Chapter Text
Vittoria "Ria" POV:
God, I hate New York, so loud and dirty. But try being an interior designer on Long Island... you'd end up just doing modern farmhouse kitchens over and over again ad nauseum. I thought about commuting, my bank balance would definitely thank me for it but I cherish my sleep too much, I'm not about to waste 2 to 3 hours every day on a train when I could be in bed.
So here I was escaping the noise of the city on my lunch break by ducking into the MoMA. God bless museums... they had a way of silencing the chaos outside its doors. In here everything was clean and quite, curated and organized in a way that allowed me to finally take a breath in the overbearing metropolis that was Manhattan.
Walking around the exhibits time seemed to slow down allowing my often overactive brain a few beats of rest.
I came to stop in front of print that looked familiar...
I looked at the card next to the framed artwork for the artist name.
"David Hockney. The Drinking Scene (plate 4) from A Rake's Progress 1961-62, published 1963."
I read, speaking the words out loud to myself.
It made me think of Ted Lasso causing me to smile until I remembered the god awful finale. I remember reading on twitter that the "complete series box set" was to be released soon. So much for the gas leak theory and trying to hold onto hope for a season 4 fix-it of sorts.
Looking at the print again I can almost make out the word "believe."
Well the first two letters anyway.
I felt my phone buzz in my bag and slipped it out.
Shoot, my break was nearly over... had to start heading back.
I sneak one last glance at the print before turning to leave. On my way out I move towards the stairs the first scene of Rebecca and Higgins starts playing in my head.
"Rupert and I bought this on our fifth anniversary..."
"You have exquisite taste,"
"Do you want it?"
"...It's a Hockney, it must be worth a million pounds."
"Good point, should've said yes. Auction pile, please."
I could not tell you what happened next but by the time I finished descending the stairs nothing around me looked familiar any more.
The white walls were gone, replaced with graphic blues and reds. The dark polished concrete floors that should have been under my heels were now a blue and light grey athletic flooring like something you would see in Equinox.
What the hell... was this some new exhibit I missed on the way in?
"Rebecca! There you are, the new manager and coach's flight just landed and they were successfully picked up by the car we sent... they are on their way," a man cheerfully said near me.
"Rebecca?" I heard him ask again but I was still distracted by my surroundings.
"Everything alright?"
Wait was he talking to me?
"I'm sorry?" I ask finally turning to him. Hold up, did I just speak with a British accent? God, I needed to cancel my subscription to Brit box on amazon once and for all if this is what it was leading to.
"Right, apologies, Ms. Welton, won't happen again. Didn't mean to address you by your first name... I know that's a privilege I need to re-earn," he tells me.
Ms. Welton? Like Rebecca Welton? Now that I'm looking at him I can't help but see the resemblance to Jeremy Swift.
"Did anyone ever tell you you resemble the actor Jeremy Swift?" I can't help but ask but again with that damn British accent, what was that?
"Uh, no, no can't say that's one I've heard before, what's he been in?" the man asks.
"Oh he was on that show, Ted Lasso," I explain.
"Show? I wasn't aware Coach Lasso had a television program named after him back in America, that might help us with the press tho, give some more credence to your choice," he tells me.
Okay, seriously what was going on, why was this Jeremy Swift look-a-like talking to me like he knew me?
"Excuse me, I'm actually running late," I say trying to move around him to the doors I see in the distance.
"Oh, yes, yes, I'll get out of your way. I'll just send a text as soon as they arrive," he tells me before quickly getting out of my way.
Well, that was weird.
I push open the doors but instead of the street noise, pollution, and heat boucing up at me from the hot concrete sidewalks of New York I hear birds chirping, one or two cars in the distance and the weather is actually a lovely crisp day.
"Okay, seriously what the fuck," I ask out loud to no one in particular.
Looking around more I see I'm in a parking lot, definitely don't remember the MoMA having one of those out front.
So I spin back to look at the building I just exited to find the exterior of AFC Richmond's training facility.
No fuckin' way.
I don't understand, is there a Ted Lasso themed event the MoMA is putting on that I missed on their calendar? Because again it's not possible I blinked and somehow wound up outside a fictional football club's headquarters.
I go to grab my phone out of my bag, trusting at least my GPS will tell me where I really am but I soon see it's no longer my canvas tote over my shoulder but a very expensive looking designer handbag.
Feeling lightheaded now I look for a place to sit down. Not finding one I simply sit on the ground.
I take a couple deep calming breaths and decide to search the bag for a phone... hopefully mine and quickly locate one.
I pull it out but the screen is locked.
I don't have time to panic about not knowing the code tho as the facial ID scan pops up and miraculously unlocks the phone for me.
I turn the phone around in my hand double checking it wasn't mine. But no, it wasn't, it was far too new a model.
Wait...
I don't know why but something told me to check my reflection.
Selecting the camera icon I open the app and reverse the direction of the lense to selfie mode expecting a very unflattering angle of my face to pop on the screen at any second.
Only it never comes.
Instead of my brown hair and freckles I'm looking into the green eyes and glowly sunkissed skin of the blonde goddess herself.
"Holy Fucking Shit, I'm Rebecca Welton."