." Beard doesn't believe in making the bed. Ed doesn't believe in leaving dishes in the sink overnight, even for a moment.

But they get over it. They talk about it, adjust, compromise, move forward.

That's what they always wanted during those four years of distance, the mundane friction of actually sharing space. The small negotiations that mean you're building a life together instead of maintaining separate lives that occasionally intersect. This is what marriage is supposed to be: everyday, proximate, real.

Since Beard arrived in London, he's been taking the bus or the Tube to get to Nelson Road. "It helps me get acclimated to the environment," he'd said that first week, lacing up his boots while Ed drank his morning tea.

Ed had looked at him over the rim of his mug. "I believe the word you're looking for is 'adapting.'"

"Is it?"

"'Acclimated' typically refers to physical or environmental adjustment. 'Adapting' is more–"

"I love you," Beard had said, completely derailing Ed's linguistic correction.

"I love you too," Ed had replied, then added, "But the word is still 'adapting.'"

Now Ed opens the car door and steps out into the cool morning air. He's wearing one of his well-cut suits: charcoal grey, perfectly tailored, the kind of outfit that makes him look like exactly what he is, a professional who takes his work seriously. He straightens his jacket, adjusts his tie with precise movements, then reaches into the backseat for the box of belongings.

It's not much. A few books, a framed photo he keeps face-down in the box for now, some proper pens, a coffee mug Beard gave him years ago that says "I'm not arguing, I'm just explaining why I'm right." Ed has never used it, but he's never gotten rid of it either.

He closes the car door with his hip, balances the box against his chest, and heads toward the entrance.

Higgins is already waiting just inside the doors, clutching his ever-present tablet, looking both eager and slightly nervous in that way Higgins has perfected. His face lights up when he sees Ed approaching.

"Edward!" Higgins calls out, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically for this hour. "We've been waiting for you. Shall we?"

Ed nods, shifting the box slightly in his grip. "Thank you, Higgins."

They fall into step together, heading through the corridors Ed has walked before but never frequently, usually just for the occasional in-person meeting Rebecca demands, the quarterly reviews, the budget emergencies that require face-to-face crisis management. He knows the way to Rebecca's office. He's been there before, stood in front of her massive desk while she asked pointed questions about expenditures and efficiency and whether certain coaches really needed to order that much tactical equipment.

He's never told her one of those coaches is his husband.

The stadium is quiet this morning, the usual bustle of match days and training sessions reduced to the low hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of someone hoovering in one of the executive boxes. Their footsteps echo slightly in the corridor.

Higgins glances sideways at Ed, then at the box. "Settling in today, then?"

"That's the plan."

"It's a good office. Nice view of the pitch. Well, a view of the pitch. Whether it's nice depends on how the match is going, I suppose." Higgins laughs at his own joke, then clears his throat when Ed doesn't join in. "Right. Well. Rebecca's expecting us."

They reach the door to Rebecca's office. Higgins pauses, hand on the handle, and turns to Ed with something like solidarity in his expression.

"Welcome aboard, Edward," he says quietly. "Properly aboard, I mean. It'll be good to have you here in person."

Ed nods once. "Thank you."

Higgins opens the door.

"Ah, Ed, come in!"

Rebecca's voice carries that particular brightness she uses when she's being professionally welcoming, warm on the surface, with something sharper underneath. She stands behind her desk, perfectly put together as always, and gestures toward the seating area.

Ed steps into the office, box still balanced in his arms, and takes in the scene. Rebecca he knows, of course, six months of remote work, video calls, and the occasional terse email about budget allocations. But there's someone else here, a woman with blonde hair and an impossibly bright smile who practically radiates enthusiasm.

"Ed, this is Keeley Jones," Rebecca says. "Our PR and marketing director."

"Hiya!" Keeley bounces slightly as she extends her hand. "Keeley Jones. So nice to finally meet you in person!"

Ed shifts the box to shake her hand, his grip firm but brief. "Edward Lewis-Brown."

He recognizes the name, of course. Knows exactly what she does, has seen every marketing proposal and budget request that crosses his desk. They've never actually interacted directly, everything has always been filtered through Rebecca herself. Marketing consistently requests the highest budgets, and if Ed is being honest, he has feelings about that. Strong feelings. Spreadsheet-supported feelings.

But the marketing plans have worked exactly as they were supposed to. The club's profile has risen, ticket sales have improved, merchandise revenue is up. Keeley seems to know what she's doing, even if her budget requests make Ed's eye twitch slightly.

He won't argue with results.

"Please, sit," Rebecca says, gesturing to one of the chairs across from her desk.

Ed sets the box carefully on the floor beside him and takes a seat, back straight, hands folded in his lap. Professional. Composed. Giving away nothing.

Rebecca settles back into her own chair, fingers steepled. "Welcome. I know you've been wrangling numbers from afar, but I thought it was time we gave you an actual office here at the stadium." She pauses, and something crosses her face, not quite vulnerability, but close. "Part of our... new commitment to not running this club into the ground."

Ed allows himself a slight smile. These past few months, Rebecca has made several major changes. Shifted from whatever her initial plan was, and Ed isn't naive enough to think there wasn't one, into something that resembles actual ownership. Taking the job seriously. Investing in success rather than sabotaging it.

It's been interesting to watch from a distance. It'll be more interesting to watch from inside the building.

"Thank you," Ed says, his tone even and measured. "I'm excited to be here. It'll be nice to actually meet people instead of just emailing spreadsheets into the void."

"Well, you're off to a good start," Rebecca says, and there's genuine approval in her voice. "Financials are looking better than ever."

"We're doing well." Ed keeps his expression neutral. "No disasters, anyway."

Rebecca leans back slightly, and her professional demeanor slips just enough for something else to show through, something appreciative and thoroughly unprofessional. "It's really nice having a handsome man around who's not covered in dirt and sweat." She pauses, eyes widening slightly as she seems to hear her own words. "I'm sorry. Was that sexual harassment?"

Keeley's eyes go wide, her hand flying to her mouth.

Ed doesn't flinch. His expression remains perfectly flat, perfectly composed. This happens. This has always happened. The looks, the comments, the way people, especially women, but not exclusively, respond to his face like it's public property.

He shrugs, one shoulder rising and falling with practiced dismissiveness. "That's quite alright."

Rebecca looks relieved, though also slightly embarrassed, which is a new look for her. She clears her throat, straightening some papers on her desk that don't need straightening. "Right. Well. Would you like me to introduce you to the rest of the staff? Perhaps the team?"

"I'd love that," Ed says, and means it. "But could I settle into my office first?"

"Of course. Make yourself at home." Rebecca gestures toward Higgins, who's been hovering near the door like an anxious bird. "Higgins will take you there."

Throughout the entire conversation, Keeley has been glancing at Ed with an expression he recognizes, that nagging sense of familiarity, of almost-remembering. Her eyes keep narrowing slightly, her head tilting, like she's trying to place him.

Ed has a sinking feeling he knows exactly where she knows him from, and it's probably one of those weird encounters. There have been several over the years. Charity events, professional conferences, that one very awkward situation at a book launch where someone's wife thought Ed was flirting when he was just standing near the canapés.

He nods once to both women, picks up his box, and follows Higgins out of the office.

The hallway is quiet, their footsteps muffled by institutional carpeting. Higgins leads him across the corridor and down a bit, to a door that's still on the administrative side but definitely on the opposite end from the coaches' offices and the locker rooms.

Not exactly ideal. But Ed is still genuinely pleased.

"Here we are," Higgins says, opening the door with a slight flourish. "Your office, Edward."

It's modest: a desk, a chair, a filing cabinet, a small window that looks out onto a slice of the car park and, if you lean slightly, a corner of the pitch. The walls are blank, waiting for whatever personality Ed might bring to them. There's a new computer monitor on the desk, still wrapped in plastic.

"It's perfect." Ed says, and he means it.

Higgins blinks, clearly surprised. "Oh. Well. Good. I'm glad you think so. I thought you might find it a bit, er, cramped. Or remote. Or–"

"It's an office," Ed says simply, setting his box on the desk. "With a door. And colleagues down the hall. It's significantly better than my sofa."

"Right." Higgins smiles, something genuinely warm in it. "Yes, I suppose it would be. Well. I'll leave you to settle in. If you need anything, my office is just–"

"I know where your office is, Higgins. Thank you."

Higgins nods and backs out, closing the door gently behind him.

Ed stands alone in his new office, surrounded by blank walls and the faint smell of fresh paint, and allows himself a moment of satisfaction.

He's here. Actually here.

Just across the building, not far at all, really, Beard is on the pitch with Ted and the team.

The door closes behind Ed and Higgins, and Rebecca immediately drops the professional facade like a coat she's tired of wearing. She lets out a long breath and leans back in her chair.

"God," she says, fanning herself slightly. "It's impossible to focus. That jawline. That olive skin. Those luscious lips."

"Right?" Keeley says, but she's still staring at the door with that thoughtful expression, wheels clearly turning. Then her face lights up with recognition. "Oh my God... I know him."

Rebecca raises an eyebrow. "Of course you do. You just greeted each other."

"No, I mean before." Keeley leans forward, animated now. "Ages ago. Three or four years ago, at some charity thing in London. One of those posh dos where everyone's networking and pretending the champagne isn't free." She waves her hand, building the story. "We were chatting, bit of flirting, you know how it goes. And then he goes, completely deadpan, like he's commenting on the weather, 'I'm married to a bloke.'"

Rebecca's eyebrows climb higher. "He's gay?"

"That's what he said!" Keeley throws her hands up. "But I don’t believe him. I mean, come on. If you're not interested, just say it. No need to make up a husband. I'm a big girl, I can take no for an answer."

Rebecca laughs, sharp and amused. "If you were a man and you looked like that, would you want to settle down?"

She stands, stretching slightly, and crosses to the window. Below, the team is running drills. Ted is gesturing enthusiastically at something, his hands painting pictures in the air. Beard stands beside him, still and solid, occasionally nodding or pointing. Nate hovers nearby, clipboard clutched to his chest.

Rebecca tilts her head, studying the scene. "Speaking of men," she says thoughtfully, "you reckon Beard is fit?"

Keeley appears beside her at the window, following her gaze. A smirk spreads across her face. "Sure, if you want to be ripped in half. Man's built like he could lift a truck with his bare hands."

"Some people are into that." Rebecca says, her tone deliberately casual.

They both laugh, the sound bright and conspiratorial in the quiet office.

Then Rebecca shakes her head, stepping back from the window with a slightly guilty expression. "We should not be talking about our colleagues this way. It's completely inappropriate."

Keeley grins, unrepentant. "You started it first, babe."

The locker room smells like sweat, grass, and the particular brand of body spray that seems to be universal among professional athletes. The team is in various states of post-training relaxation, some still in their kits, others half-changed, a few sprawled on benches looking pleasantly exhausted. The energy is loose, comfortable, the kind that comes after a good session.

Rebecca enters first, Ed following a half-step behind, and the room doesn't exactly go quiet but the volume drops noticeably. Twenty-three pairs of eyes turn toward them.

Ted looks up from where he's been chatting with Jamie, and his face splits into that trademark thousand-watt grin. "Whoa! Who's that Hugo Boss model you've got there, boss?"

A few of the players laugh. Ed's expression doesn't change, still that careful neutrality, that flat affect that gives away absolutely nothing.

Rebecca gestures toward Ed with the air of someone unveiling a moderately impressive piece of furniture. "Everyone, this is Edward Lewis-Brown. Our CFO. He's the one making sure you all still get paid on time."

Ed nods once, scanning the room with those dark, unreadable eyes. When he speaks, his voice is measured, dry, completely even. "Nice to meet you all. If you ever need anything money-related... please don't. Unless it's important, then definitely find me."

There's a beat of silence, then a ripple of laughter. Isaac grins. Dani looks delighted. Even Roy's mouth twitches slightly.

Ted practically bounces forward, hand extended. "Man, it's great to finally put a face to the name! We've been emailing for months! Thought maybe you were a ghost or a highly trained calculator."

Ed shakes his hand, firm, brief, professional. "Just a regular calculator."

They have corresponded before, mostly about equipment requests and budget approvals. But the strange part is Ted sends encouraging emails that have nothing to do with Ed's actual job. Little messages like "Hope you're having a great day!" or "Thanks for being such a rockstar with those numbers!" or once, inexplicably, "Remember: you're doing amazing, and spreadsheets are just puzzles that pay you!"

Ed thinks it's nice. Weird, but nice. Beard had warned him: "That's just Ted."

Roy Kent leans back against a locker, arms crossed, studying Ed with that intense scowl that seems to be his resting face. "Lewis-Brown," he says, voice gravelly. "What are you, a fuckin' law firm?"

Ted's eyes light up like he's just won the lottery. "Hear that, Coach?" He points at Beard, who's standing near the tactics board, arms crossed, characteristically quiet. "He's got the same last name as you!"

Beard opens his mouth–

"And he's got the same first name as me, just missin' a letter!" Ted continues, clearly delighted by this cosmic coincidence. "Ed and Ted! Ted and Ed! Like a buddy cop show! Though you'd probably be the serious one and I'd be the one who eats too much barbecue at stakeouts."

Ed's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close.

Sam Obisanya sits up straighter, looking between Beard and the tactics board with sudden curiosity. "Wait, what is your real name, Coach? Beard can't be your actual name, right?"

There's a murmur of interest from the team. Several players lean forward slightly. Apparently this is information they've been curious about but too polite or too intimidated to ask.

Beard's expression doesn't change. He says, simply, "Gregory Brown."

The name lands in the room like a stone in still water. Several players exchange glances. Richard mouths "Gregory?" to Isaac, who shrugs.

Sam tilts his head, considering this. "Yeah," he says finally, with the kind of gentle honesty only Sam can pull off. "Glad you go by Coach Beard, man. You should not be called Greg."

A few players laugh in agreement. Beard's expression still doesn't shift, but there might be the ghost of amusement in his eyes.

"Only a few people get to call me Greg," he says, his voice carrying that particular finality that means the subject is closed.

Ed feels the words in his chest. Only a few people. He is one of those people. Has been one of those people for years. The only person, really, who uses that name with any regularity.

Their eyes meet across the locker room: brief, careful, giving away nothing to anyone watching. Just two colleagues acknowledging each other's presence. Beard nods, a tiny dip of his chin. Ed returns it with equal subtlety.

New colleagues. Just getting to know each other.

Rebecca claps her hands once, sharp and commanding. "Alright, back to work! Some of you need showers. All of you need to actually leave this building eventually." She turns, gesturing for Ed to follow. "Edward, let me show you where we keep the coffee that's actually drinkable."

Ed nods to the room at large: professional, distant, appropriate, and follows Rebecca toward the door.

As he passes Beard, their shoulders are close enough that Ed can smell the familiar scent of him: grass, sweat, the particular laundry detergent they use at home, something essentially Beard underneath it all.

Ed keeps walking.

Behind them, the locker room noise picks back up: players returning to conversations, the clatter of boots, someone's music starting up from a phone speaker. Ted's voice rises above it all, still delighted: "Gregory! Man, I'm never gonna get used to that. It's like finding out Batman's real name is Steve."

Beard's response is too quiet for Ed to hear, but he knows that tone. Patient. Amused. Resigned.

Ed follows Rebecca into the corridor, and the door swings shut behind them, cutting off the noise and the warmth and the smell of the locker room. They walk in silence for a moment, their footsteps echoing.

"They're a good group," Rebecca says, and there's something in her voice that wasn't there six months ago. Something like affection. "Bit mad, but good."

"They seem it." Ed says.

"Your office is the other direction, by the way. I'm taking you the long way round so you can see the facilities." She glances at him sideways. "You really don't show much emotion, do you?"

"Not particularly."

"Is it a strategy or just your personality?"

Ed considers this. "Both."

Rebecca makes a small sound, not quite a laugh, but close. "Well. It'll serve you well here. God knows this place has enough drama without adding more to it."

They turn a corner, heading deeper into the administrative wing. Behind them, somewhere in the building, Beard is still in the locker room. Still close enough that if Ed wanted to, he could turn around, walk back, say something.

But he doesn't. They have time now. All the time in the world. That's the whole point of being here.

Their flat is quiet in the way that homes are when the day is winding down: dishes clinking softly, the low hum of the refrigerator, distant traffic from the street below muffled by closed windows. The table is set simply: two plates of pasta with roasted vegetables, a bottle of wine between them, two glasses half-full of red.

Ed cooked. He usually does. Beard can cook, has a few dishes he's mastered through sheer repetition and philosophy, but Ed finds the process meditative. The precision of it, the control, the way following a recipe or improvising within known parameters creates something tangible and good.

Tonight it's nothing fancy. Penne with courgettes, cherry tomatoes, garlic, olive oil. A handful of fresh basil from the plant on their windowsill that Ed has somehow kept alive despite Beard's certainty that all plants die in his presence.

They sit across from each other at their small table, the one that came with the flat and that they've never bothered replacing because it works. It fits them. Two chairs, two place settings, everything they need and nothing they don't.

Beard twirls pasta onto his fork with the focused attention he brings to most tasks. "You like your new office?"

"Yeah." Ed takes a sip of wine, considering. "I get to see the pitch from there. Part of it, anyway. If I lean slightly to the left."

"Good view?"

"Good enough." Ed sets down his glass, fingers tracing the stem absently. "Anyway, now that I also work at the Dog Track..." He pauses, meeting Beard's eyes. "Should we start telling people?"

Beard chews thoughtfully, taking his time before answering. When he does, his voice is measured, careful. "I don't know. It's kind of weird if we tell people we're married just out of nowhere, you know? Like calling a team meeting to announce we share a last name."

Ed's mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close. "Yeah." He pushes a piece of courgette around his plate. "It's just that we're going to be there, together. Every day. Working in the same building." He looks up again, and there's something vulnerable in his expression, something that breaks through the usual flat affect. "I don't want people to get the wrong idea. I don't want them to think we're hiding this, Greg."

Beard sets down his fork. "But it's going to be a thing. Sure you're ready for that?"

"Right." Ed exhales. "They can be a little... extra."

"Understatement."

"Ted alone is going to have questions. Many questions. Possibly in the form of a PowerPoint presentation."

Beard reaches across the table, covering Ed's hand with his own. The gesture is simple, familiar, grounding. His thumb traces across Ed's knuckles, a small comfort they've perfected over years. Only now they get to do it anytime.

"I know we almost lost this," Beard says quietly. "And I know it's going to be easier when everyone just knows. But why not just let them find out themselves? That way it's on them, not us." He squeezes Ed's hand gently. "We're not hiding anything. We're just... not announcing it."

Ed turns his hand over, lacing their fingers together. "You've got a point there, Greg."

Beard's expression softens, just slightly, just enough. "You say my name like you can't wait for people to find out."

He's right. Ed does know that Beard likes it when he says his name. Uses it strategically, sometimes, to persuade Beard toward something he wants. The way "Greg" sounds in his flat British tone does something to Beard's resolve. They both know it.

"I mean, kind of," Ed admits, allowing the smallest smile to touch his lips. "It would be satisfying. Watching them put it together."

"Besides," Beard says, picking up his wine glass, "Ted's going to lose his mind when he finds out."

"He seems very excited about 'Ed and Ted.'"

"He's been workshopping buddy cop scenarios." Beard takes a sip, shaking his head slightly. "Yesterday he pitched one where you're a by-the-book financial analyst and I'm a rogue coach who doesn't play by the rules. He's got the whole thing plotted."

Ed actually laughs, a soft sound, genuine and warm. "Sure sounds like him."

He takes another bite of pasta, chewing thoughtfully. The silence between them is comfortable, lived-in, the kind that doesn't need filling. But after a moment, Ed speaks again.

"How long do you think we have before someone figures it out?"

Beard considers this, head tilted slightly. "Could be months. Could be next week. Could be tomorrow if someone asks the right question."

"What's the right question?"

"'Are you two married?' probably does it."

Ed huffs another small laugh. "Fair."

"Or someone sees us at the grocery store. Or leaving together. Or notices we arrive in the same car." Beard shrugs. "Or Higgins finally mentions it because he assumes everyone already knows."

"Higgins knows?"

"Higgins definitely knows. He reads personnel files like they're novels."

"And he hasn't said anything?"

"He's Higgins. He probably thinks it's not his place to bring up."

Ed nods slowly, processing this. "So we have a secret that at least one person knows, that we're not actively keeping, that will probably come out eventually through completely mundane circumstances."

"Exactly."

"This is the most passive approach to a revelation I've ever been part of."

