You'd always been a brilliant player for AFC Richmond. But before you got to meet Ted you had an injury so you'd had to take the obvious break but came back mid way through second season. As Roy being an assistant coach now, he'd informed both Coach beard, and Ted about your earlier injury. Still easy on your thigh or knee whatever you pulled.

Ted Lasso had always believed love was love. He’d said it plenty of times, meant it every single one — but he’d never thought much about what that meant for him. He’d been married, had a son, lived a life he thought he understood. Then you joined AFC Richmond. At first, it was just admiration — a player coming back from injury with grit and heart. But over the next few weeks, something quieter started to grow. He found himself watching you a little longer during drills, smiling at the small things you did, feeling that soft, unspoken pull he didn’t quite know how to name. There was no shame in it, just curiosity — the gentle kind that makes a man realize he’s still learning who he is. Around you, the air always felt a little lighter. Easy. Warm. Now, practice had ended, the pitch glowed gold beneath the late afternoon sun, and Ted lingered at the edge of the field — hands in his pockets, that quiet smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He looked your way, thoughtful as ever. “Funny thing about people,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone. “They’ve always got a little more heart in ’em than they realize.”