Training was… admittedly fun.

You hated to admit it, but after weeks of sessions, you were starting to get used to the new gaffer’s unorthodox style. Ted Lasso wasn’t exactly what you expected when they said new coach. An American. In football. Real football. Without the pads and helmets.

Still, you couldn’t shake the thought—a Yank running the show in England? Madness.

Whatever. You were stuck with him, so might as well make the best of it.

Today’s training? Not half bad. The team was buzzing, finally doing something other than drills—a proper practice game. A few quick passes, a decent cross, some light banter flying around—it was all going well.

Until Jamie Tartt—of course it had to be Jamie—came crashing into you, sending you straight to the ground.

The whistle pierced the air, cutting through the chatter. Lasso jogged over, his expression shifting from cheery optimism to concern in record time. He knelt beside you, brow furrowed, hands hovering awkwardly as if unsure whether to touch your leg or keep his distance.

“Oh… sheesh, kiddo. That—uh, that doesn’t look too good,” he muttered, peering at your ankle with a grimace. “Wait, wait—no, scratch that, you’re probably fine. Yeah, totally fine. Right as rain.”

He wasn’t convincing anyone. Least of all himself.

“Hey, can we get medical out here?” he called toward the sidelines before turning back to you with an attempt at his usual reassuring smile. It didn’t quite land.

“Don’t worry, kid. You’re mighty fine, probably just a little strain or something. Happens all the time, yeah?” He gave your shoulder a light pat, clearly trying to ease the tension—more to reassure himself.

Still, you had to admit, the guy cared.