"It's very us." Beard says, and there's affection in his voice, warmth under the usual reserve.

Ed raises his wine glass slightly. "To passive revelations and modest offices and finally being in the same building."

Beard clinks his glass against Ed's. "To not running into the ground anymore."

"The club or the marriage?"

"Both."

They drink, and Ed feels something settle in his chest, something that's been unsettled for four years, finally finding its place. They're here. Together. Working in the same building, coming home to the same flat, eating dinner across from each other like this is normal and sustainable and theirs.

The marriage that almost ended is having pasta on a Tuesday night.

It's not dramatic. It's not a grand gesture.

It's exactly what they needed.

"This is good," Beard says, gesturing to his plate.

"It's just pasta."

"It's good pasta."

Ed allows himself a full smile this time. "Thank you."

They finish dinner in comfortable silence, occasionally sharing small observations about their day. Ed's new office chair is surprisingly comfortable, Beard thinks one of the players might have a pulled hamstring, they're out of coffee and should probably go to Tesco this week.

Domestic. Ordinary. Perfect.

Later, when they're washing dishes together. Ed washing, Beard drying, another rhythm they've fallen into, Beard speaks without looking up from the plate he's drying.

"I'm glad you're at the Dog Track now."

"Me too."

"Even if your office is on the wrong side of the building."

"It's not that far."

"Far enough that I can't just drop by."

Ed hands him another plate, their fingers brushing. "You could. If you wanted to."

"Might raise questions."

"Thought we weren't hiding anything."

Beard grins, a real one, the kind Ed has been seeing more of lately. "Fair point."

They finish the dishes. Ed wipes down the counters with the methodical precision he brings to everything. Beard folds the dish towel and hangs it on its designated hook because he's learned this matters to Ed, and things that matter to Ed matter to him.

Tomorrow they'll go to work in the same building. They'll nod at each other in hallways like colleagues. They'll maintain appropriate professional distance.

And then they'll come home to this flat, to this table, to each other.

For now, that's enough. More than enough. Everything.

Chapter Text

Ed has, by all accounts, fully integrated into the Dog Track's ecosystem. It's been almost a year now, enough time that his presence in the building feels natural rather than novel, enough time that routines have formed and relationships have developed in their own peculiar ways.

Rebecca is trying desperately to get to know him better. She asks questions over tea in her office, invites him to after-work drinks, comments on his ties, his briefcase, whether he has siblings or plays any sports. Ed answers everything honestly, without evasion or mystery. He is, functionally, an open book. The problem is that Rebecca can't seem to read it very well. His flat delivery and unchanging expression make it impossible to tell if he's being sincere, sarcastic, or simply existing. She finds it both frustrating and oddly compelling.

Ed and Higgins have developed a quiet tea-drinking ritual. Every afternoon around three, they find themselves in one of their offices or the break room, discussing budgets and personnel matters and occasionally the merits of various biscuit brands. Higgins appreciates that Ed doesn't require constant conversation. Ed appreciates that Higgins doesn't pry.

Keeley has become both Ed's greatest challenge and unexpected ally. Every time she bursts into his office, and she always bursts with "Ed, I have an idea!" or "I've been thinking..." Ed visibly cringes. Just slightly. A small tightening around his eyes, a barely perceptible straightening of his spine. Keeley's marketing ideas are genuinely brilliant, creative and bold and exactly what the club needs. But they're also expensive, ambitious, and require Ed to perform financial gymnastics to make the numbers work. Lately, though, she's started taking notes during their meetings, asking questions about cash flow and ROI and how to pitch ideas in ways that won't make Ed's eye twitch. She's learning. Ed finds himself reluctantly impressed.

The players know him now too, not well, but well enough. They wave when he passes through the locker room. Sam always asks how his day is going. Richard once asked for advice about a car loan and actually took it. Isaac nods at him with what might be respect. Jamie called him "Moneybags" once and Ed stared at him with such flat, unimpressed silence that Jamie hasn't tried it again.

It's good. It's working. Ed belongs here now, in this strange little world of a football club that's clawing its way back to relevance.

But today is different.

Ed sits alone at his desk, staring at his computer screen without really seeing it. The spreadsheet in front of him is important, something about equipment allocation and whether they can afford to upgrade the weight room, but his mind is elsewhere.

Today is their fifth wedding anniversary.

Beard had to be at the Dog Track early this morning to help Ted with something. Some crisis or other, some tactical emergency that required both of them and Ted's coffee maker and probably several philosophy texts. Ed had still been sleeping when Beard kissed his forehead and whispered, "See you later. Love you." Ed had mumbled something back, half-conscious, and drifted back to sleep.

Now it's nearly lunchtime and Ed hasn't seen his husband all day on their anniversary. It feels wrong, somehow. Not upsetting, they're adults, they have jobs, this is how life works, but... off.

Ed drums his fingers on his desk. Once. Twice. Then stops because he doesn't fidget.

He's thinking about whether or not he should push through with what he's about to do. It's not planned. It's definitely not professional. It might cause exactly the kind of scene they've been passively avoiding for months.

But it's their anniversary. And they're in the same building. And Ed is, despite appearances, occasionally capable of spontaneity.

He shrugs, a tiny, decisive movement. Ed gets up from his seat, straightens his jacket, and makes his way toward the locker room.

The coaches' office sits further into the locker room, past the showers and the treatment table and the wall of cubbies where players store their lives in small metal compartments. It's actually two sections: the west area where Ted and Beard work, and the east section for Roy and Nate, connected but distinct spaces sharing one entrance from the locker room.

In the front section, Beard is pulling on his jacket, trying to read one more page of the book he's currently absorbed in, something dense and philosophical, as usual. His finger marks his place on the page as he shifts his weight, preparing to leave but not quite ready to abandon the paragraph.

Ted lounges by the door, sipping coffee from his Richmond mug, looking relaxed and content in that way he does when the morning's training has gone well. "Yeah?" he says, responding to something Beard just mentioned. "What's the special occasion?"

"Lunch." Beard says simply, tucking the book into his jacket pocket.

"Just lunch? Or is this one of those fancy lunches where you sit down and everything?"

"It's a sit-down lunch, Coach."

Nate is in his section at his desk, tinkering with tactical notes, occasionally glancing toward the front where Ted and Beard are. He's been more confident lately, more willing to speak up, but he still has that nervous energy that makes him seem like he's waiting for someone to tell him he doesn't belong.

Just a few feet away, in the main locker room, Ed enters through the door that leads from the corridor. A few players are scattered around: Isaac on his phone, Sam and Bumbercatch engaged in some sort of elaborate handshake routine, Dani humming while he retapes his shinpads.

"Ed!" Dani calls out, beaming. "Good afternoon!"

Ed nods. "Afternoon."

"You coming to watch training later?" Sam asks.

"Probably not. Budget meeting."

"Booo," Bumbercatch says, grinning. "Budgets are boring."

"They pay for the facility you're currently standing in." Ed replies flatly.

Ed continues through the locker room toward the coaches' office. His footsteps are steady, measured, betraying nothing. He reaches the doorway and doesn't pause, doesn't announce himself, doesn't knock.

He walks right up to Beard, who's still by his desk, still half-focused on getting his jacket situation sorted and without hesitation, cups Beard's face gently and gives him a soft, familiar peck on the lips.

"Happy anniversary." Ed says, fond and quiet, his hand lingering briefly on Beard's jaw.

Beard blinks, a little startled, not by the kiss itself but by the location, the audience, the sudden publicity of it. But then his expression softens into something warm and real. "Happy anniversary to you too."

Behind them, Ted and Nate have gone completely still.

Ted's coffee mug hovers halfway to his mouth, forgotten. His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open, processing something his brain can't quite compute.

Nate looks like he's having a medical emergency. His eyes are enormous behind, his hands frozen over his tactical notes.

The silence stretches for exactly three seconds.

Then Nate breaks it. "...What?"

Ed turns slightly, acknowledging their presence with the same calm expression. Beard shifts his weight, sliding his hands into his pockets in that way he does when he's bracing for something.

Ted blinks hard, like he's trying to reset his vision. "I'm sorry... did–did y'all just... kiss?"

"Uh, yeah," Beard confirms.

Nate is stammering now, his voice climbing half an octave. "How... long... has... this been going on?"

Ed tilts his head slightly, considering the question with the seriousness it probably doesn't deserve. "Today's our fifth wedding anniversary."

Nate gasps, an actual, audible intake of breath like someone in a period drama who's just learned of a scandal.

Ted slowly rotates in place, a full one-eighty, like a broken Roomba encountering an unexpected obstacle. His brain is visibly trying to process information it doesn't have the software for.

When he turns back, his face has cycled through twelve different emotions and landed on bewildered joy. "First of all," he says, pointing at both of them, "congratulations. That's–that's beautiful. Really. I'm so happy for you both." He pauses. "Second of all, HOW?!"

Beard's mouth twitches in what might be amusement. "Remember seven years ago? Chicago? I told you I was going on a date?"

Ted's eyes narrow, searching his memory banks. "...Yeah?"

Beard gestures at Ed with one hand, casual and matter-of-fact. "This was the guy."

Ed slowly raises his hand in a small wave, like a student confirming his attendance on roll call.

Ted's hands fly to his head, gripping his hair. "You–he–Chicago–seven years?!" He's spiraling now, words tumbling out in incomplete thoughts. "But you never–and he's been here–and the same last name–oh my God, I made a buddy cop joke about your names–"

"You did." Ed confirms.

"I have questions," Ted says, his voice slightly strangled. "A lot of questions. So many questions. There's a list forming. It's getting longer by the second."

Beard adjusts his jacket collar, completely unbothered. "And we have a lunch reservation. We're starving."

Ted immediately softens, his hand going to his heart. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. You go. Happy anniversary, you two. Seriously. Go have a beautiful lunch. Eat something fancy. We'll–" He waves vaguely at the room. "We'll talk later. Or not. Whatever you want. This is your day."

"Thanks, Coach." Beard says.

Ed nods once to the room at large, then to Ted specifically. "Thank you."

They move toward the door together, Beard's hand briefly touching the small of Ed's back as they navigate past Ted. It's a tiny gesture, barely noticeable, but it speaks to years of familiar affection.

The door closes behind them.

For a moment, the coaches' office is completely silent except for the distant sound of players in the locker room and the hum of the fluorescent lights.

Ted and Nate stand frozen, staring at the closed door like it might offer explanations.

Ted's voice comes out low, almost reverent. "Did you know?"

Nate shakes his head slowly, eyes still wide. "Not a clue."

Roy enters the room.

"Why do you two look like you just witnessed an atomic bomb being dropped?"

Nate's voice is hollow, distant. "...It sort of did."

The restaurant is a small Italian place just a ten-minute walk from Nelson Road Stadium, the kind of spot that locals know about but tourists rarely find. White tablecloths, soft lighting, the smell of garlic and fresh bread hanging in the air. It's not overly fancy, but it's nice. Special enough for an anniversary, casual enough that neither of them feels out of place.

They're seated by the window, looking out onto a quiet side street where a few people pass by with shopping bags and takeaway coffees. The lunch rush hasn't quite started yet, so the restaurant is pleasantly uncrowded.

Beard studies the menu with the same focus he brings to tactical formations. Ed already knows what he wants, he always does, has a gift for making decisions quickly and sticking to them, but he waits patiently while Beard considers his options.

When the server comes, they order something more elaborate than their usual fare. Ed gets the seafood risotto. Beard orders osso buco. They share a bottle of red wine that's definitely nicer than what they keep at home, the kind that comes with the server making a small ceremony of presenting the label and pouring a taste for approval.

They talk quietly while they wait, about nothing in particular and everything at once. Ed mentions that Rebecca asked him three separate questions about his weekend plans this morning, clearly fishing for information. Beard describes the new formation Ted wants to try in training, something audacious and possibly brilliant or possibly disastrous. They discuss whether they need to buy a new coffee maker because theirs is making a concerning grinding sound.

It's comfortable. Easy. The kind of conversation that comes from years of knowing each other, of not needing to fill every silence or explain every reference.

Their food arrives eventually, presented with the kind of care that makes even simple dishes look like art. The risotto is creamy and perfectly seasoned. The osso buco falls off the bone. They eat in companionable quiet for a few minutes, occasionally offering each other bites across the table.

Then Beard sets down his fork and looks at Ed with something like amused curiosity. "I didn't expect you to do that."

Ed glances up, swallowing a bite of risotto. "Do what?"

"Letting everyone know."

Ed tilts his head slightly, considering. "Not everyone. Just Ted and Nate."

Beard's mouth quirks in that subtle way that means he's holding back a smile. "Oh, trust me. The dominoes are falling as we speak."

"Probably," Ed admits, taking a sip of wine. He sets the glass down carefully, his fingers tracing the stem. "It was just time to rip off the band-aid. If I've learned anything from working closely with those people, it's that impulsivity is sometimes needed in order to move things forward."

Beard leans back slightly, his expression warming into something fond and slightly mocking. "Touché, Edward."

Ed's face shifts, not quite a grin, but close. There's genuine amusement in his eyes, the kind that rarely shows in public. "Shut up, Gregory."

They both smile then, small and private, the kind of moment that belongs only to them even in a public restaurant.

They finish their lunch slowly, savoring both the food and the rare luxury of an unhurried meal together in the middle of a workday. Beard tells a story about one of the players mistaking a tactical instruction for relationship advice. Ed describes Keeley's latest marketing pitch, which involved the phrase "viral moment strategy" and made Ed's eye twitch for a full minute.

When the bill comes, Ed reaches for it automatically, he always does, but Beard intercepts it with a raised eyebrow.

"Anniversary," Beard says simply.

"We split everything."

"Not today."

Ed concedes with a small nod, and Beard handles the payment while Ed finishes the last of his wine.

They stand, pulling on their jackets in the synchronized way couples develop over time, each anticipating the other's movements, making space without thinking about it. They step out onto the street, back into the cool London afternoon.

Beard glances at Ed as they start walking back toward the stadium. "Ready to face the aftermath of the catastrophe you caused?"

Ed's expression doesn't change, but there's something almost playful in his tone. "Only one way to find out."

They walk side by side, close enough that their shoulders occasionally brush, heading back to Nelson Road and whatever chaos is waiting for them there.

Rebecca's office has that mid-afternoon quality where the light comes in at a slant through the windows, catching dust motes in the air and making everything feel slightly dreamlike. Rebecca sits behind her desk, reviewing a stack of papers with the focused attention she brings to anything involving the club's operations. Numbers, contracts, correspondence, all requiring her signature or approval.

Higgins stands near the tea tray by the window, the familiar ritual of his afternoon tea in progress. He's adding honey to his cup with careful precision, the spoon making soft clinking sounds against the porcelain.

Keeley is sprawled on the couch, legs curled up beneath her, scrolling through her phone with the kind of casual comfort that comes from spending half her life in this office. She's humming softly, occasionally showing Rebecca something on her screen: a funny tweet, a trending topic, someone's terrible fashion choice.

It's peaceful. Routine.

Then the door swings open with enough force to make it bounce slightly on its hinges.

Ted bursts in, flushed and breathless, looking like he's just run a marathon or witnessed something that fundamentally altered his understanding of reality. His hair is slightly mussed, his eyes wide, and he's got that manic energy that means his brain is moving faster than his mouth can keep up.

He windmills his arms, gesturing wildly at nothing and everything. "Did y'all know that Coach Beard and Ed are married?!"

Rebecca doesn't even look up from her papers. A smirk touches her lips, that particular expression she gets when she thinks someone's pulling her leg. "Very funny, Ted. But isn't it a bit early for this sort of wind-up?"

"Rebecca." Ted's voice is strained, urgent. "I'm not joking."

Something in his tone makes her pause. She sets down her pen and finally looks up, really looks at him. Takes in his flushed face, his wide eyes, the way he's practically vibrating with the need to share this information.

Her smirk fades. "You're serious."

"As a heart attack."

Higgins, still standing by the tea tray, takes a calm sip from his cup. "Oh, it's true. I thought everyone already knew?"

The room goes completely silent for exactly one beat.

Then three voices explode simultaneously: "WHAT?!"

Rebecca's papers scatter slightly as she stands. Keeley nearly drops her phone. Ted throws his hands up like he's just been vindicated.

Rebecca stares at Higgins with the expression of someone who's just discovered their entire reality has shifted two feet to the left. "What do you mean it's true?"

Higgins blinks, looking genuinely confused by the confusion. "It's in their files. Personnel records." He sets down his teacup and crosses to the filing cabinet near, pulling open a drawer with practiced ease. "I made a note when Ed was onboarded, just to keep things organized."

He flips through folders with the careful attention of someone who actually reads and maintains proper documentation, muttering to himself. "Let's see... Lewis-Brown, Edward... ah, here we go."

He pulls out a file and opens it, scanning the first page. "Yes. Right here. I made a note the day Ed was onboarded. Says, 'Married to Gregory Brown.'" He looks up, completely matter-of-fact. "Which is Coach Beard."

Rebecca snatches the file from his hands and scans it, her eyes moving rapidly across the page. Her mouth slowly falls open, a physical manifestation of her brain trying to process information it wasn't prepared for.

Keeley appears at her shoulder, leaning in to read, her eyes going progressively wider with each line. "Oh my God."

"Good God," Rebecca breathes, still staring at the file. "I always forgot Beard has an actual name."

Keeley's hands fly to her face. "Oh my God. Why didn't I believe him when he said he was married?" She drops her hands, looking genuinely distressed. "And to Beard? What is happening?! I feel like a twat."

Rebecca is still holding the file, staring at it like it might contain additional shocking revelations. "Well, if it makes you feel better..." She looks up at Keeley, then at Ted, then at Higgins. "We all look like twats."

Ted has collapsed into one of the chairs across from Rebecca's desk, his head in his hands. "I knew I should've followed up after that Chicago date. But it just... slipped my mind." 

Rebecca sets the file down on her desk with a decisive thump. "They've been married this whole time?"

"Five years, I believe." Higgins offers helpfully, reclaiming his teacup.

Ted points at Higgins with both hands. "Yeah. Today is their anniversary, actually. Ask me how I know."

Rebecca closes her eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Jesus Christ."

Beard and Ed walk through the stadium corridors side by side, the familiar route from the main entrance toward the administrative wing. The post-lunch calm has settled over the building, that brief window where training is done, most players have left, and the office staff are deep into their afternoon routines.

"I'll walk you to your office," Beard says.

Ed glances at him. "You don't have to."

"I want to."

There's something in the simplicity of it, the deliberate choice to extend their time together by two more minutes, to walk the long way rather than splitting off at the corridor junction. Ed nods, a small acknowledgment that he appreciates it even if he doesn't need it.

They round the corner near the treatment rooms, moving at an easy pace, when suddenly there's the sound of rapid footsteps and Dani Rojas appears, practically skidding around the corner with the kind of unbridled energy that makes him either delightful or dangerous depending on the context.

"Coach! Ed!" Dani's face is bright with excitement, though there's something else underneath it, anticipation, maybe, or gleeful mischief.

Ed immediately backs away a step, a practiced defensive maneuver. If anyone in this building would accidentally collide with him while navigating these corridors, or anywhere, really. It would be Dani Rojas. The man moves through space like physics is more of a suggestion than a law.

Dani doesn't seem to notice Ed's evasive action. He's too focused on his mission. "You are needed in the press conference room! Everyone is waiting!"

Beard and Ed exchange a look. It's brief, loaded with mutual understanding and resignation.

"I told you," Beard says, his tone somewhere between amused and weary. "Aftermath of the catastrophe."

Ed just shrugs, a tiny lift of his shoulders that communicates acceptance of his fate.

They follow Dani through the corridors, his enthusiastic chatter filling the space. "This is so exciting! Nobody knew!" He gestures wildly with both hands. "It’s a complete surprise! Like a magic trick! Or a plot twist!"

"It's not really a plot twist," Ed says in his flat tone. "We've just been married the entire time."

"That IS the plot twist!" Dani insists, spinning to walk backwards so he can face them while talking, which seems incredibly unsafe but somehow he doesn't crash into anything. "You were here all along and nobody knew! It's like a spy movie!"

"It's really not." Ed says.

"It's exactly like a spy movie." Dani counters with absolute conviction.

They reach the press conference room. The same space where Ted stands in front of reporters after matches, where official club business gets conducted with proper staging and microphones. Dani pushes open the door with a flourish, like he's revealing a surprise party.

Inside, everyone is already there.

And by everyone, Ed means everyone.

