I SLAMMED MY CAR DOOR shut and made my way over to where Trent stood by the entrance to AFC Richmond's training center. He handed me my press pass and I happily sling it around my neck like a Medal of Honor.

I still couldn't believe this was actually happening, even as Trent and I sat down in the press room. The room was buzzing with other reporters, all murmuring to each other. Similarly to Trent, many other reporters held pencils and note pads. The absence of one from my hands made me feel singled out before I remembered I was here to just soak everything in. Like a sponge. Or something else cooler.

Being at my first press conference wasn't the only reason my stomach was flipping over itself. Richmond had been my favorite team since I was kid, when my dad and grandpa indoctrinated me into the world of football. Despite living in America, my grandfather never forgot his English roots. He had lived here until he was about 30, when he and my grandmother moved to America to raise my father.

My presence in the building made me feel closer to both of them than I had in years. I could already imagine Grandpas excitement for me when I told him about my attendance at the conference.

Trent leaned over to me, interrupting my thoughts. "I know you're probably nervous," he said, "but it's truly nothing to be worried about."

"Thank you, but I'm not-" my response was cut short when a man wearing a stereotypical office worker suit and glasses walked into the room.

"Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of the press," he greeted. "I'm Leslie Higgins, and I am the Director of Communications and Football Operations here at AFC Richmond." He paused, seemingly waiting for applause that never came. Admittedly, I felt bad for the man.

"Uh, we are so happy that all of you have joined us today to welcome a new member to our faculty here at Richmond," he continued.

The door opened before Higgins could get another word in, and in walked the newly appointed owner of the club Rebecca Welton, and a kind looking man with a nice fucking mustache. The cameras in the back of the room immediately began flashing and clicking and everyone around me rushed to ask a question. Everyone, that is, besides Trent who simply sat there, analyzed the scene, and them jotted a few shorthand things in his note pad. I couldn't help but admire how at ease and professional he seemed in the midst of all the chaos.

Higgins seemed to have recovered from the sudden burst of noise and regained his train of thought. He closed by saying, "So, without further ado, the new manager of AFC Richmond - Ted Lasso!"

I smiled to myself at the name. It was a good name, matching the good mustache. So far, this guy seemed pretty damn good. I prayed his coaching would follow this pattern.

As Ted sat down, the chatter died and the camera clicks intensified. Reporters in the front row stood up and placed their tape recorders and phones on the table the new coach sat at before he started his speaking.

"Hey, how y'all doing?" He started. Again, I found myself  feeling comforted by his accent. Ted picked up the bottle of sparkling water next to him and unscrewed the cap. "Just a second, heh. Throat got a little dry." After drinking it he seemed shocked at the fact that it was sparkling, not flat. The reaction sparked small chuckles through out the room.

"Yeah, okay, let's just jump right in. Anybody got any questions?" He asked. Everyone's hands shot up quickly, including Trent's. Ted smiled to himself and said, "Yeah, should'a seen that coming. You can put your hands down real quick."

I glanced over at the door and saw another man walk through it. This guy wore a red flannel over a red shirt, with a Kansas City baseball cap on his head. He and Ted exchanged a quick look before Ted once again continued.

"How about we go ahead and address the larger/than-average elephant in the room... no, I have not coached the sport that you folks call football at any level," he said. Trent began jotting down notes, once again in a shorthand that just read like a different language to me. "And, heck, you could fill two internets with what I don't know about football."

I let out a nervous laugh. This was a joke, right?

"But, I'll tell you what I do know. I'll tell you that AFC Richmond, like any other team I've ever coached, is gonna go out there and give you everything they've got for all four quarters."

"Halves," a reporter from the row in front of me called out.

"What was that?"

"Two halves!"

"Oh right, sorry," Ted laughed slightly. I stared up at him, wondering who the hell made the decision to let this man who knew absolutely nothing about this sport coach a professional team. "They're gonna give you everything they got, for two halves, win or lose."

Another reported added that it was possible for a game to end in a tie, and Ted once again laughed and corrected himself. I, not for the first time, felt all hope for the season drain out of me slowly.

"I respect what you folks in the media do, and my doors always gonna be open," Ted moved on. "You can ask me anything, no topics gonna be in-too-touch."

Higgins emerged from the side wall and said, "Alright, one final question."

