Chapter Text
It was a Monday morning in June that Ted Lasso, recently returned from a trip to Kansas to visit Henry, burst, with characteristic exuberance, into Rebecca Welton’s office. He carried the usual small pink paper box in his hand and set it promptly on her desk.
“Boss, you’re a sight for sore eyes, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he told her, his grin stretching across his face.
“Ted!” She exclaimed, her pleasure at seeing him a little more hidden but no less real. “And you’ve brought my biscuits.” She had the box open and one in her mouth before she finished speaking. Dear god, she had missed these while he was abroad.
He didn’t miss the possessive, and his cheeks colored at her groan as she savored the buttery shortbread, leaning back in her chair with her eyes closed. He cleared his throat. “Well, boss, you’re in for another treat if I can tempt you with it.”
She raised a perfect eyebrow. “Oh?”
“See, there’s a dish I didn’t realize how much I’d missed until I was back in Wichita. And luckily for us, it’s just coming into season here. Have you ever tried fried green tomatoes?” His eyes lit up as he named the food.
“I enjoy a grilled tomato at breakfast on occasion,” she responded. “Can’t say I’ve ever had one fried. Or green, for that matter.”
He became, if possible, even more enthusiastic. “It’s an American classic. There’s even a movie! Which you must see if you haven’t already. You’d get a kick out of Idgie. And Evelyn. And heck, Ninny, too. Lotta complex female characters in Southern fiction, I gotta say. Anyway, fried green tomatoes. My nana fixed them all summer when I was a kid, and I swear, if Proust had ever had one, a madeleine wouldn’t mean squat, if you know what I mean.”
Rebecca smiled, catching the Proust reference if not, quite, the rest. She took a breath, ready to admit that she had not, in fact, seen the film, when Ted continued his monologue.
“And thank goodness I bought a big ol’ bag of cornmeal before I flew out on Thursday. I checked Tesco and Sainsbury’s yesterday and Samantha at Tesco told me polenta is the same thing but I was not convinced, looks different to me. Martha White has my back.”
“Ted—” Rebecca interjected.
He paused, looking at her expectantly.
“I’ll be glad to try a fried green tomato. Perhaps you could bring it instead of biscuits one day this week? Tomatoes with Ted, as it were.”
He shook his head regretfully. “Ah, no, that won’t do. You’ve gotta eat a fried green tomato as soon as it comes out of the skillet. How about this? I’ll take a quick trip to the farmers’ market on Saturday and I’ll cook up a big batch of them afterwards. I was there in Twickenham this weekend and persuaded Pauly to pick me some tomatoes before they’re ripe for next week. I couldn’t believe not a single green tomato at his stall.” He narrowed his eyes, still perplexed. “Back in Kansas they sell at least as many green ones as ripe ones. But if you’re busy, of course, I understand.”
Before she could overthink it, Rebecca nodded decisively. “I live near the farmers’ market. I could… walk with you?” Doubt crept into her last sentence.
It needn’t have. He responded, delighted, “You’ve got yourself a date, boss.” As her eyebrows rose, he corrected himself. “Not a date date, of course, I would never be so presumptuous…”
At that moment, Rebecca’s phone buzzed, and she hid a sigh of relief at the disruption. “I have to take this, Ted,” she said, not unkindly.
He hopped out of the chair. “Of course. I need to get to prac—training, anyway. Two months till our first match, plenty to do. You enjoy your day.” He strode out of the office, quietly high-fiving the coat rack as he passed it, a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before.
Rebecca held in her smile until he was out the door. When she picked up her phone and greeted the caller, Keeley knew as soon as she heard her friend’s voice that Ted must have made it safely back to Richmond.