The room has been set up like an actual press conference. The players are seated in rows of chairs: Isaac, Jamie, Sam, Bumbercatch, Richard, Jan Maas, and what looks like half the squad. Rebecca sits in the front row, perfectly composed but with that gleam in her eye that means she's deeply invested in whatever's about to happen. Keeley is next to her, practically vibrating with excitement. Ted is off to the side, arms crossed, looking simultaneously amused and slightly guilty. Roy is in the back corner, arms folded, face set in its usual scowl. Nate is hovering near the front, looking nervous but also like he's trying not to smile.

Higgins stands near the table at the front of the room. The same table where Ted usually sits during actual press conferences. There are two chairs behind it. Waiting.

The last domino fell some time ago. Everyone knows now.

The room goes quiet when Beard and Ed enter. All eyes turn toward them. It's not hostile, exactly, but it's definitely anticipatory. Like reporters ready to bombard them with questions, which is almost certainly what's about to happen.

Beard takes it in with his usual unflappable calm. Ed's expression doesn't change from its baseline neutrality, but there's something in the set of his shoulders that suggests he's bracing for impact.

Nate hurries over, gesturing toward the table. "Coach. Ed. If you could just... sit here?" He's trying to be official about it, but his voice cracks slightly with poorly suppressed excitement.

Beard and Ed move to the front of the room and take their seats behind the table, side by side. It's surreal, sitting in the exact positions where Ted normally fields questions about tactics and injuries and match performance, except now they're here to answer questions about their marriage.

Higgins clears his throat, stepping forward with the bearing of someone about to moderate a very important meeting. He's clearly taking this seriously, which somehow makes it more absurd.

"Right then," Higgins says, clasping his hands together. "Thank you both for joining us. I believe there are several questions the staff and team would like to ask." He pauses, adjusting his glasses. "Let's keep this civil, shall we? This is a Q&A session, not an interrogation."

From the back, Roy's voice cuts through: "Speak for yourself."

A ripple of laughter runs through the room.

Higgins nods, unbothered. "Yes. Well. Who would like to start?"

Hands start shooting up immediately, like schoolchildren desperate to be called on. The energy in the room shifts from anticipatory to eager. Everyone wants their moment, their chance to understand this thing that's been hiding in plain sight.

Higgins scans the room, then nods toward Ted, who's already half-standing. "Yes, Ted. Go ahead."

Ted stands fully, clearing his throat with exaggerated formality. "Ted Lasso, head coach." He pauses, and his voice softens, becoming more genuine. "I know I should've followed up on your Chicago date seven years ago, and now I'm probably gonna regret that till my dying breath." He takes a breath. "My question is: when and where did y'all get married? And why wasn't I invited?"

Ed's response is characteristically straightforward. "We got married in Vegas. Courthouse. Two years after that date."

Beard shifts slightly in his chair, his voice quieter. "And we're sorry for not inviting you. It just... wasn't a great time for you."

The words hang in the air. Ted's expression changes, a flicker of recognition, of memory. He knows exactly what period Beard is referring to. The rough patch with Michelle. The arguments that were becoming more frequent. The slow dissolution of his marriage happening in real time while he tried to hold everything together.

Ted nods slowly. "Understandable. Thank you."

He sits back down. There's a brief moment of quiet, a collective acknowledgment of something tender and unspoken.

Then Roy's hand goes up, or rather, he just starts talking without waiting to be called on, because Roy doesn't wait for permission.

"Roy Kent, assistant coach." His voice is gruff, matter-of-fact. "My question's for Ed. Why'd you take Beard's last name but he didn't take yours? Now you're the only one who sounds like a bloody law firm."

Ed tilts his head slightly, considering. "I liked the way it sounded. Felt balanced. And Greg..."

The room erupts with a chorus of "Ooooh, Greg..." Players lean forward, grinning. Keeley actually claps her hands together. Even Rebecca looks delighted.

Ed can't help it, he snorts. Just a little. A brief break in his usual composure.

Beard's expression doesn't change, but there's warmth in his eyes. "I let it slide this time."

Ed continues, unfazed. "Greg has a problem with a guy named Louis. Louis, Lewis, you get the gist."

Several people nod knowingly, as if this explanation makes perfect sense.

Keeley's hand shoots up next, waving enthusiastically. Higgins nods at her.

"Keeley Jones, PR and marketing." She stands, and her usual brightness is tinged with genuine contrition. "Not a question, I just want to apologize to Ed. I'm sorry, I should've believed you when you told me you were married."

Ed's expression softens, barely, but noticeably. "It's alright, Keeley. You're not the first." He pauses. "You might be the first to apologize, though."

Keeley sits back down, looking both relieved and a bit sad about that.

Jamie's hand goes up, though he's already talking before Higgins can acknowledge him. "Jamie Tartt, striker." He flashes a grin. "Also not a question. Just glad Ed's not a player. Otherwise I'd have competition."

There's scattered laughter. Ed just stares at Jamie with that flat, unreadable expression.

"...Thank you, Jamie?"

"You're welcome, mate."

Jan Maas raises his hand with the serious demeanor of someone about to ask something important. Higgins nods at him cautiously.

"Jan Maas, center back." He looks directly at Ed and Beard with complete sincerity. "I would like to follow up on that. Ed, you look like that–" He gestures at Ed's face and general existence. "and Coach Beard looks like... that." He gestures at Beard. "Why?"

The room explodes.

"Oh come on, Jan!"

"Not now, man!"

"Read the room!"

"You're not right in the head, Jan!"

Roy's voice booms from the back: "Fuckin' Jan!"

Beard cuts through the chaos with one word, delivered in his usual deadpan "Tactical depth."

There's a beat of silence as people process this, then scattered laughter.

Ed adds, his tone perfectly even, "I like men who aren't trying to be anyone but themselves."

It's simple. Sincere. And it somehow manages to both answer Jan's question and shut down any further speculation about physical attraction metrics.

Isaac raises his hand next, and Higgins nods at him.

"Isaac McAdoo, captain." He leans forward slightly. "You two don't talk a lot, yeah? Around here, I mean. Do you talk more at home or do you use telepathy or body language?"

Jamie whistles low, grinning. "Body language."

Isaac throws a wadded-up piece of paper at him. "Shut it, Jamie."

Ed considers the question seriously. "That's actually quite a good question. I suppose we talk a bit more at home?"

Beard nods. "Though I wish I had telepathic powers so you all could actually listen to my commands."

There's more laughter. A few players look appropriately chastised.

Rebecca's hand goes up, and the room quiets slightly. When Rebecca asks a question, people pay attention.

"Rebecca Welton, owner." She stands, and there's something both amused and genuinely curious in her expression. "Why did you two never even hint that you were in a relationship, let alone married? Roy and Keeley have snogged in every corner of this stadium–" Keeley grins unrepentantly. "but you two barely interact around here. We all feel a bit blindsided."

Ed's response is practical, almost apologetic. "My office is on the other side of the stadium. We don't run into each other much during the day."

Beard adds, his tone completely reasonable, "We just didn't think we had to explain ourselves if no one asked."

Rebecca sits back down, processing this. "Fair enough, I suppose."

The Q&A session winds down naturally, questions tapering off into comfortable conversation. The formal structure dissolves, and what remains is something warmer, more organic. This is no longer a fake press conference. This is a family gathering, raw and weird and beautiful in the way only found families can be.

Rebecca approaches the table where Beard and Ed are still seated, her expression shifting from amused observer to someone with a mission.

"So." She crosses her arms, looking between them. "What's your grand plan to celebrate five years of wedded bliss?"

Ed blinks. "...We just did."

Rebecca's face goes through several emotions in rapid succession, landing on extreme offense. "You mean the lunch?" Her voice climbs. "Oh no. No, no, no. We cannot have that."

Ted appears at her shoulder, nodding vigorously. "Agree, boss. I missed the wedding and I'm still kicking myself for it." He looks at Beard and Ed with genuine earnestness. "Let me, let us make it up to y'all."

Higgins steps forward, already doing mental calculations. "Right. We have two hours, one kitchen, a decent sound system, and a whole lot of staff who owe me favors."

Keeley bounces on her toes, phone already out. "I can throw together decorations. Got ribbons and bunting from a launch party last week in my car. Give me ten minutes."

Sam's hand shoots up. "I've got a Bluetooth disco light in my cubby! The one with multiple colors! I'll grab it!"

Dani practically leaps to his feet. "I can make guacamole! The best guacamole! My grandmother's recipe!"

Roy, still leaning against the back wall, grunts. "I'll... find cups."

Everyone stares at him.

He scowls. "What? Someone needs to find cups. Can't drink without cups."

Rebecca turns back to Ed and Beard, her expression brooking no argument. "You've got no say in this. Sit. Let us handle it."

And then, like a perfectly choreographed chaos, everyone fans out into action.

The room transforms into a hive of purposeful energy and love. Players start dragging tables together, creating a makeshift buffet area. Keeley is already sprinting toward the car park, shouting something about "emergency party supplies" over her shoulder. Rebecca has her phone pressed to her ear, speaking rapidly to what sounds like a very confused caterer about last-minute delivery.

Sam returns with the disco light, which Isaac immediately starts setting up while providing running commentary: "Bit to the left. No, your other left. There. Perfect."

Dani has somehow already disappeared toward the kitchen, his voice echoing back: "Does anyone know where the avocados are?!"

Ted is rummaging through storage closets, emerging with a box of random decorations that look like they're from various past events. "We got... streamers? And what looks like a birthday banner for someone named Gerald. We can work with this."

Roy reappears with an armful of cups, plates, and napkins, dumping them on one of the tables with minimal ceremony. Then, because apparently he's not done contributing, he starts arranging them with surprising precision.

Nate is helping Keeley string up the bunting she's returned with, both of them standing on chairs and bickering good-naturedly about whether it should be straight or slightly draped.

Through it all, Ed and Beard remain seated at the table, watching the madness unfold with matching expressions of bemused affection.

Ed leans slightly toward Beard. "This is all a bit too much for us, isn't it?"

Beard's mouth quirks. "Yeah." He pauses, watching Ted try to blow up a balloon while simultaneously directing traffic. "But it's good, right?"

Ed's gaze sweeps across the room: players laughing, Rebecca arguing with the caterer but smiling while she does it, Dani's enthusiastic voice floating from the kitchen, Keeley's bright energy as she coordinates decorations like a military operation.

"It's great." Ed says quietly.

Thirty minutes later, the room has transformed.

Bunting hangs in cheerful loops across the walls. The disco light casts gentle colors across the ceiling. Tables are laden with food that appeared with startling speed, the caterer apparently took Rebecca's urgency seriously. There's wine, beer, soft drinks, and several suspicious-looking cocktails that Keeley mixed with more enthusiasm than expertise.

Dani's guacamole sits in a bowl at the center of one table, surrounded by chips and already half-gone because it is, genuinely, excellent.

Someone found a speaker system. Music plays at a reasonable volume, a mix of songs that no one objected to, which is a minor miracle with this many people.

Everyone is mingling, drinking, laughing. Taking photos. Rebecca has her arm around Keeley, both of them grinning at someone's phone. Sam and Jamie are engaged in what looks like a very serious discussion about proper guacamole-to-chip ratios. Roy and Isaac are standing together in companionable silence, nursing beers. Ted is moving between groups like a social butterfly, making sure everyone has what they need.

At some point, Beard stands up. He doesn't raise his voice or tap a glass, but people notice anyway. Conversations quiet. Attention shifts.

He's not used to speeches. Not comfortable with this kind of spotlight. But he clears his throat and speaks, his voice steady and sincere.

"I'd like to thank everyone for putting this together right before our eyes." He glances around the room, making brief eye contact with several people. "We really appreciate all this." He pauses, and something vulnerable crosses his face. "Long-distance marriage was hard. I thought me and Ed weren't gonna make it." His hand finds Ed's shoulder, resting there with casual intimacy. "But two years ago, this miracle of an opportunity came up. And now, not only do I get to be with my husband physically, I also share a workplace with him." He looks at Rebecca, then at Ted, then back at the room at large. "All thanks to Richmond. Thank you. To all of you."

The room is quiet, the weight of the moment settling over everyone.

Then Ed stands, his expression as flat as ever, and says with perfect deadpan timing: "...What Greg said."

The room erupts in laughter.

Isaac's voice carries over the noise: "Wow. Coach Beard spoke a full paragraph."

More laughter. Someone whistles. Ted is wiping his eyes, clearly emotional.

Roy steps forward, arms crossed, looking at Ed and Beard with that particular expression that means he's about to make a demand disguised as a suggestion. "I think you owe us all a slow dance. Since you kept this marriage a secret."

Ed raises an eyebrow. "But we didn't."

"Doesn't change the fact you withheld this important information about yourselves," Roy counters, unmoved.

Keeley is already at the speaker, scrolling through her phone. "Oh, I've got the perfect song. Don't worry, it's not cheesy. Well, it's a little cheesy. But good cheesy."

She taps play. A slow song fills the room, something gentle and romantic without being saccharine.

Beard extends his hand to Ed with exaggerated formality, a tiny smile playing at his lips. "Shall we?"

Ed looks at the hand, then at Beard's face, then at the room full of people watching them with varying degrees of enthusiasm and affection.

"I suppose we shall."

He takes Beard's hand, and they move to the center of the room. The space that's been cleared, consciously or not, for exactly this purpose.

Beard's hand settles at Ed's waist. Ed's hand rests on Beard's shoulder. Their other hands clasp together between them. It's not a practiced dance, neither of them is particularly graceful, but it's theirs. Easy and familiar and real.

They sway gently to the music, and the room watches with unabashed joy.

Someone, probably Keeley, starts a chant: "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Others join in, clapping along. Even Roy is nodding approvingly, which might as well be enthusiastic encouragement coming from him.

Ed glances at Beard, one eyebrow raised in question. Beard shrugs, that tiny movement that says why not?

So Ed leans in and kisses him: soft and brief and genuine, right there in the middle of the room, in front of everyone who matters.

The room cheers.

When they pull apart, both of them are smiling, small, private smiles that aren't hidden anymore.

Later, as the celebration winds down but before people start drifting away, Rebecca corrals everyone for a photo.

"Right, everyone together! Beard and Ed in the center. Everyone else fill in around them. Come on, squeeze in. Yes, Jamie, you can be in the photo, just stop making that face."

It takes several attempts to get everyone positioned: too many people, not enough space, someone's always blinking or looking the wrong way. But finally, they manage it.

Beard and Ed stand at the center, Ed's posture straight and formal despite the arm Beard has casually draped across his shoulders. Around them, the team and staff press close, faces bright with laughter and wine and the particular warmth that comes from celebrating something good together.

Higgins sets up the camera timer and sprints back to squeeze into the frame just as it flashes.

The photo captures it perfectly: Ed and Beard at the heart of it, surrounded by their Richmond family. Five years of marriage celebrated by people who didn't know about it until this afternoon but love them anyway.

It's messy and imperfect and absolutely perfect.

A few days later, Ed's office has settled back into its usual routine. Morning light filters through the window that gives him his slightly-left-leaning view of the pitch. His desk is organized with the precision of someone who finds comfort in systems: laptop open to a spreadsheet, coffee mug, the one Beard gave him years ago, still unused at home but now residing here, a neat stack of budget reports waiting for review.

Ed sits behind his desk, focused on reconciling some figures that don't quite add up the way they should. He's deep in concentration, the kind where the rest of the world fades into background noise.

Then his door opens without warning.

Ed exhales, a long, resigned breath that he's perfected over the past months of working in this building.

"You've got an idea you want to discuss?" he asks without looking up, his tone flat but not unfriendly.

"Morning to you too, Ed." Keeley's voice is bright, unbothered by his lack of enthusiasm for her entrance style. "And no, not really. I want to give you this."

That makes Ed look up. Keeley approaches his desk, holding a small paper bag with the kind of pleased expression that means she's done something she's proud of.

Ed raises an eyebrow but accepts the bag, setting it on his desk before reaching inside. His fingers brush against something solid, frame-shaped. He pulls it out.

It's the group photo from a few days ago. Professionally printed and framed, not expensively, but nicely. Thoughtfully. Everyone pressed together, Beard and Ed at the center, faces bright with celebration and belonging.

Ed actually smiles. Not the tiny, barely-there expression he usually allows, but a real smile: small, but genuine and warm.

He looks up at Keeley. "Thank you, Keeley. This is really sweet."

Keeley beams, clearly delighted by his reaction. "You're welcome!" She leans against his desk, studying his face with open curiosity. "And you should smile more often. I promise that jawline of yours won't be any less sharp."

Ed chuckles, an actual sound of amusement that escapes before he can contain it. "Noted."

He sets the framed photo on his desk, positioning it carefully next to another frame that's already there. The one that's been there since he moved into this office months ago. The one he keeps angled so it faces him, not outward. The one Keeley, or anyone else, for that matter has never gotten a good look at because it's always been private, just for him.

Keeley's eyes catch on it immediately. Her curiosity, which has been politely restrained until now, gets the better of her. She moves around the side of his desk, leaning in to see what he's been looking at all these months.

"Oh my God." she gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.

The photo shows two men in tuxedos: well-fitted, clearly rented, slightly rumpled from wear. They're sitting in a booth at In-N-Out, burgers and fries spread out in front of them on those classic red trays. Both are grinning at the camera with unguarded joy, the kind of happiness that comes from making a spontaneous, slightly ridiculous decision and knowing it's exactly right.

Beard's beard is darker, not yet touched with the gray that's started creeping in over the past few years. Ed looks younger too, his face softer somehow, less practiced at the neutral expression he's perfected now.

The photo is charmingly amateurish: slightly off-center, the lighting harsh from the restaurant's fluorescents, clearly taken by an employee who did their best with someone's phone camera. It's perfect.

"Oh my God!" Keeley repeats, her voice climbing with delight. "You two look so cute together here! Adorable!" She leans closer, studying the details. "And Beard's beard isn't graying yet. Look at you both, all dressed up with your burgers." She straightens, looking at Ed with mock severity. "I should've been nosey a long time ago so I could've found out you two were married before anyone else."

Ed's mouth quirks. "To be fair, you could've asked. I had no reason to lie."

"True." Keeley is still smiling at the photo, the warmth in her expression genuine. "This looks so much fun. I wish I'd been there!"

Ed's eyes widen slightly. Just a fraction, but noticeable.

Because he's remembering what happened after those burgers. After the courthouse ceremony that took fifteen minutes. After the In-N-Out celebration dinner. The rest of that Vegas night unfolds in his memory like a fever dream: the bars they stumbled into, the drinks that kept appearing, the recreational substances that seemed like an excellent idea at the time. The karaoke. The matching temporary tattoos they got at 2 AM that thankfully faded after a week. The philosophical debate about the nature of commitment that Beard conducted with a street performer. Ed doing something he still can't quite believe involving a fountain and someone's hat.

The kind of night that would make anyone who witnessed it assume both he and Beard had significant personality disorders.

It was Vegas, after all.

"...No," Ed says carefully, his tone very deliberate. "You don't."

Keeley's eyes light up with gleeful recognition. She knows that tone. That's the tone of someone with stories. "Oh, there's more to this, isn't there?"

Ed's expression returns to its baseline neutrality, but there's the faintest hint of something, amusement, maybe, or fond embarrassment in his eyes.

Keeley grins, backing toward the door. She points at him, her smile widening. "One day, you will tell me what that's about."

Ed nods once, conceding the inevitable. "Sure thing, Keeley."

She pauses in the doorway, looking back at him sitting at his desk with both photos now visible: the new one of their Richmond family, and the old one of their Vegas wedding night. Two moments of belonging, years apart.

"I'm really happy for you both," she says, more quietly. "Genuinely."

"Thank you," Ed says, and means it.

Keeley gives him a little wave and disappears into the corridor, the door swinging shut behind her.

Ed sits alone in his office, looking at both frames. The carefully composed group photo, professional and public. The chaotic burger photo, spontaneous and private.

Both of them, now, out in the open.

He adjusts the Vegas photo slightly, turning it so it faces outward just a bit more. Not hiding it anymore. Not announcing it either, just... letting it exist.

The way everything else has finally been allowed to exist out loud, in daylight, real.

Ed takes a sip of his coffee, turns back to his spreadsheet, and gets back to work.

In the photo, two younger versions of him and Beard grin at the camera over their In-N-Out burgers, happy and ridiculous and married, not knowing yet how close they'd come to losing this or how hard they'd fight to keep it.

But they'd figure it out.

They always do.