Hands shot up again, but Ted pointed at Trent, who stood up and announced himself. "Trent Crimm, The Independent." I once again found myself admiring how by just stating his name and the name our paper, he had quieted the entire room and turned everyone's focus to himself. "I just to want to make sure I have this right. You're an American, whose never set foot in England. Whose athletic success has only come at the amateur level, a second tier one at that, and is now being charged with the leadership of a Premier League football club, despite clearly possessing very little knowledge of the game."

Ted paused. "You got a question there, Trent?"

"Yeah," Trent answered, pretending to ponder what he wanted to say next. "Is this a fucking joke?"

The crowd immediately burst into more questions for Ted, and with each answer he dug himself into a deeper hole. With each answer, my hopelessness for the season ahead also turned to slight sympathy for the man. I mean, it's not his fault he doesn't know anything about football. Of course, usually that means you wouldn't take one of the only jobs in the world where that's a pretty huge requirement, but we all make questionable choices.

The conference ended and Trennt told me to meet back in his office when I got back to The Independent and that we would debrief. I agreed as calmly as a I could before excusing myself.

I wanted to see if there was a photo on the wall of the 2005 Richmond team, which was the first season I could really remember watching. Also, a small part of me wanted to bump into a player.

As I turned the corner outside the press room away from the exit, I didn't bump into a player. Instead, I ran into the coach that had just tore my dreams of a Richmond Premier League Title in the foreseeable future and stomped on them. Ted Lasso.

"Woah, you alright there?" Ted asked, steadying me after the crash.

"Oh, yeah. I'm fine," I responded. The man broke out into a smile. "What? Do I have something on my face? Oh god, is my shirt backwards again?" I glanced down to double check and I was fine.

"You're American!"

I laughed. "Yeah. Pennsylvania, born and raised."

"Well that's pretty darn interesting," Ted said. "An American sports journalist for soccer in England. What's your name, Ms. Pennsylvania?"

"I'm Sabrina Lewis." I stuck out my hand.

He shook it. "Nice to meet you, Sabrina. I'm Ted. It's been nice talking to you, but I have to go meet up with Coach Beard."

I figured 'Coach Beard' was the man with the baseball hat I saw walk in the press room. "Well, good luck Coach Lasso," I said. Ted began to walk away and I decided to speak again, "Oh, and Coach Lasso?"

He turned to face me, face still in a seemingly perpetual smile and I wondered how his face didn't get tired. I cleared my throat and continued, "I think what you're doing is really brave. Incredibly fucking stupid, but... brave."

His gaze softened slightly as he took in the words. "Thank you, Sabrina. That means a lot."

I gave him a tight lipped smile and then continued down the hallway, still searching for that team photo. After a few turns and a couple minutes walking aimlessly, I realized I had absolutely zero clue where in the building I was.

"Oh shit," I muttered. The walls around me showed no 'Exit sign' or arrows pointing the direction out.

"Oi, mate," a voice behind me called. "You look a bit lost."

"Yeah, I think I took a few wrong-" I cut myself off mid-thought after turning all the way around. The voice belonged to Richmond's saving grace in the recent years, Jamie Tartt himself. "Holy crap."

He smirked at my surprise and walked towards me. "Never seen you before. You new around the center?"

The initial shock of being in the presence of Jamie-fucking-Tartt washed away after that line. I squinted at him slightly and held up the press pass around my neck. "I'm press. I work at The Independent."

"Nah love, you can't be press. You're American." Jamie leaned on the walls next to were we stood and I watched his gaze shift from my face to all over my body.

"Well, I am," I said, trying to ignore his behavior. "And don't you have a girlfriend?"

The footballers eyes snapped back to mine and he stared at me for a beat. "I didn't do nothin'." He smirked again. "Just looking."

I shook my head and rolled my eyes. Under my breath I muttered, "Douchebag." Turning on my heel, I walked off from him.

"What are you doing?" He called after me. "You don't know your way 'round?!"

I ignored him and kept walking. After another ten-ish minutes of wandering past the same office-looking room twice, I finally find my way outside without any help from douchebag footballers.

I guess being able to score a few goals didn't make them fun to be around.

*Authors note*
Sorry the last two chapters have been slow. I had a lot of info I wanted to add in in a short amount of time. I hope you enjoyed, though!