Chapter Text

It's been a few weeks since the impromptu anniversary celebration, and life at Nelson Road has settled into a new normal. A normal where everyone knows about Beard and Ed, where it's not strange to see them exchange a brief word in the corridor or leave together at the end of the day. The secret that wasn't really a secret has become simply... fact.

The group photo made it to Richmond's official Instagram account three days after the celebration. Keeley handled the post personally, crafting a caption that threaded the needle between professional and warm:

"Last night, we celebrated something very special. Happy 5th wedding anniversary to our very own Coach Beard and CFO, Edward Lewis-Brown. Proof that you can keep a secret… and still be surrounded by love. #RichmondTilWeDie"

The response was immediate and overwhelming. Comments flooded in, mostly positive, many surprised, some confused "WAIT WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?!", a few from rival fans making jokes about Richmond's "secret weapon being secret marriages."

Several sports news outlets picked it up. "AFC Richmond Coach Quietly Married to Club CFO for Five Years" ran in The Athletic. A few morning shows mentioned it in their sports segments, usually with a light "well, that's sweet" tone before moving on to transfer news.

Neither Beard nor Ed are on social media. Not officially, anyway. They both have anonymous accounts. Beard's is mostly for following philosophy discussions and obscure book recommendations, Ed's for keeping tabs on financial news and the occasional football analysis thread. They lurk. They observe. They don't engage.

Which is why, when the meme starts circulating, Beard sees it but can't do anything about it.

It shows up on a Richmond meme account that has a decent following, the kind of fan-run page that posts match reaction images and jokes about the team's history of near-misses. Someone has taken a still from Beauty and the Beast, the ballroom scene, Belle in her yellow dress, the Beast in his formal attire and badly Photoshopped Beard's face onto the Beast and Ed's face onto Belle.

The caption reads: "True love really is blind! #Richmond #BeautyandtheBeard"

It gets traction. Hundreds of likes, dozens of comments, shares across other fan pages. Most people find it funny, harmless teasing, the kind that comes with being a public figure at a football club. Some comments defend them. Others pile on with their own jokes.

"man’s really punching above his weight class"

"respect to coach beard for his confidence"

"Ed could literally have anyone and he chose THAT? Love is real!"

"Beard must have an absolutely top-tier personality to pull that off"

Beard sees it during a water break at training. Just scrolling through his anonymous account, checking the usual feeds, and there it is. He stares at it for a long moment, then sighs and locks his phone.

Most of the time, comments like that don't bother him. They've been together long enough that he's used to the stares strangers sometimes give them when they're out together, that particular look that seems to say "He's way out of your league." The double-takes when Ed takes Beard's hand in public. The occasional raised eyebrow from servers who assume they're colleagues until Ed says "my husband" and their expressions shift to barely-concealed surprise.

Beard and Ed had a talk about this years ago. After the third or fourth time someone made a comment, well-meaning or otherwise about their physical mismatch. Ed had been furious on Beard's behalf, that flat affect finally cracking into genuine anger. "Do you care what these people think?" he'd asked. And Beard had said, honestly, "No. I know why you're with me. That's all that matters."

And it had been true. It had been enough.

But now, with literally everyone knowing, with the whole internet having opinions, with memes circulating and strangers weighing in on their relationship like it's public property... that old insecurity seems to resurface. Creeping in at the edges, unwelcome and familiar.

Beard hates that it bothers him. Hates that he can't just dismiss it the way he used to.

That morning, they drive to the Dog Track together. It's become routine, Ed driving his sensible Volvo, Beard in the passenger seat with coffee and whatever book he's currently absorbed in, comfortable silence or easy conversation depending on the mood.

Today, there's silence. But it's not comfortable.

Ed navigates through traffic with his usual precision, occasionally glancing at Beard from the corner of his eye. Beard is staring out the window, coffee untouched in the cupholder, book unopened in his lap.

Ed knows something is off. He's spent years learning to read Beard's silences, categorizing them like a language only he speaks fluently. This one is heavy. Weighted with something Beard isn't saying.

At a red light, Ed turns to look at him directly. "You okay there, Greg?"

Beard's head turns, and he forces a smile, small, unconvincing. "...Yeah. I'm fine."

The light turns green. Ed doesn't believe him, but he doesn't push. Not yet. Not here. He knows Beard well enough to understand that sometimes he needs space to process before he can articulate what's wrong. Pushing too early just makes him retreat further.

Ed assumes Beard will be in a better mood after some time at the club, after getting absorbed in training and tactics and the familiar rhythm of work.

But the mood doesn't lift.

Later that day, the coaches' office has that mid-afternoon energy where the morning's training is done and the administrative work begins. Nate is at his desk in the east section, reviewing footage on his laptop. Roy is in the same area, arms crossed, staring at his own screen with his characteristic scowl. In the west section, Ted is sprawled in his chair, tossing a small foam ball up and catching it while he thinks through something tactical.

Beard has been pacing. Back and forth across the small space, hands in his pockets, that restless energy that means his mind is working through something he can't solve alone.

Finally, he stops. Looks at Ted.

"I need to call a Diamond Dogs meeting."

Ted sits up immediately, the foam ball forgotten. "You got it, Coach." He grabs his phone and dials Higgins, putting it on speaker.

Two rings, then: "Hello, Ted?"

Ted barks into the phone, a solid, enthusiastic "WOOF! WOOF!"

There's a brief pause, then Higgins' voice, slightly resigned but game: "Oh. Right. On my way."

He arrives less than two minutes later, slightly breathless, and closes the door behind him. The four of them: Ted, Beard, Nate, and Higgins arrange themselves in the west section. Ted gestures to the chairs like he's hosting a very important summit.

In the east section, Roy stays exactly where he is at his desk. He doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge the meeting happening twenty feet away. To all appearances, he's completely absorbed in whatever's on his screen.

But his posture shifts slightly. His head tilts just enough. He's listening to every word.

Ted leans forward, elbows on his knees, giving Beard his full attention. "So. What's up, Coach?"

Beard shrugs, a small, tight movement. He pulls out his phone, navigates to the meme, and sets it on the table where everyone can see it.

The room goes very quiet.

Beard's voice is measured, controlled, but there's something underneath it. "Didn't bother me... until it did."

Ed has some budget projections he needs to go over with Higgins, something about reallocating funds for the upcoming match travel expenses. He heads to Higgins' office first, but finds it empty, door ajar, lights off. Unusual. Higgins is almost always where he's supposed to be.

Ed checks his watch. 3:47 PM. Training should be finished by now. Higgins might be in the coaches' office, helping with something administrative.

Ed makes his way through the building, taking the familiar route toward the locker room. As he pushes through the door, the smell of liniment and grass and post-training sweat hits him, familiar now, almost comforting in its consistency.

Dani Rojas is at his cubby, wrestling with his shinpads, and his face lights up when he sees Ed. "Afternoon, Papa Finance!"

That's the nickname Dani gave him a few weeks ago, somewhere between the anniversary celebration and now, it just stuck. Ed had raised an eyebrow the first time he heard it, but privately, he's quite fond of it. There's something warm about being claimed by this team in their own strange way.

"Afternoon, Dani." Ed replies, his tone even but not unfriendly.

He continues toward the coaches' office, and through the windows he can see figures inside, more than usual. Higgins is there, along with Ted, Beard, and Nate. They're arranged in what looks like... a meeting? Something informal but focused.

Ed walks toward the door and opens it without knocking. He's looking for Higgins, after all, and it's a work matter.

Ted is mid-sentence: "...that's a whole lotta strangers saying something they know nothin' about–"

"Higgins, there you are–" Ed pauses, taking in the scene properly. "Am I interrupting something?"

All heads turn toward him simultaneously. Nate's eyes go wide and he quickly looks away, staring at his hands like they've suddenly become fascinating. Higgins looks caught between professional obligation and social awkwardness. Ted's expression shifts to something careful, supportive.

Ed frowns. Something is clearly happening here, and it involves–

His eyes catch on Beard's phone, sitting face-up on the table between them. The screen shows something colorful, cartoonish. Ed takes a step closer, leaning to see it better.

The Beauty and the Beast meme stares back at him. Beard's face. His face.

Ed's expression doesn't change, but something cold settles in his chest. He looks at Beard. "Is this what's been bothering you?"

Beard crosses his arms, gaze fixed firmly on the table. His jaw is tight. "...Yeah."

Ed stands there for a moment, looking at the assembled group: Ted, Nate, Higgins, all watching this unfold with varying degrees of discomfort and concern. In the back, Roy is still at his desk, still pretending not to be paying attention, but Ed can see the tension in his shoulders. He's listening to every word.

This is clearly some kind of safe space. Some ritual they have for talking through things. And Beard brought this here, to these people, because he needed... what? Perspective? Support? Permission to feel hurt?

Ed makes a decision. He pulls out a chair and sits down at the table.

"We talked about this." he says quietly, looking at Beard.

Beard's shoulders hunch slightly. "Well, you're not the one getting the short end of the stick."

Ed's expression sharpens. His voice drops, taking on an edge that rarely shows. "Greg."

"I know it's silly, alright?" Beard's voice is rough, frustrated with the situation, with himself. "But with people knowing and commenting... I can't help but feel a certain way."

Ed leans forward slightly, his tone becoming more assertive, not angry, but firm. Definitive. "Listen to me. We're married because we see each other. And I won't let anyone, not even you, reduce that to appearances."

The room is completely silent. Even Roy has stopped pretending to work.

Beard finally looks up, meets Ed's eyes. Something in his expression softens, the defensive posture easing slightly.

After a moment, he nods.

Ed's gaze sweeps across the others at the table: Ted, Nate, Higgins, then back to Beard. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter but no less certain. "Those who get us, get us. The rest, like those people making memes?" He pauses, and something fierce flashes in his usually flat expression. "Fuck what they have to say."

Every eyebrow in the room shoots up. Roy's head turns slightly, a smirk pulling at his mouth.

It's the first time any of them have heard Ed curse.

Beard's mouth quirks, not quite a smile yet, but getting there. "...Okay."

Ed reaches across the table, his hand covering Beard's briefly. "And you've always been fit to me, Greg. Since the moment I saw you." His voice softens, becoming almost private despite the audience. "Put my opinion above everyone else's when it comes to that."

Beard's smile finally breaks through, small, genuine, the tension in his shoulders releasing. "You're right."

Ted makes a sound in his throat, almost an "aww...", but stops himself, pressing his lips together. Because he knows, they all know: Beard and Ed will walk out of this room and go back to acting like normal colleagues. That's how they work. That's what they're comfortable with.

But this moment, right now? This is real. This is theirs. And Ted got to witness it.

Ed stands, smoothing his jacket with precise movements, his composure settling back into place. He looks at Higgins. "Should we get back to work now?"

Higgins blinks, slightly dazed by everything that just happened. "Yes. Yes, of course."

Ted clears his throat, standing as well. "Right. Well. I think that concludes today's Diamond Dogs meeting." He glances around at Nate and Higgins, who both nod.

Then, simultaneously, Ted, Nate, and Higgins throw their heads back and bark.

"WOOF!"

"WOOF!"

"WOOF!"

Ed startles, actually flinches, his eyes widening as three grown men bark in a professional office setting. Roy doesn't join in, just continues smirking at his screen.

Ed stares at them for a beat, then turns to Higgins as they head toward the door. "Am I allowed to ask what that was?"

Higgins adjusts his glasses, looking slightly sheepish. "Diamond Dogs. It's a... support group. Of sorts. For discussing matters of the heart and other personal concerns."

"And the barking?"

"It's ceremonial." Higgins says seriously.

Ed processes this. "Right."

They exit into the locker room, Ed's expression suggesting he's filing this information away under "Things About This Workplace That Defy Logic But Somehow Work."

The door swings shut behind Ed and Higgins. Ted turns to Nate, his voice dropping to a whisper, eyes bright with possibility.

"You think Ed's up to join the Diamond Dogs?"

Nate considers this "He seems to know what to say when he decides to use his voice."

That evening after work, the four of them end up at the Crown & Anchor: Ted, Beard, Roy, and Ed. It's becoming a bit of a routine, this post-work decompression. Not every night, but often enough that Mae knows their usual orders and has a booth that feels like theirs.

The pub is mellow tonight. Low music playing from the speakers, something classic, not intrusive. The post-training fatigue has settled into everyone's bones, that pleasant exhaustion that comes from a day well-worked. The lighting is warm, amber-toned, making everything feel softer around the edges.

They're four pints deep. Not drunk, but looser than usual. The kind of relaxation that comes from good beer and better company.

Ted is in the middle of a story about something Henry said on their last video call, something about a science project involving vinegar and baking soda that got wildly out of hand. Roy is listening with his arms crossed, occasionally grunting what might be approval. Beard is leaning back against the booth, content to let Ted's voice wash over him. Ed sits beside Beard, nursing his pint with the same measured precision he brings to everything.

Mae appears with another round, setting glasses down with practiced efficiency. When she reaches Ed, she pauses, eyes him with frank appreciation.

"Ed," she says, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who's decided to just say what she's thinking. "If I were thirty years younger and you liked women..." She lets it hang there for a beat. "We would've had something dangerous."

Ed's mouth quirks into a polite smile, the kind he's perfected for exactly these moments. "In another lifetime, Mae."

The table chuckles, Ted's laugh is bright and genuine, Roy makes a sound that might be amusement, Beard's smile is subtle but present.

But then Mae turns to Beard. Her expression shifts. Softens. There's something almost maternal in it, protective and proud at once.

"But you know what?" She looks directly at him, holding his gaze. "You're lucky. And not just 'cause of him." She gestures toward Ed, then back to Beard. "You're the kind of man who knows when to hold something sacred. Steady. Solid. Just like your build." She nods, as if confirming something to herself. "You don't see that much anymore."

Beard goes very still. Not uncomfortable, but affected, like Mae's words have reached somewhere deeper than casual pub conversation usually touches.

Ed turns his head toward Beard, just slightly. Their eyes meet, a brief exchange of something unspoken.

Without a word, without fanfare, Beard lifts his arm and sets it gently across the back of the booth, behind Ed's shoulders. Not pulling him closer, just... there. Present. Claiming the space and the person beside him with quiet certainty.

Ed doesn't lean in dramatically. Doesn't make a show of it. But his posture shifts just slightly, settling into the space beneath Beard's arm like it's always belonged there.

Roy stares at them for a long moment, his expression caught between discomfort and something that might be grudging approval. "It feels pornographic when it's the two of you doing that."

Ted has already pulled out his phone, grinning like Christmas came early. "Hold still, y'all. This is going in the archives."

He snaps a picture, Beard and Ed in the booth, Beard's arm around him, both of them looking relaxed and together and real. Roy scowling in the background because of course he is.

Mae walks away, satisfied with whatever she came to say. The conversation flows back into easier topics, match prep, Ted's ongoing attempt to understand British slang, Roy's negative opinions on the new training equipment.

Beard takes a slow sip of his pint, his arm still draped behind Ed. Ed leans just slightly into the space they're sharing, his own pint cradled in both hands.

Roy continues staring at his drink like it personally insulted his family. Ted beams at all of them, storing this moment away like he stores all good moments, carefully, gratefully, knowing how rare they really are.

After a while, Beard pulls out his phone with his free hand, scrolling absently through his anonymous account. He finds himself back on that meme thread, reading through comments he'd avoided earlier.

Most of it is the same. Jokes about leagues and appearances. The kind of shallow commentary that treats people like objects to be rated and ranked.

But then he sees a new comment, posted just an hour ago:

"honestly i'd fight ed if i could get coach beard to give me a bear hug. man looks like he gives the best hugs. 10/10 would risk it all"

Beard smirks. Just a little. Just enough.

He pockets his phone and takes another sip of his beer.

At the end of the day, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. And the only eyes that matter are sitting right next to him, occasionally stealing sips from his pint when they think he's not paying attention.

Which he always is.

But he lets it happen anyway.

Because that's what you do when you're lucky enough to hold something sacred.

Chapter Text

The loss is devastating. Complete. The kind that sits in your chest like a stone.

Manchester City 5, AFC Richmond 0.

The scoreboard felt like mockery by the end, each goal another nail in a coffin they'd built themselves.

The locker room afterward was silent in that terrible way where even breathing feels too loud. Players sat in their stalls, staring at nothing. Some cried. Some stared at their boots like they'd betrayed them. Ted tried to say something, something about how proud he was, how they'd gotten this far, how this wasn't the end, but the words landed flat because everyone knew. They'd had it. They'd been close. And then they'd fallen apart.

Now they're outside Wembley, the stadium looming behind them like a monument to failure. The team bus idles nearby, engine rumbling, exhaust drifting into the cool evening air. Players shuffle toward it slowly, reluctantly, nobody eager to sit with this loss for the long ride back.

Beard stands slightly apart from the group, hands in his pockets, staring at the pavement. Ted is beside him, looking worried in that way Ted gets when he's trying to figure out how to help someone who doesn't want help.

"Coach," Ted says quietly. "You coming?"

Beard doesn't look at him. "I'll make my own way home."

Ted's brow furrows. "You sure? It's late. We can–"

"I'm sure."

There's something in Beard's tone, flat, final, that tells Ted not to push. Ted nods slowly, squeezing Beard's shoulder once before heading toward the bus.

Behind them, Ed stands in line with the rest of the staff and players, waiting his turn to board. He's in his light gray suit, perfectly tailored, tie still knotted despite the late hour. His face gives away nothing, that practiced neutrality firmly in place, but his eyes track Beard's position, cataloging his posture, his distance from the group.

Ted approaches Ed as the line shuffles forward. "Ed. You coming?"

"Yes." Ed says simply.

Ted glances back at Beard, then at Ed, something uncertain crossing his face. He wants to say something, wants to ask Ed to stay with Beard, maybe, or to check on him later, but he doesn't quite know how to phrase it. So he just nods and moves past, climbing onto the bus.

Ed takes a step forward in line. He's close to the bus steps now.

Beard turns his head. Just slightly. Just enough to catch Ed's eye across the distance.

They look at each other.

There are no nods. No words exchanged. No gestures that anyone watching would notice or understand.

Just a glance. Simple. Brief.

But Ed reads it like a language he's fluent in, every micro-expression and shift in Beard's posture forming a sentence only he can parse: I can't bring this home. Not yet. Not like this.

Ed holds his gaze for one more second, his own expression unchanging but his eyes conveying understanding. Then he turns away, climbing the steps onto the bus without looking back.

The door hisses shut behind him.

Beard exhales slowly, watching as the bus pulls away from the curb, its taillights disappearing into London traffic. The team gone. The staff gone. Ed gone.

He's alone with the loss and the night ahead.

He turns and starts walking toward Wembley Park tube station, hands still in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the weight of defeat.

The city sprawls out before him, vast and indifferent and full of places to get lost.

So he does.

The Crown & Anchor is loud with post-match energy, but it's the wrong kind of energy. Angry. Raw. The kind that comes from watching your team get destroyed on the biggest stage they've reached in years.

Mae is behind the bar, and she doesn't hold back when Beard walks in.

"Five-nil," she says, shaking her head as she pulls a pint without him asking. "Five bloody nil. What happened to the game plan? What happened to tactics?"

Beard takes the pint. Says nothing. Drinks.

"I mean, City's good, but that was embarrassing," Mae continues, and there's genuine disappointment in her voice, the kind that only comes from actually caring. "You lot looked lost out there."

Beard finishes half the pint in one long pull.

Near the dartboard, Baz, Jeremy, and Paul, the usual Richmond supporters, are in full post-match analysis mode. Their voices carry across the pub, fueled by disappointment and alcohol.

"Coaching staff had no answers," Baz is saying, gesturing with his pint. "Just stood there watching it happen."

"Like watching a car crash in slow motion," Jeremy adds.

Paul notices Beard at the bar. Points. "Oi. There's one of them now."

The three of them approach, and Beard can feel the criticism coming before they even open their mouths.

"What was that?" Baz asks, not aggressive but genuinely baffled. "Seriously, mate. What was the plan?"

"We had no midfield," Jeremy says. "None. They walked through us like we weren't even there."

"And the substitutions–" Paul starts.

Beard sets down his empty pint glass. Pulls out his wallet. "What are you drinking?"

That stops them.

"What?" Baz blinks.

"What are you drinking?" Beard repeats, already signaling Mae. "Next round's on me."

Mae raises an eyebrow but starts pulling pints. The three supporters exchange glances, their criticism deflating slightly in the face of unexpected generosity.

"Well... if you're offering." Jeremy says slowly.

They end up in a corner booth, four pints turning into eight, the conversation shifting from angry analysis to something more philosophical. They talk about football, about loyalty, about what it means to support a team that breaks your heart more often than not. About the hope that keeps you coming back anyway.

Baz tells a story about his dad taking him to his first Richmond match in 2001. Jeremy admits he cried in the stands tonight. Paul talks about the Championship years, the painful climb back up, how this season felt like finally arriving at something only to have the door slammed in their faces.

Beard mostly listens, occasionally contributing a word or two, but present in the way that matters. Buying rounds. Nodding at the right moments. Being human with them in the shared misery of loving something that hurts.

By the time Mae calls last orders, they've gone through more pints than anyone should on a work night, and the anger has mellowed into something like camaraderie.

They spill onto the street, the four of them, buzzed and restless and not ready for the night to end. The loss still sits there, but it's been dulled by beer and conversation.

"What now?" Paul asks, looking around the empty street.

"Home." Jeremy says, but without conviction.

"Nah," Baz counters. "Can't go home like this. Need something... more."

Beard stares at the empty street for a moment. He's not ready to go home yet. Not ready to bring this energy, this restless, destructive thing inside him back into his life.

"I know a place." Beard says suddenly.

The three supporters look at him with renewed interest.

"What kind of place?" Baz asks.

"Exclusive. Basement club."

Jeremy's eyes widen. "That place is impossible to get into. You need membership and–"

"I know how to get in." Beard says, already walking.

Bones & Honey is everything the Crown & Anchor isn't. It’s sleek, dark, and expensive. The kind of place where the music is too loud and the drinks are too small and everyone is trying very hard to look like they're not trying at all.

Beard got them in through a combination of knowing the right name, mentioning the right person, and the bouncer recognizing him from the match earlier. Sometimes being associated with a publicly humiliated football club opens doors, if only out of pity.

Baz, Jeremy, and Paul are immediately absorbed into the club's energy: the music, the crowd, the novelty of being somewhere they don't belong. They disappear toward the bar, toward the dance floor, toward whatever catches their attention.

Beard finds a table in a corner. Sits. Orders a whiskey he doesn't need.

The club blurs around him, faces and lights and bass that pounds in his chest, but his mind is elsewhere. Back at Wembley. Back in that locker room. Back on the touchline watching everything fall apart and being unable to stop it.

And then, like a waking nightmare, he sees them.

On a screen above the bar, muted, but unmistakable, Thierry Henry and Gary Lineker are on a pundit show. They're analyzing the match. Analyzing Richmond. Analyzing him.

Except they're not real. They can't be. The screen is showing music videos. But Beard sees them anyway, his exhausted, alcohol-soaked brain conjuring their voices:

"What was Beard thinking?"

"Tactically naive. Out of his depth."

"You have to question the coaching staff's preparation."

"Five-nil. That's not just a bad day. That's a systemic failure."

Beard grips his glass tighter. The voices won't stop. Won't stop picking apart every decision, every substitution, every moment where he should have known better, should have done better, should have been better.

He stands up abruptly, too fast, unsteady, and his hip catches the edge of the table. There's a sharp sound of fabric tearing. A nail sticking out from the aged wood has caught his pants, ripping a clean line up the side.

"Shit." Beard mutters, looking down at the damage.

His wallet falls from his pocket in the chaos, landing on the floor beneath the table, but he doesn't notice. He's too focused on the voices in his head, the imagined criticism that feels more real than the club around him.

A bouncer appears. Large. Unimpressed.

"Membership card," he says flatly.

Beard blinks. "What?"

"Membership card. Need to see it."

"I don't– I came in with–"

"Need to see it. Now."

Beard reaches for his pocket. Pats down his jacket. His other pocket. Realization dawns slowly, painfully. "I think I dropped my–"

"Out."

"Just give me a second to look–"

"OUT."

The bouncer doesn't wait for compliance. A hand on Beard's shoulder, firm, implacable and he's being steered through the crowd, past Baz and Jeremy and Paul who don't even notice, up the stairs, and deposited unceremoniously onto the street.

The door slams shut behind him.

Beard stands on the pavement, pants torn, wallet gone, the bass from the club still thumping faintly through the walls.

A night bus approaches. Beard flags it down, climbs aboard.

The driver looks at him: disheveled, torn pants, general air of disaster and says, "One-seventy five."

Beard reaches for his wallet. Pats his pocket. The other pocket. His jacket.

"Shit."

"One-seventy-five." the driver repeats, less patient.

"I lost my wallet," Beard says. "I just need to get home, I can–"

"Off the bus."

"Can I just–"

"OFF."

Beard climbs back down. The bus pulls away, leaving him standing under a streetlight in Shoreditch at three in the morning, wallet-less, phone dying, pants ripped, and no clear way home.

He starts walking. Just... walking. No destination, just movement, because standing still feels worse.

After a block, he sees someone ahead. A figure on the street corner, smoking. Maybe someone who can help. Maybe someone with change for a phone call or directions to the nearest tube station.

Beard approaches. "Excuse me–"

The figure turns.

James Tartt. Jamie's father. The man who's made Jamie's life miserable since childhood.

And he's not alone. Two friends flank him, all of them clearly several drinks deep and looking for trouble.

James's face splits into a cruel smile. "Well, well. If it isn't Richmond's coach assistant." He takes a drag of his cigarette. "Five-nil. Heard about that. Tough break."

"I'm just trying to get home." Beard says, already knowing this won't go well.

"Yeah?" James steps closer. "You know, my son plays for you lot. And you made him look like a fool tonight."

"That's not–"

"Shut it." James flicks his cigarette away. "Think you deserve to just walk away after embarrassing him?"

The first shove catches Beard off-guard. He stumbles back. The second one is harder. Then James's friends join in, pushing, shoving, a fist catching Beard's shoulder, another glancing off his jaw.

It's not a fight. It's a beating. Brief but brutal. Beard tries to defend himself, manages to land one good hit before they overwhelm him completely.

Then, through sheer survival instinct, he breaks free. Shoves past them and runs.

Runs down the street, around a corner, through an alley, not stopping until his lungs burn and his legs threaten to give out. He can hear them behind him shouting, laughing, giving chase, but gradually the sounds fade. They lose interest. Or he loses them. Either way, he's alone again.

After a while, Beard finally stops running. Collapses onto a pavement, back against a brick wall, gasping for breath. His jaw throbs. His shoulder aches. His pants are still torn. He has no wallet, no money, no way to get home.

He pulls out his phone with shaking hands. The screen lights up: 1% battery.

Before he can do anything, the phone dies.

The screen goes black.

Beard sits there on the pavement, staring at the dead phone in his hands, and exhales deeply.

He stays there for about fifteen minutes, back against the brick wall, staring at nothing.

Beard considers his options. Walk home, though it's got to be at least eight miles from here, maybe more, and his legs already ache from running. Try to ask another stranger for help, though given how the last encounter went, that seems unwise. Wait until morning and find a police station or a place that might let him use a phone.

None of them are good options. All of them require more energy than he currently possesses.

The street is quiet. Empty. That dead-of-night London silence where even the city seems to be holding its breath.

Then he hears it: the sound of a car approaching. Engine smooth, tires rolling over asphalt with that particular whisper of a well-maintained vehicle.

Beard doesn't look up at first. Just another car. Just another person going somewhere that isn't here.

But the car slows. Stops. Right across the street from where he's sitting.

A Volvo. Their Volvo.

Beard's head snaps up.

The sound of the passenger door unlocking is unmistakable, that soft electronic click cutting through the silence. From the driver's seat, Ed leans over slightly, pushing the door open just enough to make the invitation clear.

He's dressed casually: A dark polo shirt, well-fitted trousers, no tie. His hair is slightly mussed, like he ran his hands through it repeatedly. Like he's been awake for hours, worried.

Beard stands slowly, his body protesting every movement. He crosses the street, checks for traffic even though nothing's moving at this hour and approaches the car.

Ed sighs when he gets a good look at him. Takes in the torn pants, the disheveled hair, the bruise forming on Beard's cheek, the slight split in his lip. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't speak. Just looks.

Ed knows Beard gets into fights sometimes. Has seen the aftermath before: split knuckles, bruised ribs, that particular look that means Beard found trouble or trouble found him. This isn't the worst he's looked. Just slightly roughened up. Still functional. Still whole.

So Ed doesn't ask questions. Not about the bruises. Not yet.

Beard gets into the passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind him with a solid thunk. The interior of the car is warm, familiar, smells like Ed's cologne and the coffee they'd picked up on the way to the match twelve hours ago, a lifetime ago.

They both sit still for a minute. Engine idling. Street empty around them.

Beard breaks the silence first, his voice rough. "How'd you know where to find me?"

"Find My app," Ed says simply. "You've been gone long enough."

Right. The location sharing they set up years ago, back when Beard would go no contact for days and Ed needed to know he was alive. They'd kept it active even after moving in together out of habit, or insurance, or just one more thread connecting them.

Beard nods slowly. "Right." He stares at the dashboard, processing. "I just… needed space tonight."

Ed's hands rest on the steering wheel, his expression unchanged. "I know." He pauses, and his voice softens just slightly. "We had four years' experience of that."

The words land quietly but heavily. Four years of space. Four years of distance and silence and trying to love each other across time zones and oceans. They're not that far apart anymore. Can't be. Won't be.

Ed turns his head, looking at Beard properly. "So. Ready to go home?"

Beard exhales, long and slow, releasing something he's been holding since Wembley. "Yeah."

Ed shifts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb, navigating the empty streets with easy confidence. The city slides past the windows: street lights, closed shops, the occasional night bus.

Minutes pass in comfortable silence.

Then Beard frowns, his attention caught by something in the center console storage. He reaches over and it’s his wallet.

He stares at it for a moment, turning it over in his hands like it might be an illusion. "Where did you find–"

Ed's mouth quirks into a smirk, small, but unmistakable. "I have my ways."

Beard looks at him, waiting for elaboration.

Ed doesn't elaborate.

Beard huffs a quiet laugh, the first genuine sound of amusement he's made all night. "Of course you do."

He pockets the wallet and looks out the window, watching London roll by. And there, on a street corner they're passing, he sees something surreal enough that he does a double-take.

Baz, Jeremy, and Paul, the three supporters from the Crown & Anchor are popping out through the sunroof of a stretch limo, arms raised, shouting something jubilant and incomprehensible into the night air. They're clearly still drunk, still riding whatever wave they caught after Beard left them at Bones & Honey.

Beard watches them disappear behind the car, then shrugs. Of course. That kind of night.

Ed glances at him, eyebrow raised in silent question.

"Long story." Beard says.

"I'm sure."

They drive in silence for a few more minutes, the route home familiar and automatic. Ed doesn't push for explanations. Doesn't ask about the fights or the missing wallet or where Beard has been for the past six hours. He'll ask later, maybe. Or maybe he won't. Maybe it's enough that Beard is here now, safe, found.

As they turn onto their street, Beard speaks again, quieter. "Thanks for coming to get me."

Ed doesn't look away from the road. "You always come home eventually."

The front door clicks shut behind them. Keys drop into the bowl on the entry table with a soft clink. Shoes come off without a word, Ed's loafers placed neatly side by side, Beard's sneakers kicked off and left where they land.

They move through their flat with the quiet efficiency of people who've shared space long enough that every action is automatic. No lights needed. No discussion about what comes next.

In the bedroom, they change into sleepwear. Ed pulls on a soft hoodie and boxers, the fabric worn and comfortable. Beard strips down methodically: the torn pants, shirt, socks, until he's wearing only the tighty-whities he's had on all day.

"Decreases the laundry load." he always says. Ed stopped questioning it years ago.

They meet in the bathroom. Both men stand side by side at the sink, reaching for toothbrushes in synchronized movements that come from repetition. Not talking. Not looking at each other. Just the sound of brushing, water running, the intimate mundanity of getting ready for bed.

Beard spits. Rinses. Looks at himself in the mirror.

He still looks wrecked. The bruise on his cheek is darkening. His eyes are tired, bloodshot from alcohol and exhaustion and the weight of carrying a loss he can't fix. His hair is sticking up at odd angles.

Ed reaches over, doesn't ask, doesn't announce and gently flattens a wild piece of Beard's hair. His fingers work carefully, smoothing it back into place. Doesn't say anything. Just fixes it.

Beard's eyes flick to Ed's reflection in the mirror. The tiniest smirk touches his mouth, not amusement exactly, but something softer. Gratitude, maybe. Recognition of care.

He rinses one more time, spits, and turns off the tap. Ed finishes his own routine. Beard flicks off the bathroom light as they leave, the flat falling into darkness except for the faint glow from street lights filtering through the bedroom window.

They walk to the bedroom together. The bed is unmade from this morning, Ed had been in too much of a rush to make it before leaving for Wembley, and Beard never bothers. Now it looks inviting in its messiness, sheets rumpled and welcoming.

They crawl in from their respective sides. Ed pulls the comforter up over both of them with practiced efficiency. Beard exhales, long and deep, like he's finally allowed to collapse, finally allowed to stop holding himself together.

They lie on their backs for a second, staring at the ceiling. The flat is quiet. The city hums distantly outside.

Then, in one practiced motion, Ed rolls toward Beard and tucks his head against his shoulder.

Beard doesn't flinch. Doesn't tense. Just lets him in. His arm comes up automatically, curling around Ed's back, holding him close.

Ed's voice is soft, barely above a whisper. "Y’Alright?"

Beard's response is immediate, certain. "Now I am."

They settle into each other. Ed's hand rests flat against Beard's chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Beard's fingers trace absent patterns on Ed's shoulder blade through the hoodie fabric.

The loss still exists. Tomorrow they'll have to face it, face the team, face Ted, face the reality of what happened at Wembley. There will be analysis and reflection and the painful work of moving forward.

But right now, in this moment, in this bed, none of that matters.

Chapter Text

Ed is in Higgins' office, seated at the small conference table with financial reports spread out in front of him. He's cross-checking numbers for a report Rebecca wants in a few days, quarterly projections, budget reconciliations, the usual administrative work that keeps the club running smoothly.

Higgins sits at his desk, reviewing something on his computer, occasionally making small approving sounds when numbers align properly.

The door opens without warning.

An elderly man and a woman enter, leading what appears to be an excessive number of greyhounds on leashes. The dogs flow into the office like a grey-and-tan river, tails wagging, nails clicking on the floor.

Ed looks up from his spreadsheet, pen frozen mid-notation. "What is happening?"

Higgins stands, face lighting up with genuine delight. "New mascot candidates!"

It's needed, of course. Since Dani accidentally killed the last one, Earl, rest in peace, after kicking a ball directly at him during a penalty kick.

Ed stares at the dogs. He likes dogs well enough, not enough to have them as pets, mind you, too much maintenance and unpredictability, but they're fine in controlled doses. One of the greyhounds approaches him, sniffing at his hand. Ed sets down his pen and pets it carefully, scratching behind its ears with mechanical precision.

There's a knock on the door.

Keeley enters, and her face immediately transforms into pure joy. "Oh, what's this?"

Higgins is now holding two dogs, one in each arm, both looking extremely pleased with themselves. "This is Mascot Idol: Semifinals! One of these two contestants will be our new mascot." He lifts each dog slightly as he introduces them. "Will it be Macy Greyhound or Tina Feyhound?"

Keeley gasps with delight. "Aw! Are they all from Barkingham Palace?"

The elderly man nods enthusiastically. "Yep!"

Ed scratches the back of his neck. Things are getting more ridiculous by the second. He should leave, he has work to finish, numbers to verify, a quiet office across the building where dogs don't spontaneously appear. But something tells him to stay. Some instinct that this moment matters, or will matter, or should matter.

So he stays.

Higgins gestures toward the woman with the dogs. "Miss Campbell here runs the shelter."

The woman, Suzi Campbell, extends her hand to Keeley with the kind of intensity that immediately sets off alarm bells. "London's premier all-female dog breeder. Suzi Campbell. Nice to meet you."

Keeley shakes her hand, smiling warmly. "Nice to meet you."

"Huge fan." Suzi says, her grip not loosening.

"Oh, thanks."

"Huge fan." Suzi repeats, with even more emphasis, still shaking Keeley's hand with unwavering eye contact.

They continue shaking hands. It's been at least seven seconds now, which is approximately six seconds too long for a professional handshake.

Keeley glances around, slightly uncertain. "Is now a bad time?"

Higgins clears his throat, gently setting down the two dogs. "Um, no. Uh, could you give us a minute?"

Suzi finally releases Keeley's hand, only to immediately lift it to her lips and kiss it with reverent precision before departing with the elderly man and the parade of greyhounds. The door closes behind them.

Ed doesn't look up from the dog he's still petting. "That woman has it bad for you, Keeley."

Keeley turns to him, smirking. "Relieved you're not the target this time, Ed?"

Ed meets her eyes, completely serious. "Very."

Higgins settles back into his chair, adjusting his glasses. "Um, something's wrong?"

Keeley takes a breath, and her entire demeanor shifts, from playful to nervous to excited all at once. "Actually, something is incredibly right. The money people that back Bantr? They want to finance me opening my own PR firm."

Higgins' hands fly to his face. "Oh my God!"

Ed actually smiles, a real one, genuine and warm. "That sounds great. I'm happy for you."

Keeley exhales, relief and anxiety mixing together. "Thank you. I need some advice."

Higgins leans forward, clearly touched. "I'm flattered that you came to us instead of Rebecca."

"She's the one I'm afraid of telling," Keeley admits, her voice smaller now. "I'm scared."

Higgins nods sagely. "Well look, that is perfectly natural."

Ed crosses his arms, leaning back against the table. "It can be terrifying, becoming your own boss."

"No," Keeley clarifies, shaking her head. "I'm scared of telling Rebecca I'm leaving."

"Oh, right," Higgins says, understanding dawning. "Because she's so intimidating."

"No, she's one of my best friends."

Ed shakes his head slightly, his tone matter-of-fact. "Keeley here doesn't want to appear ungrateful for the opportunity Rebecca has given her here."

Keeley points at him, vindicated. "Ed gets it. You need to speak more, Ed."

Ed shrugs, a tiny movement that says I speak when necessary.

Higgins steeples his fingers, taking on the tone of someone about to impart wisdom. "Keeley, a good mentor hopes you will move on. A great mentor knows you will."

Keeley's face lights up. "Ooh. I like that."

Higgins looks pleased with himself. "Yeah? Just made it up."

"Wow!"

Ed frowns. He's about to argue that he's definitely heard that somewhere before, but Higgins shoots him a look. The kind of look that says let me have this one.

Ed closes his mouth.

"I'm happy for you, Keeley. Really," Ed says, and he means it. "Though it would suck to have to drive to your new office when you want to share your ideas with me."

Keeley tilts her head, confused. "But you don't like my ideas."

"I do," Ed corrects. "I just don't like the numbers."

Keeley laughs. "Don't worry, Ed. I'm gonna be here as often as I can. And when you do have to drive, I will reimburse your gas money."

Ed nods once, satisfied. "Sounds perfect."

There's a soft squelching sound.

All three of them slowly turn their heads toward one of the greyhounds that somehow remained in the office unnoticed. It's squatting in the corner, doing what dogs do, directly onto Higgins' office carpet.

Ed stands immediately. "And it's time for me to go."

He grabs his financial reports and exits Higgins' office with remarkable speed, leaving Higgins and Keeley to deal with the aftermath of Mascot Idol: Semifinals.

Behind him, he hears Higgins' defeated voice: "Oh no. Oh, Macy. Or Tina. Whichever one you are."

Ed walks back toward his own office, shaking his head slightly, a small smile still on his face.

Keeley's going to do great. The numbers will probably give him a headache, but she's going to do great.

The next day, Rebecca's office is filled with the sound of crying.

Not sad crying, the messy, emotional kind that happens when something good and hard collides. Keeley and Rebecca are both in tears, standing near Rebecca's desk, tissues clutched in hands.

"I'm so sorry." Keeley says, her voice thick.

Rebecca shakes her head, mascara threatening to run. "No, don't be... it's good."

"You helped this panda become a lion."

Rebecca's face crumples with pride and affection. "I'm so proud of you."

"Thank you."

They embrace, holding each other tightly in that way women do when they're celebrating and mourning something at the same time.

The door opens.

Ed enters with a folder of financial reports, the ones Rebecca wanted, the ones he's been meticulously compiling and cross-checking. He takes three steps into the office, sees the scene unfolding, and freezes.

His face does something complicated. A cringe, maybe. Or profound discomfort. Ed never knows what to do during emotional moments. They're unpredictable. Spreadsheets don't cry.

He slowly, carefully begins to turn back toward the door.

"Ed?" Rebecca's voice cuts through his escape attempt.

He stops.

"Come here." She gestures with her hand, still hugging Keeley, but making a clear beckoning motion for Ed to approach.

Ed's eyebrows rise slightly. "Uh..."

Rebecca's tone shifts to commanding. "Just get here!"

Ed walks closer with the cautious energy of someone approaching a wild animal. When he's within reach, Rebecca's free arm shoots out and pulls him into the hug, turning it into an impromptu group embrace.

Ed stands there, arms at his sides, sandwiched between two crying women. "...Okay?"

His tone suggests this is very much not okay, but he's accepting his fate.

After what feels like an eternity but is probably only fifteen seconds, they break apart. Ed immediately steps back, straightening his jacket with precise movements, and places the financial reports on Rebecca's desk with careful ceremony.

Rebecca's phone buzzes on her desk. She picks it up, glances at the screen, and her entire demeanor changes.

"Holy fucking shit."

Keeley's tear-stained face shifts to concern. "Oh no, now what?"

Rebecca stares at her phone like it's personally betrayed her. "Rupert's just bought West Ham United."

"No."

Ed shakes his head, his internal monologue practically audible: These rich people. He's thinking about next season already, how heated it's going to be with this news, how much more complicated the financials will become if they're promoted and facing Rupert's team directly.

Rebecca's voice is cold, sharp with years of practiced bitterness. "And to think for a second, I thought him giving me his shares in the club was a kind gesture." She laughs, the kind of laugh that has no humor in it. "You know, I'm actually quite reassured to find out that he is still just a selfish, conniving cock."

Keeley nods, wiping her eyes. "Yeah. It does return a certain balance to the universe, doesn't it?"

They both laugh, real laughter this time, the kind that comes from recognizing patterns, from knowing someone so well that even their worst behavior becomes predictable.

Ed snorts.

It's involuntary. Just a small sound, not quite a laugh, but definitely amusement escaping despite his best efforts to remain professionally neutral.

Both women turn to look at him.

Rebecca raises an eyebrow. "Just laugh, Ed. If you think something is funny, just laugh."

Ed's expression doesn't change. "I'll try next time."

Rebecca shakes her head, equal parts exasperated and fond.

She turns back to Keeley, her voice becoming serious again. "Promise me you will not go and work for him."

Keeley frowns, genuinely offended by the suggestion. "He can't afford me. Richmond is my football club. You know that."

"Well, that's if we get promoted," Rebecca points out pragmatically. "You might not want to work with us if we're still in the Championship."

Keeley considers this. "That's fair."

Rebecca reaches out, taking Keeley's hand. Her voice softens into something mentoring, something generous. "A bit of advice for being a boss. Hire your best friend."

Keeley's face crumples again. "Fuck you."

And just like that, they're crying and hugging again. A fresh wave of emotion crashing over both of them.

Ed stands there, three feet away, hands clasped in front of him like he's at a funeral. His discomfort is palpable.

"...Can I leave?"

Rebecca waves her hand toward the door without breaking the hug, a dismissive gesture that clearly means yes, please, go.

Ed doesn't need to be told twice.

He exits Rebecca's office with remarkable speed for someone trying to maintain dignity, closing the door quietly behind him.

In the corridor, he exhales slowly, straightening his tie.

Emotional moments. Why are there so many emotional moments in this building?

Moments before Richmond's match against Brentford F.C., the left side of the coaches' office hums with pre-game energy.

Nate stands at the tactics board, making small adjustments to the formation, his movements precise but tense. Beard and Ed sit next to each other at the table. Ed's been coming to the coaches' office more often lately, ever since Beard told him what Nate did. Just to be an extra pair of eyes. Just to watch that bloke.

Ted sits with his coffee, relaxed in that way he gets before matches when he's decided to trust the preparation.

Roy slowly enters from the locker room, his presence immediately commanding attention even when he's trying to be casual.

Ted claps his hands together. "All right. Y'all good to go on running Nate's false nine today, yeah?"

Nate doesn't turn from the board. "You'd be fools not to."

Beard nods once. "Yeah, we ought to give it a shot."

Roy crosses his arms. "Why change it now?"

A head pops up from the window on the right side of the office. Higgins, appearing like a helpful gopher. "I agree!"

Ted walks toward the window, surprised and delighted. "Whoa! Did you get kicked out of your office again?"

"No, no," Higgins says quickly. "Temporary relocation while they change the carpet in there. It was absolutely covered in dog shit."

Ed doesn't look up from the table. "I was there... watching it happen in real time."

"Oh, yeah. No, been there, done that," Ted says sympathetically. "Okay. Well, anybody else got anything they wanna talk about before we head out there?"

Roy shifts his weight, and something in his posture changes. Becomes uncertain. "Yeah, um. I could... use some... advice."

Ted and Beard look at each other. Their eyebrows rise simultaneously. Their eyes slowly widen in perfect synchronization, the kind of nonverbal communication that comes from years of friendship.

Ted turns to Roy, his voice climbing with excitement. "Wait, hold on. Roy, are you saying you wanna become a Diamond Dog?"

Roy's face immediately hardens. "Fuck no. I'm just saying I wouldn't mind being in the room whilst it fucking happens."

Ted's grin doesn't fade. "Yeah. Okay. Well, how about a one-time visitor's pass for our junkyard dog here, yeah?"

Ted, Beard, and Higgins immediately start barking, enthusiastic, loud, completely committed to the bit.

"WOOF WOOF WOOF!"

Nate joins in with a single, unenthusiastic "Woof."

Ed startles in his seat, his shoulders jerking slightly. He still hasn't gotten used to the barking, may never get used to the barking.

"Oh, it's happening again." he mutters.

Ted stands, gesturing broadly. "Diamond Dogs, mount up!"

Beard claps once, sharp and decisive, before moving to close the office door, sealing them in. Roy rolls his eyes but doesn't leave.

Ed half-stands. "Should I leave?"

"Oh no, Ed. Stay. Please." Ted says, gesturing for him to sit back down.

Ed settles back into his chair. Ted moves toward the window to help pull Higgins through.

Higgins holds up a hand. "Yeah, I'm just gonna stay put."

Ted pauses, considers this. "Okay, good idea."

He returns to his seat, the circle now complete: Ted, Beard, Ed, Nate standing by the board, Roy leaning against a desk, Higgins framed in the window like a portrait.

Ted looks at Roy with genuine warmth. "All right, Roy. Bark away."

Roy takes a breath. "Remember I told you I had to do that photoshoot thing with Keeley?"

Everyone nods or makes sounds of confirmation.

"I know I said I fucking hate doing those things, and I do fucking hate doing those things." Roy's jaw works, struggling with vulnerability. "But in the end, they didn't use a single picture with me in it. And it hurt my... feeling."

The room goes quiet. Not uncomfortable, thoughtful.

Higgins speaks first, his voice soft. "In Year Five, I was not allowed in the class photo because I developed a rare smile allergy."

Beard's response is immediate and flat. "Not the same situation."

Roy continues, pushing through. "The thing is... she looked so fucking great. On her own. Without me." His voice catches slightly. "So natural. It would've actually been fucking weird if I was in the pictures." He pauses, and his expression darkens. "And then at Rebecca's dad's funeral, Jamie fucking Tartt tells her he's fucking in love with her."

The room erupts with variations of shocked "Whoa!"

Beard leans forward, genuinely surprised. "And he's still alive?!"

"Yeah," Roy says, and there's still disbelief in his own voice. "Instead of beating him to death, I fucking forgave him. I'm still fucking furious about it."

Nate clears his throat. The sound cuts through the room like a knife.

"There's something I have to confess as well."

Beard immediately looks at Ed, then at Ted. This is it. The moment. Nate's going to admit what he did, leaking Ted's panic attack to the press, betraying the man who believed in him.

Ted's voice is gentle, encouraging. "Go ahead, Nate-dawg."

Nate takes a breath. "Roy, when Keeley and I went shopping the other day, I kissed her."

Beard's entire body deflates. He shrugs, rolls his eyes in barely contained frustration. Of course. Nate didn't come clean. Didn't confess the actual crime.

Roy's response is immediate and easy. "Yeah. She told me about it. It's okay."

Nate's voice rises, almost desperate. "I kissed her. I kissed your girlfriend."

"We're good."

"All Jamie did was talk to her, and you wanted to kill him. Don't you at least wanna headbutt me or something?"

Roy's patience is clearly thinning. "You made a mistake, Nate. Don't worry about it."

"No, no. I deserve to be headbutted."

Beard's voice cuts through, cold and deliberate. "I'd be happy to headbutt you, Nate."

Ed immediately looks at Beard, shaking his head slightly, a clear signal: Don't give it away.

Ted stands quickly, hands raised in a calming gesture. "All right, all right. Anybody wanna weigh in on Roy's situation?" He looks directly at Ed. "Ed?"

Ed glances around the room, at Ted's expectant face, at Beard's subtle encouragement, at Roy's guarded expression, at Higgins nodding supportively from the window, at Nate still standing by the tactics board looking increasingly agitated.

"Oh... um, okay." Ed straightens slightly, organizing his thoughts with the same precision he applies to spreadsheets. "About the photoshoot with Keeley. You felt hurt over not being included in the photos because you wanted people to know you were part of her success." He pauses, making sure Roy is actually listening. "But then you said it yourself. Keeley being on her own in the pictures feels more right because it is. She's earned it herself. You're just her support in the background. And when she gets the spotlight all to herself, you still feel proud because that's how it's supposed to be."

Roy's expression shifts, recognition, maybe relief.

Ed continues. "And about you forgiving Jamie. Sometimes, forgiveness isn't for the other person. It's for yourself. It just means what happened doesn't control you anymore."

Roy blinks, processing. "Shit." He looks around at the others, then back to Ed. "You sound really sane compared to these wankers. You should talk more."

Ed shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Heard that before. Still considering the benefits."

Ted is beaming now, that thousand-watt smile that means he's discovered something wonderful. "So what do you say, Ed?"

"About what?"

"About joining the Diamond Dogs!"

Ed's eyebrows raise. "Are you inducting me?"

"Oh, we're way past induction, buddy."

Higgins chimes in from the window, cheerful and matter-of-fact. "Plus you're married to a founding member. Bit of a legacy admission."

Ted leans forward. "So... you in or–"

"Sure. I'm in."

Roy's head drops back in exaggerated frustration. "Fuck! I take back what I said."

Ted claps his hands together. "All right, that settles it! And now we got work to do, yeah? Diamond Dogs, dismount?"

Ted, Beard, and Higgins start barking immediately "WOOF WOOF WOOF!"

Ed hesitates for just a second, then joins in. His barks are slightly quieter, more reserved, but he commits. "Woof. Woof."

While barking, Ed's eyes lock onto Nate. His expression doesn't change, still flat, still neutral, but there's something in his gaze. Something cold and deliberate. A look that says: If you don't like it here anymore, maybe you should leave.

Roy looks at Ed, his expression somewhere between impressed and annoyed. "You fucking disappointed me."

Nate's face goes through several emotions in rapid succession: shock, anger, betrayal, rage. His jaw clenches. His hands ball into fists.

He storms out of the office, slamming through the locker room with enough force that several players look up in alarm.

First, Roy doesn't see him as a threat, forgives him easily, dismissively. Then Ed. Ed. Ed should fucking owe him. Nate was the one who suggested Ed join the Diamond Dogs months ago when no one else was thinking about it. And now Ed's doing whatever the fuck this is: stealing his place, taking what should be his, getting acceptance that Nate has to fight for every single day. Ed can be an asshole when he needs to be.

Ed is Nate's last straw.

Chapter Text

Ed is summoned to Rebecca's office.

He sits across from her at the desk, posture straight, hands folded in his lap, perfectly professional, perfectly composed. Rebecca looks at him with that particular expression she gets when she's about to deliver news she's not sure how he'll take.

Higgins stands at the sideboard, fiddling with the tea setup, teapot, cups, the small jar of honey he insists makes all the difference. The ritual gives him something to do with his hands.

"So, Ed," Rebecca begins, her tone carefully casual. "How's everything going?"

"Good," Ed says simply.

He elaborates briefly, financially, the club is doing alright. Steady revenue, controlled spending, no disasters on the horizon. Promotion to the Premier League has brought new challenges, but nothing they can't manage. The numbers are solid.

Rebecca nods, taking this in. "That's good to hear. I'd like to talk to you about your office. The far wing?"

Ed's spine straightens imperceptibly. "...Yes?"

"The construction team's knocking out the east corridor for the sponsor lounge expansion." She pauses, and there's something almost apologetic in her expression. "Your wall may or may not become a window. Or rubble."

Ed knows they're doing reconstruction. He approved the finances for it, signed off on the contractor bids, reviewed the timeline. He just didn't expect his office to go first. A cold thread of worry winds through his chest. Is this a sign? Are they firing him? Making him redundant? Or worse, making him work remotely again, back to the isolation of the sofa and spreadsheets and no human contact except Beard coming home smelling like grass and training?

Higgins chimes in helpfully, still focused on the tea. "They've already removed the plumbing, I believe."

Ed's smile is tight, forced. "I noticed the toilet stopped working..."

Rebecca leans forward slightly. "So. We'd like to relocate you."

Ed exhales, long, relieved, the tension in his shoulders releasing all at once. "Oh thank God."

Rebecca raises an eyebrow, amused. "What did you think we were gonna do?"

"I thought–" Ed stops himself, shaking his head. "Nevermind. Where do you want me?"

"I hope you don't mind something smaller," Rebecca says carefully. "And sharing the space with another person. Nate's old desk, with Roy Kent?"

Of course. Nate is off to West Ham now, the head coach of their rival club, leaving his space in the coaches' office vacant. The right side of the office, Roy's side, has an empty desk just sitting there.

Internally, Ed is screaming. A silent, enthusiastic hell yes.

Externally, his expression doesn't change. "That would be suitable."

Rebecca's mouth quirks into a knowing smile. She winks. "I expect your productivity to drop, just a tiny bit."

Ed frowns slightly. "Uh, why?"

"Because you'll be just a few steps away from your husband?"

Ed blinks. "Oh... I think I'll keep it the same way..."

Rebecca leans back in her chair, grinning. "Oh come on, Ed. We all saw you two kiss. We don't mind seeing more of that."

Ed's frown deepens. Beside him, Higgins visibly cringes, his hand freezing mid-pour.

Rebecca's smile falters. She clears her throat. "That was totally inappropriate. I apologize."

Ed's expression doesn't change. "That's alright." He pauses. "When should I move?"

"As soon as you want."

"Like now?"

Rebecca blinks, surprised. "Sure."

Ed nods once, stands, and heads for the door without further ceremony.

The door closes behind him.

Rebecca turns to Higgins, who's now carefully pouring tea like nothing happened. "I do not know how to talk to that man."

The locker room is in the middle of pre-training warmups and chaos. Someone's juggling a ball indoors. Someone's doing yoga on a bench. Music plays low from someone's phone speaker, something with a decent beat that half the team is unconsciously moving to.

The locker room door opens.

Ed walks in, crisp as always. His perfectly tailored suit, tie knotted with precision while holding a single cardboard box with all his belongings inside, balanced easily against his hip with one arm.

The room freezes.

All heads swivel toward him like meerkats spotting a predator.

Jamie's eyes go wide. "Oh my God, did you get fired?"

Sam sits up from his stretching, concern flooding his face. "Ed? You're here to say goodbye, aren't you?"

Isaac stands, jaw set with determination. "Nah, nah. We're not havin' this. Don't worry, Ed. We'll talk to Rebecca. We'll sort this."

Jamie starts a chant, pumping his fist: "Justice for Ed! Justice for Ed!"

Several players immediately join in, voices rising in solidarity. "JUSTICE FOR ED! JUSTICE FOR ED!"

Ed just stands there, blinking, mildly confused by the union uprising forming around him.

"Can everyone please calm down?" he says, his flat tone cutting through the chanting. "No, I'm not fired. I'm just moving there."

He points toward the coaches' office.

The team goes "Ooooh..." in unison, the kind of collective sound that usually follows a particularly good burn or a surprise revelation.

Dani bounces to his feet, grinning like Christmas came early. "Papa Finance is gonna be here with us every day!"

The team erupts in cheers like someone just scored the winning goal. Applause, whoops, someone actually whistles.

Through the coaches' office's open door, Beard is visible sitting at his desk, legs up and resting on it, completely absorbed in a chess strategy book. He looks up at the commotion, sees Ed, and gives him a small wave.

Ed waves back, brief, professional, appropriate.

The room immediately breaks out into whistles and exaggerated kissing noises.

Jamie smirks, leaning back against his locker. "Man's leveling up. Right next to Coach Beard. That's serious commitment."

Sam approaches Ed, earnest as always. "Do you need help moving?"

Ed's response is characteristically dry. "Appreciated, but everything is already inside the box."

He walks past the lockers toward the coaches' office. Players pat his back as he passes, offer him protein bars, which he politely declines, and generally act like he's returning from war rather than moving twelve meters across the building.

Roy emerges at the coaches’ office’s doorway, scowling at the chaos. "Shut the fuck up! All of you!"

The locker room quiets slightly, though the grins remain.

Ed enters the coaches' office and closes the door behind him, muffling the noise. He sets his box on his new desk, Nate's old desk, though no one calls it that anymore, across Roy's desk.

Ted is at his own desk, reviewing something on his laptop. He looks up when Ed enters, his face breaking into that familiar warm smile.

Ed turns to him, his expression becoming more serious. "Hey, Ted. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for what Nate did to you. It was... very distasteful."

Ted blinks, a little caught off guard. The smile doesn't fade, but something shifts in his eyes, surprise, maybe, and gratitude. "Well shoot, Ed. Thank you. That means a lot."

He then turns to Beard, faux-whispering behind his hand.

"You told him?" Ted asks quietly, though everyone in the room can hear him.

Beard doesn't look up from closing his book, his tone completely flat. "In case you forgot, Coach... we're married."

Ted snaps his fingers. "Right. Right! Sometimes I still think y'all's anniversary party was a fever dream I had." His voice goes wistful. "It was so beautiful. And I definitely cried into a cupcake. Maybe two cupcakes."

Ed smiles faintly. Beard blinks like that's a completely normal sentence.

Ted leans forward, eyes bright with mischief. "Anyway! Now that you're working next door, can I expect to see Coach Beard's cheek getting kissed at 9:01 AM sharp?"

Beard and Ed immediately, instinctively, shake their heads in perfect synchronization.

"Okay... okay..." Ted tries again. "Can y'all at least enter the office holding hands every morning?"

Another synchronized head shake. Totally deadpan. Completely united in their refusal.

Ed's tone is apologetic but firm. "We're going to be very disappointing."

Ted sighs dramatically. "Aw, man. Y'all are like the Mona Lisa of romance. You know it's beautiful, but no one gets to see the brushstrokes."

Beard tilts his head, considering this. "I like that."

Ted grins. "I bet you do." He turns back to Ed. "Welcome aboard, Eddie!"

Ed's expression flattens further, if that's even possible. "Please don't call me that. But thank you."

He walks back to his side of the office, the right side, Roy's side, nodding at Roy, who's been watching this entire exchange with his characteristic scowl. Roy's eyes track Ed's movements as he begins unpacking his box: the framed photos, some books, files, the coffee mug.

Roy's voice cuts through the space, gruff and territorial. "Don't touch my stuff."

Ed turns his head to look at Roy directly. "I don't plan to."

Their eyes hold for a moment. Not hostile, exactly. Just... assessing. Two people establishing boundaries, testing whether this arrangement will work.

After a few days since Ed settled into his new space, Roy is discovering something unexpected about his office mate.

Ed turned out to be the office sharer Roy thought he wanted: quiet, not disruptive at all. Ed just writes an awful lot of emails, typing all of them with near-silent precision. He files spreadsheets, reviews budgets, cross-checks numbers. Very rarely takes phone calls, and when he does, they're brief, efficient, conducted in that flat monotone that gives away nothing.

They perfectly parallel play. Roy does his coaching work: reviewing tactics, watching match footage, occasionally grumbling at the whiteboard. Ed does his financial work: spreadsheets, projections, the endless administrative machinery that keeps the club running. They exist in the same space without intersecting.

Roy thought this was what he wanted.

It's not.

The realization creeps up on him over those first few days. He hates people. He values his space. He doesn't need constant conversation or forced camaraderie. But also, and this is the part that's starting to bother him: why isn't Ed trying to talk to him?

Everyone tries to talk to Roy eventually. Players seeking approval. Staff making small talk. Ted with his endless optimism. Even Beard, in his own minimal way, engages.

But Ed? Nothing. Just quiet competence and the soft clicking of his keyboard.

It's driving Roy slightly insane.

Today, Roy decides to initiate.

The shared office is still and professional, like a library with weights nearby. Ed sits at his desk, typing quietly. Multiple spreadsheets open on his monitor, numbers scrolling as he cross-references something. Earbuds in, but only one ear, which Roy has noticed is Ed's concession to being theoretically available for conversation. His desk is impeccably neat: laptop, coffee mug, the two framed photos, a small stack of files aligned with geometric precision.

Roy sits at his own desk, glowering at a tactics board like it owes him money. He occasionally sneaks glances at Ed, quick, furtive, like he's trying to catch him doing something interesting. He never is. Just typing. Always typing.

The only sound in the office is Ed's keyboard and the low hum of a kettle heating slowly on a warmer in the corner.

Roy clears his throat.

No response.

He coughs, louder this time, more deliberate.

Still nothing. Ed's fingers don't even pause on the keyboard.

Roy's voice comes out gruffer than he intends. "You take phone calls?"

Ed doesn't look up, his tone perfectly even. "Only when legally necessary."

"Hmph."

More silence. Roy drums his fingers on his desk, a restless, irritated rhythm. Ed finishes an email, clicks send, scrolls to the next item on his list. His expression never changes.

Roy tries again, his voice slightly less aggressive. "I thought this office move was gonna be a nightmare. Thought you were gonna talk a lot."

Ed finally pauses, though his eyes stay on the screen. "Didn't you want me to talk more?"

Roy grunts. Stares at the floor. He's genuinely at a loss here. Everyone always tells Ed to talk more: Rebecca, Keeley, half the Diamond Dogs. But now that Ed's not talking, Roy finds himself... what? Missing conversation he never had with him in the first place?

This is absurd.

He shifts in his chair, trying a different angle. "Doesn't matter. Y'ever... eat lunch?"

Ed switches tabs on his screen, reviewing what looks like a budget forecast. "Sometimes."

"We have a break room."

"I'm aware."

Roy squints at him, as if Ed's hiding a secret social life under that perfectly tailored blazer. He's not. Ed is exactly what he appears to be: a man who eats lunch when necessary and otherwise keeps working.

Roy decides to go full awkward. Might as well commit.

"Right. Well. Let me know if you ever wanna..." He pauses, searching for words. "I dunno. Sit in the same room and chew things at the same time."

Ed finally, finally looks up from his laptop. Turns his head to look at Roy directly. His expression is as flat as ever, but there's something in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or recognition that Roy is trying.

"That sounds manageable."

Roy nods once, gruff. "Good."

"Is there a specific time you prefer for simultaneous mastication?"

Roy blinks. "What?"

"Lunch," Ed clarifies, his tone completely serious. "Do you have a preferred time?"

"Are you–" Roy stops himself. "Did you just make a joke?"

Ed's expression doesn't change. "I used the technically correct term for chewing."

"That's not–" Roy huffs out. "Fuck off."

Another few days pass.

The shared office has settled into a rhythm. Ed and Roy coexist with minimal friction: working in companionable silence, occasionally sharing the space at the kettle, having lunch together in the break room where they sit and chew things at the same time with remarkably little conversation.

It works. Better than Roy expected. Better than Ed would admit.

Today, that rhythm is interrupted by technology betraying Roy Kent.

He's trying to print something: match statistics, probably, or tactical formations, but the printer has other ideas. It makes a grinding sound, flashes an error message, and refuses to cooperate.

Roy starts banging on it. Not gently. With the full force of his considerable frustration.

"Goddamn it!" He hits it again. "Work, you fucking garbage!"

Another bang. The printer remains stubbornly jammed.

Ed doesn't look away from his laptop, his fingers still moving across the keyboard quietly. His voice comes out completely deadpan.

"Roy, could you please stop growling at the printer? It's a sensitive machine. God knows all the heat from that hairy body of yours causes the ink to clump."

Roy freezes mid-bang.

Blinks.

And then, before he can stop himself. Roy lets out a short, dry laugh. Not a big one. Just a quick huff of genuine amusement that escapes despite his best efforts to maintain his perpetual scowl.

"Fuck you, Ed."

But there's no heat in it. Just acknowledgment.

The door to their side of the office slides open.

Ted launches in like a rocket, eyes wide, pointing at Roy with both hands. "Did I just hear Roy Kent laugh?!" His voice climbs with excitement. "Did it finally happen? Did your soul do a giggle?"

Roy scowls, glaring down at Ted with his full intimidating height. "No."

Ed raises an eyebrow from his seat, watching this unfold with mild interest.

Ted spins to face him. "Ed? Did you do that? Did you make him laugh?"

Ed's expression doesn't change. "No. I think you misheard."

Roy turns his head slightly, giving Ed a long look. It's subtle, barely noticeable to anyone who doesn't know what to look for, but it's there. Almost like he's saying you know what? I like you.

Ed meets his gaze for a brief moment, then returns to his laptop.

Ted stands there for another second, looking between them like he's trying to solve a mystery. Then he slowly backs toward the door.

"Okay... okay... I believe you..." He doesn't sound like he believes them at all.

He walks back to his side of the office, and Ed can hear him whispering to Beard: "Oh my God! They're bonding!"

Ed shrugs, a tiny movement and stands up from his seat. He approaches the printer with the calm efficiency of someone who's fixed this exact problem seventeen times before.

He tinkers with it for a moment, opens a panel, removes the jammed paper with careful precision, closes it again, presses a button. The printer whirs to life, functioning perfectly.

Ed steps back. "See, Roy? Not everything needs to be brute forced."

Roy watches the printer spit out his documents with something like grudging respect. "I'm starting to regret wishing you to talk more."

Ed's voice drops slightly, almost threatening in its flatness. "It's only the beginning."

Roy huffs another laugh, quieter this time, but definitely there and collects his printouts.

Ed returns to his desk, settling back into his work like nothing happened.

But both earbuds are out now. Permanently, it seems.

And when Roy sits back down at his own desk, he's smirking.

Across the office, through the open door, Beard catches Ed's eye and gives him the tiniest nod of approval.

Ed returns it with equal subtlety.

It's night in Ed and Beard's flat. The familiar quiet of their home settles around them: distant traffic from the street below, the low hum of the refrigerator, the soft sound of water running in the bathroom.

They're doing their nighttime routine, standing side by side at the sink, brushing their teeth. This is when they talk, when the day is winding down and the walls come down with it. Something about the mundanity of the task makes conversation easier, more natural.

Beard speaks around his toothbrush, his voice slightly muffled. "You ever wonder why Nate did what he did?"

Ed rinses, spits, considers the question with the same analytical approach he brings to budget forecasts. "I can think of many reasons. Inferiority complex or vulnerable narcissism would be my best guess."

Beard pauses mid-brush, looking at Ed's reflection in the mirror. "How are you not a shrink?"

Ed meets his eyes in the glass. "'Cause I don't know what to do when people cry?"

"Me neither."

"One of many reasons why we're married."

They both chuckle, small, genuine sounds that echo slightly in the tiled bathroom.

Beard rinses his mouth, sets down his toothbrush carefully. "But it's too bad though. Nate's a good guy. I just wish he believed in himself the way Ted believed in him."

Ed nods, wiping his mouth with a towel. "Yeah, well. Man's made his choice."

Beard turns to look at him directly, not through the mirror anymore. "That's 'cause you pushed him over the edge."

Ed raises an eyebrow. "Excuse me? Nate already had underlying issues, and I'm not the one who threatened to headbutt him."

Beard's mouth quirks. "In that moment, I really wanted to."

"I know you did."

They finish their routine, Ed wiping down the counter with methodical precision because it matters to him, Beard hanging the towel on its designated hook because it matters to Ed and they move to the bedroom.

The bed is already unmade from this morning, sheets rumpled in that way that means neither of them bothered to fix it before leaving for work. They crawl in from their respective sides, settling into the familiar comfort of their own space.

Beard props himself up on one elbow, looking at Ed. "Anyway, you like your new office?"

Ed glances at him, one eyebrow raised. "You're asking like you can't see me across the room when we're working."

"No, really." Beard's voice is softer now, genuinely curious. "Is there anything you don't like?"

Ed considers this, staring at the ceiling. "Nope. Everything's fine. All my stuff is safe there, I do my job the way I always do, and Roy is a good officemate."

"Really?"

"Yeah. You just have to indulge him a bit and he'll follow suit."

Beard huffs a quiet laugh. "Right. If anyone can level with Roy Kent, it's you."

Ed turns his head to look at Beard properly. "Seriously, he's not bad, Greg."

"I believe you."

They lie next to each other in bed for a good minute. Not touching yet, just existing in the same space, comfortable in the silence.

Beard breaks it first. "Are you tired?"

Ed considers. "No, not really."

Beard shifts, rolling onto his side to face Ed. "You... wanna have sex?"

Ed's response is immediate "Yes."

Chapter Text

Rebecca's office has that mid-morning quality where the light comes in bright and clean through the windows, catching the polished surfaces of her desk and making everything look more optimistic than it has any right to be. The space is comfortably full: Rebecca behind her desk in her power position, Higgins perched on the arm of the sofa with his tablet, Keeley curled up on the couch like she still works here, and Ed standing near the window with his usual perfect posture, coffee mug in hand.

They've been talking for about twenty minutes now. Nothing urgent, nothing pressing. Just the kind of conversation that happens when people who work together also genuinely like each other: weekend plans, a funny story about Keeley's new clients at KJPR, Higgins' wife's latest baking experiment, Rebecca's ongoing war with her personal trainer.

It's nice. Easy. The kind of morning that makes working at a football club feel less like a job and more like a slightly chaotic family gathering.

Rebecca leans back in her chair, her expression softening as she looks at Keeley. "God, I do miss having you around, Keeley. The office feels emptier without you bouncing through it at all hours."

Keeley's face lights up with affection. "Aw, babe. I miss being here too. But you know I'm always just a text away. And I visit! I'm here now!"

Ed takes a sip of his coffee, his tone as flat as ever but with something warmer underneath. "It's true. We do miss you. The marketing budget is significantly more reasonable now, but it's also significantly less interesting."

Keeley points at him, grinning. "See? That's the nicest way anyone's ever told me I was expensive."

Rebecca laughs, and there's something genuine in it, not her corporate laugh or her sarcastic laugh, but real warmth. "Well, you were worth every pound."

The door swings open with Ted's characteristic energy.

"Good morning, everybody!" He's carrying his Richmond mug, already half-empty, which means he's been awake for hours and this is probably his third cup.

Rebecca glances up, her smile still in place. "Morning, Ted."

"Ted!" Keeley waves enthusiastically from the couch.

Ted's face brightens even more when he sees her. "Nice to see you here, Keeley."

"Always nice to be here." she replies, and means it.

Ted joins their little circle, setting his mug on Rebecca's desk with the casual confidence of someone who's been invited to do so many times it's become habit. He jumps into the conversation seamlessly, asking Keeley about her firm, teasing Higgins about something from training yesterday, checking in with Rebecca about the upcoming match schedule.

They talk for about a minute, easy and comfortable, before Higgins' phone buzzes on his lap.

He glances down. His eyes go wide. His mouth falls open slightly.

"Holy shit."

The room goes quiet. Everyone turns to look at him.

Ted's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. "Uh-oh."

Higgins stares at his phone like it's just delivered news of an alien invasion. His voice comes out slightly strangled. "Zava is leaving Juventus."

Keeley's hand flies to her mouth. "Whoa!"

Rebecca, Keeley, and Ed all pull out their phones immediately, thumbs already scrolling through news alerts and social media. Ted, notably, does not. He just stands there, looking around at everyone with the patient confusion of someone who's missing critical context.

After a moment of watching them all stare at their screens in various states of shock, Ted speaks up. "What about their kids?!"

Everyone looks at him.

Ted realizes he's said something very wrong. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what any of those things meant. I thought it was like Greek mythology or something." He gestures vaguely. "I was just lost. I just went with that. Sorry."

Ed doesn't look up from his phone, but his voice cuts through with perfect clarity. "Zava's a world-class striker who's about to leave his club in Italy."

"Ooh," Ted says, nodding like this makes perfect sense now. "Cacio later, pepe."

Higgins scrolls rapidly through his phone, eyes scanning headlines. "Apparently, he wants to play in the Premier League because his wife binged The Office and she wants to live in England."

Ted blinks. "I think you mean Scranton, Pennsylvania, buddy."

Rebecca doesn't look up from her screen. "No, the British Office, Ted."

"That's right." Ted snaps his fingers. "Y'all did a premake over here."

Higgins continues reading, his voice climbing with excitement. "If we got Zava, that would be amazing."

Ed's head snaps up. Just slightly, just enough. He's staring at Higgins now, and there's something in his expression that wasn't there a second ago. Not quite alarm, not quite dread, but somewhere in that neighborhood.

Keeley bounces slightly on the couch, her PR brain clearly spinning at maximum speed. "He would be huge for the club's brand. He's got like 90 million followers. One time he just posted the word '7 Million Likes.'" She pauses for emphasis. "It got 10 million likes."

Rebecca sets down her phone, her expression shifting into something more calculating. "Yes, but he is very expensive. And isn't he supposed to be a bit of a diva?"

Ed turns toward her immediately, his voice coming faster than usual, more emphatic. "Yes. I agree with you, Rebecca." He pauses, then adds with slightly more force, "Besides, we're doing very good with our current team."

Rebecca glances at him, a little surprised by the emphasis, but doesn't comment.

Higgins is still scrolling, clearly deep in the Zava rabbit hole. "Zava has played for 14 teams in 15 years, leaving behind nothing but chaos and trophies." He looks up, eyes shining. "Beautiful, shiny trophies."

Rebecca taps her phone against her palm, thinking. "Yes, but, Leslie, who wants to deal with all that drama?"

Ed's voice comes out slightly louder than it should, slightly sharper. "Yes, again, I really agree with you, Rebecca."

Everyone stops. Turns to look at him.

Ed never raises his voice. Ed never emphasizes anything with volume. Ed is the flattest, most controlled person in this building at any given moment.

Rebecca frowns slightly. "Ed?"

Keeley tilts her head, concern flickering across her face.

Ted's gaze sharpens, that particular focus he gets when something's wrong with someone he cares about.

Higgins, oblivious or maybe just too excited to notice, continues reading from his phone. "Apparently, everyone who can afford him wants to get him. Chelsea, Arsenal, United..."

Ed's entire body tenses. His jaw tightens. His hands grip his coffee mug just a fraction too hard. His mind is screaming, a single desperate mantra repeating over and over: Please don't say it, please don't say it, please don't say it–

"West Ham."

"I say, let's just go for it. I mean, maybe he's a handful, but who doesn't love a handful?" Rebecca quickly decides, doing a complete one eighty from her initial consideration.

Ed's face does something.

It's not dramatic. It's not a collapse or a breakdown. But it's something. A crack in the facade. A flicker of genuine distress that passes across his features before he can catch it: his eyes widen slightly, his mouth tightens, his shoulders hunch just a fraction, like he's bracing for impact.

For someone who's spent years maintaining perfect emotional neutrality, it's the equivalent of a scream.

Everyone sees it.

Rebecca leans forward slightly, her tone shifting to concern. "You alright there, Ed? Did you eat a spoiled breakfast this morning?"

Ed forces a smile. It's terrible. It doesn't reach his eyes, doesn't convince anyone, barely even qualifies as a smile. "No, uh–I am fine."

He is very clearly not fine.

But Rebecca's mind is already moving past his discomfort, already locked onto the bigger picture. She stands, her posture shifting into battle mode. Rupert has West Ham. Rupert is going after Zava. That means she needs to go after Zava harder, faster, better. She will not be beaten by her ex-husband. Not again. Not ever.

Her voice takes on that commanding tone that means a decision has been made. "We can afford him, right?"

Ed's smile falters completely. His voice comes out quieter now, flatter, like he's retreating back into the safety of professionalism. "Um... I have to draft financial plans for that."

Rebecca nods, decisive, already moving toward her desk to start making calls. "Well, time for you to work your magic." She looks around at all of them, her expression fierce and determined. "Let's go get Zava!"

The coaches' office is empty except for Ed.

The team is out on the pitch, their voices carrying faintly through the walls: Ted's enthusiastic shouts, Beard's occasional sharp instructions, the players calling to each other during drills. The rhythmic thud of footballs being kicked, the whistle blowing, all of it distant enough that Ed can pretend he's truly alone.

He sits at his desk, hunched over his laptop like a man trying to solve an impossible equation. Which, in a way, he is.

The screen glows with spreadsheets. Multiple tabs open, each one a different attempt at making the numbers work. Financial projections, budget allocations, salary cap calculations, transfer fee estimates. Column after column of figures that should add up to something manageable, something reasonable, something that doesn't make Ed want to throw his laptop out the window.

Technically, Richmond can afford Zava.

Technically.

But at what cost? The youth academy budget would take a hit. The training facility upgrades they'd planned would have to be postponed. The staff bonuses he'd carefully calculated would need to be reconsidered. The emergency fund he'd been building, the one that's saved them twice already this season, would be drained to almost nothing.

All for one player. One temperamental, expensive, chaos-creating player who'll probably leave in a year anyway based on his track record.

Ed stares at the numbers. They stare back, unforgiving and absolute.

His hands move to his face, fingers pressing against his temples like he can physically push the frustration out of his skull. Then, in one slow, defeated motion, he lowers his head and buries his face in his arms on the desk.

The cool surface of the desk presses against his forehead. His breathing is slow, controlled, the kind of deliberate breathing you do when you're trying very hard not to scream.

This is fine. He's fine. It's just numbers. Numbers always make sense eventually. He just needs to find the right configuration, the right formula, the right–

The sound of the separator door sliding open cuts through his spiral.

Ed doesn't lift his head. Maybe if he stays very still, whoever it is will leave.

"Heard they moved you here!" Keeley's voice is bright, cheerful, completely oblivious to the crisis happening three feet away from her. "Next door to the hubby, eh? That's nice."

Ed's shoulders tense.

"Anyway, Ed, I've got an idea!"

Please God, no. Not now.

Ed slowly, very slowly, lifts his head from his arms and turns to face Keeley.

His face is a mess. Not crying, not quite, but close. His eyes are red-rimmed, his jaw tight, his expression so thoroughly stripped of its usual neutrality that he looks like a completely different person. Vulnerable. Overwhelmed. On the edge of something he can't control.

Keeley's smile falters immediately. Her eyes go wide.

Ed opens his mouth. What comes out is something between a word and a whimper, a sound he didn't know he was capable of making. "Now's not a good time, Keeley."

Keeley's entire demeanor shifts. The bubbly energy drains away, replaced by genuine concern. She takes a half-step forward, her voice softening. "Oh, Ed. What's wrong?" She pauses, clearly trying to figure out how to help. "You want me to get Beard?"

"No." Ed's voice is strained, barely holding together. "Just go... please."

Keeley nods immediately, her hands coming up in a placating gesture. "Okay. I'll come back when you're... you again."

She backs away slowly, like she's leaving a wounded animal, and slides the door closed behind her.

For a moment, there's silence.

Then, from just outside the office, Keeley's voice, quiet and shocked: "Oh my God... Ed can cry."

Ed drops his head back down onto his arms.

Time passes. Ed doesn't know how much. Could be ten minutes, could be an hour. The numbers on his screen blur together, rearrange themselves, refuse to cooperate.

He's been talking to himself for the last few minutes, a low muttering that he doesn't entirely realize he's doing out loud.

"Come on, Edward." His voice is tight, controlled, the kind of self-coaching people do when they're trying to hold themselves together. "You can do this. These are just numbers. They will add up. They will make sense."

"Fuck's going on with you?"

Ed jerks upright in his chair, his head snapping toward the source of the voice.

Roy Kent stands just inside the office, staring at Ed with that intense, unblinking focus that makes most people deeply uncomfortable.

Ed didn't hear him come in. Didn't hear the team filing back into the locker room, didn't hear the usual post-training chaos of showers and banter and complaints about sore muscles.

How long has Roy been standing there?

Ed slowly turns his chair to face Roy properly. His voice starts low, measured, trying desperately to sound normal. "I'm perfectly fine, Roy."

But something in him snaps. The control he's been clinging to all morning finally gives out, and his voice climbs with each word, getting higher, faster, more desperate.

"Everything's okay, everything's great, we're just gonna spend half of the team's budget on one single player!"

Roy slowly raises his eyebrows. His mouth twitches. Just slightly, just enough.

He's holding back a smile.

Because watching Ed, perfect, controlled, unflappable Ed, completely losing his mind over a spreadsheet is genuinely amusing. Roy has never seen him like this. Didn't know Ed could be like this.

"You're losing your shit." Roy says, and there's something almost pleased in his tone.

Ed closes his eyes. Takes a long, deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm him down. Then he stands abruptly, his chair rolling back slightly, and grabs his jacket from where it's draped over the back of his seat.

"I need some fresh air."

Roy nods once, his expression neutral now. "You do."

Ed walks past him without another word, his movements stiff and controlled, like he's holding himself together through sheer force of will. He pushes through the locker room, barely registering the players scattered around in various states of undress and conversation.

Isaac glances up. "Ed? You good, bruv?"

Ed doesn't respond. Just keeps walking.

The locker room door swings shut behind him.

Roy stands in the office for a moment, staring at Ed's abandoned laptop, at the spreadsheets still glowing on the screen, at the coffee mug Ed left behind, now cold.

This isn't something Roy can help with. Isn't something the Diamond Dogs can fix with a pep talk and some barking. Because this isn't personal.

It's business. Literally.

Just Ed versus his spreadsheets.

And right now, the spreadsheets are winning.

Ed finds himself in the stands.

He's not entirely sure how he got here. He walked out of the coaches' office, through the locker room, down some corridors, up some stairs, and now he's sitting in one of the arena seats about halfway up, staring out at the empty pitch below.

The stadium is quiet in that eerie way it gets between matches and training sessions. No crowd roar, no commentary, no music. Just the vast emptiness of Nelson Road, waiting for the next moment it gets to come alive.

Ed sits with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely in front of him. His jacket is still draped over his arm, forgotten. His tie is slightly loosened, which is as disheveled as Ed ever allows himself to get in public.

He's trying to regroup. Trying to find that center of control he's built his entire professional identity around. Numbers are just numbers. Budgets are just budgets. This is solvable. Everything is solvable if you just think about it rationally.

Except he can't think rationally right now because every time he tries, he sees those spreadsheets and feels his chest tighten.

Footsteps echo from the nearby stairwell. Steady, unhurried, familiar.

Beard appears at the top of the stairs, spots Ed immediately, and walks over. He's still in his coaching gear, whistle hanging around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm. His face is neutral, but his eyes are sharp, assessing.

He stops at the end of Ed's row. "There you are."

Ed doesn't look up. Just continues staring at the pitch.

Beard moves down the row and settles into the seat next to him, setting his clipboard on the seat beside him. "Keeley said you were crying?"

Ed's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. "A little bit, yeah."

Beard turns slightly in his seat to face Ed properly, his arm coming to rest on the back of Ed's seat. Not touching him yet, just close. Present. "What's wrong?"

"Zava." Ed's voice is flat again, but there's exhaustion underneath it. "He is really, really expensive."

Beard nods slowly. "Right. Ted told me about it." He pauses, studying Ed's profile. "But, come on. You've handled worse, right?"

Ed shakes his head, still staring straight ahead. "No. This is the worst."

Beard's eyebrows rise slightly. "Really?"

Ed nods.

Beard's hand shifts from the back of the seat to Ed's shoulder, a solid, grounding weight. He's quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully.

"To be fair," Beard says eventually, "Zava is the best striker out there."

Ed finally turns to look at him, his expression somewhere between disbelief and betrayal. "What's wrong with Dani and Jamie? They're amazing strikers. And they're already ours."

"They're not Zava."

"Seriously?"

Beard's tone stays even, factual. "I'm just saying, if we could get Zava on the team, the chance of us winning the Premier League would be higher. A lot higher."

Ed's jaw tightens. "Yeah? Tell that to the players whose contracts I have to restructure."

"Are you kidding?" Beard's voice takes on a note of genuine surprise. "Most of them would play for free if they get to have Zava as their teammate."

Ed blinks. "Really?"

"Yeah. They worship him." Beard pauses, then adds, "You should see the group chat. They've been losing their minds since the news broke."

Ed glances around the empty stadium, checking the sight lines, making sure they're truly alone. Then, slowly, deliberately, he leans over and rests his head on Beard's shoulder.

Beard doesn't move. Just lets him settle there, his hand still on Ed's shoulder, thumb brushing small, absent circles.

Ed sighs, deep and exhausted. "I don't know. It just feels unfair." His voice drops even quieter. "I hate this, Greg."

Beard is quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is soft, thoughtful. "Fairness isn't always about numbers, Ed. Besides, Zava would probably move on to another team before you know it. He'd just help us win a few matches in the process."

Ed doesn't respond immediately. Just breathes, feeling the solid warmth of Beard beside him, the steady rhythm of his presence.

"Maybe you're right." Ed says finally.

Beard's mouth quirks slightly. "And remember what you said? Impulsivity is sometimes needed to move things forward."

Ed lifts his head just enough to glare at him. "Don't you dare use my words against me ever again."

They both chuckle, quiet, genuine sounds that echo slightly in the empty stadium.

Ed settles his head back on Beard's shoulder, and they sit like that for a moment, just existing together in the space.

Beard's voice is steady, certain. "Everyone here trusts you with the money, Ed. Just make the best decision for all of us like you always do." He pauses, squeezes Ed's shoulder gently. "You got this."

Ed takes a breath. Feels something settle in his chest, not fixed, not solved, but manageable. "I got this."

Beard turns his head slightly and presses a kiss to the top of Ed's head. Soft, brief, the kind of gesture that's theirs alone.

From somewhere behind them, a collective "Awwww..."

Both their heads jerk around simultaneously.

Isaac, Dani, Sam, Ted, and Keeley stand at the top of the stairs, clustered together like they've been watching a particularly heartwarming movie scene.

Dani has both hands pressed to his chest, his face lit up with pure joy. Sam is grinning. Isaac is trying not to smile but failing. Ted looks like he might cry. Keeley has her phone out, very obviously having just taken a photo.

Beard's voice cuts through the stadium, sharp and commanding. "How long have you been standing there?!"

Isaac holds up his hands defensively. "Just got here, mate."

"Liar." Beard points at all of them. "Get out of here, perverts!"

"We're not perverts!" Dani protests, still beaming. "We are just very happy for you!"

Ted wipes his eyes dramatically. "Y'all are just so sweet together. It's like watching a Hallmark movie but with more existential dread about spreadsheets."

Keeley waves her phone. "This is going in the group chat. The private one, don't worry."

"There's a private group chat?" Ed asks, lifting his head properly now.

"There's several private group chats," Sam says cheerfully.

Beard stands, gesturing toward the stairs with both hands like he's herding cats. "Everyone out. Now. This is a private moment."

"Was," Keeley corrects, still grinning. "Was a private moment. Now it's content."

Isaac is already heading back down the stairs, chuckling. "Man, Ed really does have emotions. Who knew?"

"I knew!" Dani calls out, following him. "I always knew Papa Finance had a soft heart!"

Sam lingers for just a second longer, his expression genuinely warm. "Feel better, Ed. And don't worry about the money. We trust you."

Ed nods, something tight in his throat. "Thanks, Sam."

Ted gives them both a little salute. "Carry on, fellas. We'll just be... literally anywhere else." He starts down the stairs, then pauses. "But seriously, Ed. Whatever you decide, we got your back."

Keeley blows them both a kiss before disappearing down the stairwell.

And then they're alone again.

Ed and Beard sit in the quiet for a moment, listening to the fading sound of footsteps and laughter echoing through the corridor.

Ed exhales slowly. "Well. That was mortifying."

Beard settles back into his seat, arm returning to the back of Ed's chair. "Could've been worse."

"How?"

"Could've been Roy."

Ed actually laughs, a real one, startled out of him.

Rebecca's office feels smaller than usual with Ed standing in front of her desk, folder in hand.

He's been working on this financial plan for three days straight. Three days of spreadsheets, calculations, restructuring proposals, creative accounting that pushed every boundary of what's legal and ethical without quite crossing any lines. If Ed's usual work is careful craftsmanship, this is art. Desperate, exhausted, slightly unhinged art.

If he's been creative with the accounting before, with this, he was Leonardo da Vinci.

Rebecca looks up from her desk, expectant. "So. Good news?"

Ed sets the folder down in front of her with careful precision. His voice is flat, drained of emotion, the kind of tone you use when you've accepted defeat but are too professional to show it. "News."

He opens the folder, gesturing to the neatly organized pages inside. "We'll have to restructure three player contracts. Delay two facility upgrades. And push back the nutrition program by six months."

Rebecca nods, already flipping through the pages, her eyes scanning the numbers with practiced efficiency.

Ed pauses, then adds, his voice taking on a note of quiet emphasis, "And Rebecca, let me just say... this is unwise."

Rebecca doesn't look up. Just waves her hand dismissively, a queen brushing aside the concerns of her advisors. "Oh, hush, Ed. You did your part. And it's time for me to do mine."

Ed stands there for a moment longer, staring at her, trying to communicate through sheer force of will that this is a terrible idea, that Zava is going to destabilize everything they've carefully built, that the numbers don't lie even when people desperately want them to.

But Rebecca is already on her phone, already making calls, already setting the machine in motion.

Ed walks out of her office feeling like he's just signed the club's death warrant in triplicate.

Eventually, inevitably, Zava joins Richmond.

His arrival is exactly as chaotic as Ed predicted. A press conference with too many cameras, a social media storm that crashes the club's website twice, players losing their minds with excitement in the group chat Ed refuses to check anymore.

And then there's Zava himself.

The first time Ed meets him, properly meets him, not just seeing him from across a room but actually standing in front of him, Zava extends his hand with the casual confidence of royalty greeting peasants.

"It is an honor," Zava says, his accent thick and theatrical, "for you to meet me."

Ed shakes his hand with professional courtesy, his expression perfectly neutral.

Inside, he almost rolls his eyes. Almost. The urge is so strong it takes genuine physical effort to suppress it.

This man. This incredibly expensive, ego-driven man is what they've sacrificed their financial stability for.

Fantastic.

The locker room undergoes immediate renovation. Not the kind Rebecca approved, the kind Zava demands.

Four cubbies in the corner, the best corner, with the best lighting and the most space, are claimed. Cleared out. Repurposed. Each locker door gets a custom nameplate: Z. A. V. A.

Because of course they do.

Ed shakes his head every single time he passes them. Every single day, walking from the locker room entrance to the coaches' office, there they are. Four cubbies spelling out the name of a man who probably has his own face tattooed somewhere on his body.

Ed passes them. Ed judges them silently. Ed continues to his desk.

It becomes a ritual.

Beard wasn't lying, though. The other players worship Zava. Actually, genuinely worship him like he's descended from Mount Olympus to grace them with his presence.

Jamie secretly shadows him. Sam watches him with wide-eyed admiration during practice. Isaac, normally too cool to show enthusiasm about anything, actually asked Zava for an autograph. For his niece, he claimed. No one believed him.

And then there's Dani.

Dani, beautiful, earnest, occasionally deeply concerning Dani.

They're in the locker room one afternoon, post-training, and Dani is holding court near his cubby, gesturing wildly as he tells a story. Ed is walking through on his way to the office, trying to be invisible, trying not to engage.

"I made love for the first time... to Zava's boots!" Dani says, his voice reaching a fever pitch of excitement.

The locker room goes quiet.

Several players turn to stare.

Ed stops walking. Freezes. His brain tries to process what he just heard and fails completely.

Ed's expression doesn't change, but something inside him withers and dies.

Whatever Dani meant when he said that, and Ed is genuinely not sure he wants clarification, it's further proof that Zava's presence has created some kind of mass hysteria.

Ed continues walking to the office. Sits down at his desk. Stares at his laptop.

Roy glances over from his own desk. "You heard that too?"

"Unfortunately."

"Fucking disturbing."

"Agreed."

They return to their work in solidarity.

Now, several weeks into the Zava era, the office has settled back into something resembling routine.

Ed types away at his laptop, reviewing budget reports and trying very hard not to think about how much money they're spending on Zava's personal nutritionist. Roy is at his own desk, scowling at tactics footage on his screen, occasionally making notes.

The silence is comfortable. Productive. They've gotten good at this, existing in the same space without needing to fill it with conversation.

Then Roy speaks, his tone casual but with an edge of mischief underneath. "So. What's the date?"

Ed doesn't look up from his screen. "For what?"

"For when I get to see you lose your shit again."

Ed's fingers pause on the keyboard. Just for a second. Then he resumes typing, his voice perfectly flat. "Let's see..." He pretends to think about it. "When you stop pretending you don't want to get back together with Keeley."

Roy's head snaps up. His eyes narrow dangerously. "You crossed a fucking line, Ed."

Ed glances at him, one eyebrow raised, completely unbothered. "You made the line clear for everyone to see."

Roy's jaw clenches. "Shut the fuck up."

Ed returns his attention to his laptop, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "You wanted me to talk more."

Roy stands slightly, his voice dropping to a growl. "Shut. The fuck. Up!"

Ed doesn't even look at him. Just continues typing, utterly calm. "That's what I thought."

Roy stares at him for a long moment, caught between genuine anger and grudging respect. Then he drops back into his chair, shaking his head.

The Zava era ends exactly as spectacularly as it began.

First, there's glory. Manchester United, one of the giants of English football, falls to Richmond 3-0. A hat trick. Zava, magnificent and untouchable, scoring goal after impossible goal while the team watches in awe and Ed watches the budget hemorrhage in real-time.

The winning streak continues. Top five ranking. Richmond climbs the table with Zava leading the charge, and for a brief, shining moment, it seems like maybe, just maybe, the financial nightmare was worth it.

Then they lose to West Ham. Badly.

Ninth place. Just like that. All that momentum, gone.

And then, before the Manchester City match, the match they desperately need to win to stay in contention, Zava disappears.

Not injured. Not sick. Just... gone.

The announcement comes via Instagram, because of course it does. A video of Zava standing in a field somewhere sunny and remote, avocados visible in the background, his voice serene and completely untroubled: "I have achieved all there is to achieve in football. Now, I will achieve peace. I am retiring to become an avocado farmer. Thank you for the honor of knowing me."

He doesn't tell Richmond. Doesn't call Ted or Rebecca or anyone on the staff. Just posts a video and turns off his phone.

The internet loses its mind. The football world erupts in speculation and disbelief.

And Ed? Ed is left sweeping up after the shitshow. Restructuring the budget again. Fielding calls from furious sponsors. Recalculating everything they'd planned around having Zava for at least one full season.

He works overtime. Of course he does. Because someone has to, and that someone is always Ed.

Early evening at Nelson Road. The stadium is mostly empty now, training long finished, players gone home, most of the staff clocked out hours ago. The building has that quiet, echoing quality it gets after dark, fluorescent lights humming in empty corridors.

Ed sits at his desk in the coaches' office, laptop glowing in the dimness, surrounded by printouts and reports and the evidence of a very long day. He finishes the last line of the updated budget report, saves it, closes his laptop with a decisive click.

Then he gathers the printed pages, taps them against his desk to align them perfectly, and stands.

Time to face Rebecca.

Rebecca's office is lit warmly, lamps on instead of overhead lights, making the space feel less corporate and more like someone's very expensive living room. She sits at her desk with a drink in hand, something amber and probably stronger than tea, staring at her computer screen with the expression of someone who's been doing damage control all day and is very, very tired.

Ed knocks on the doorframe. She looks up.

"I have the updated numbers," he says.

Rebecca sighs, long and deep, the kind of sigh that comes from your soul. "Let me guess. Not great?"

Ed walks to her desk and sets down the report. His voice is perfectly flat, but there's something almost darkly amused underneath it. "Zava's personal chef charged us for bringing her own salt."

Rebecca closes her eyes. Her hand comes up to rub her temple in slow, pained circles. "Of course she did."

Ed stands there, hands clasped in front of him, waiting.

Rebecca opens her eyes and looks at him properly. Really looks at him. "You warned me."

"I advised you." Ed corrects gently.

Rebecca's mouth quirks despite herself. "Which is our version of 'I told you so,' isn't it?"

Ed's expression doesn't change, but his tone softens just slightly. "It's my job to remind you what it costs."

Rebecca picks up her drink, takes a sip, then sets it down with a soft clink against the desk. She looks at Ed again, and this time there's no boss-to-employee distance in her gaze. She's looking at him as a person. Someone she respects. Someone she failed.

"I'm sorry, Ed." Her voice is quiet, sincere. "I should've listened harder."

Ed shakes his head immediately. "No. Don't be." He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "You managed to get the best striker there was into our team. And we might be the last team Zava ever plays for." Another pause. "I find that to be very admirable."

He meets her eyes. "If I wasn't married and I was into women, I'd probably be into you..."

The words hang in the air.

Ed's eyes widen. His professional composure cracks completely. He's been working here long enough, surrounded by people who just say things, who express feelings and make inappropriate jokes and treat emotional honesty like it's free, and apparently it's infected him.

"I don't know why I said that." Ed's voice comes out strangled. "That was really inappropriate."

Rebecca's eyebrows are somewhere near her hairline, but she's smiling. Actually smiling. "I take that as a huge compliment."

It's a full circle moment. Her inappropriate comment about Ed when he physically first got here, his accidental one now. They're even.

Rebecca's expression shifts back to business, though the warmth remains. "But will we recover? Money-wise?"

Ed takes a breath, recentering himself. "Yes. With time and restraint." He pauses, then adds with the tiniest hint of optimism, "And on the bright side, we're still in the Premier League."

Rebecca laughs. It's tired, worn down by a very long day and a very expensive mistake, but it's genuine. Real.

She stands, gesturing toward the couch. "Sit. I'll pour you something that isn't tea."

Ed nods and crosses to the couch, settling into it with the careful posture of someone who's still not entirely sure how to relax in professional settings. Rebecca moves to her bar cart, selecting a bottle and two glasses.

"Can I ask you something personal?" she says, her back to him as she pours.

"Yes."

"Why are you emotionally shielding yourself?"

Ed is quiet for a moment. It's a good question. One he's been asked before, in different ways, by different people. He's never quite known how to answer it.

"This might sound self-conceited," he says finally, "but people have always treated me differently because of the way I look. I balance it out by doing that."

Rebecca turns, carrying two glasses. She hands one to Ed and settles onto the couch beside him, not too close, but close enough that it feels like they're having a real conversation, not a professional one.

"Beard managed to get through you," she observes.

Ed's mouth quirks. "Oh, he's done more than getting through me."

The words come out before he can stop them. Again.

Ed shakes his head, closing his eyes briefly in resignation. It's happening again. The Richmond effect. The inability to maintain appropriate professional boundaries.

Rebecca laughs, genuine and delighted. "See, this is what I– what we want from you." She gestures with her glass, emphatic. "You've done so much for us. You're one of us, Ed. Have been for a while." Her voice softens. "No need to put up a wall anymore."

Ed looks at her, really looks at her, and something in his chest loosens. A tension he didn't realize he'd been carrying. She's right. He knows she's right. He's been here long enough, been through enough, been accepted enough that the careful distance he maintains isn't protecting him anymore. It's just isolating him.

He nods slowly. "You're right."

Rebecca raises her glass, her expression warm and a little mischievous. "To future controlled impulsivities and emotional honesty."

Ed raises his glass to meet hers. They clink, the sound clear and bright in the quiet office.

"To controlled impulsivities," Ed echoes, and drinks.

The whiskey is good. Expensive. The kind of thing Rebecca would have in her office.

They sit together in comfortable silence for a moment, drinking, processing the chaos of the past few weeks.

Finally, Rebecca speaks, her voice quieter. "We really bollocked that up, didn't we?"

"Spectacularly," Ed agrees.

"But we survived."

"We survived."

Rebecca tilts her head, studying him. "You know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"I'd probably do it again." She laughs, shaking her head. "If it meant beating Rupert, even for a little while, I'd probably do the whole bloody thing again."

Ed considers this. Then, surprising himself, he smiles. A real one. "Yeah. Me too."

They clink glasses again, this time without words.

Outside, Nelson Road Stadium sits quiet in the darkness, waiting for tomorrow's match, tomorrow's crisis, tomorrow's miracle.

Inside, two people who've been through their own version of war sit together, drinking good whiskey and acknowledging that sometimes, even when you lose, you still win something.

Ed finishes his drink and stands, setting the empty glass on Rebecca's desk. "I should get home. Greg will wonder where I am."

Rebecca nods. "Thank you, Ed. For everything. And I mean that."