England's Greatest-Chapter 171: Everything But the Whistle

This time, she didn't turn away.

Tristan gave her a small smile and slid his fingers between hers, palm warm against hers.

"One day," he murmured under his breath, eyes never leaving the ceremony, "that'll be us."

Barbara's breath caught. "Yeah, I can already see it."

The priest's voice continued at the front of the church, solemn and grounded in Portuguese as he spoke of commitment, of love and faith and the strength that binds lives together.

Barbara leaned in a little, shoulder brushing his.

"I like weddings," she whispered. "But I like you more."

Tristan turned to her, lips brushing the edge of her temple,"I love you." he said in hungarian, just as Ronaldo stepped forward to hand over the rings.

They watched as Mendes slid the ring onto Sandra's finger, the gold catching the sun just right — a flash of permanence.

..

The gardens outside the museum glowed gold in the evening light. Inside, chandeliers shimmered above polished marble, and glasses clinked softly against a backdrop of laughter and music. Waiters moved like shadows through the crowd, silver trays balancing canapés and champagne flutes. Every detail — from the monogrammed menus to the cascading floral centerpieces — was just pure taste and wealth.

Tristan stepped through the arched doorway beside Barbara, his arm resting lightly around her waist. She wore a new dress now — emerald green silk, fitted at the waist with a low back — and she looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine spread.She leaned in close, nudging her cheek into his shoulder with a quiet, amused hum as they walked.

"Did you see the cake?" she whispered. "It's taller than me."

Tristan grinned. "I was hoping they'd bring in Ronaldo to cut it with a free kick."

They passed a few familiar faces — agents, managers, players, wives — all dressed to the nines. Mendes' wedding had become the unofficial football summit of the summer.

Then a voice behind them called out.

"Tristan!"

They turned.

Jorge Mendes, drink in hand, his jacket unbuttoned now, stood beside Sandra near the base of the grand staircase. His eyes crinkled with warmth.

"You made it," he said, stepping forward and pulling Tristan into a firm hug.

"I wouldn't miss it," Tristan replied. "Congratulations."

Sandra leaned in to kiss both Tristan and Barbara on the cheek. "You both look wonderful," she said, her voice soft, her makeup barely touched after a full day of ceremony.

"And you look radiant," Barbara replied sincerely. "Really — you were stunning walking down the aisle."

Sandra smiled with a hand to her chest. "Thank you. And thank you for coming all this way."

Mendes turned to Tristan. "You behaving yourself in England?"

"As much as they let me," Tristan replied, smiling.

Before they could say more, another guest leaned in for a quick word with Mendes and Sandra. The couple gave parting kisses again, and Sandra squeezed Barbara's arm as they moved away. "We'll catch up later, okay?"

Barbara nodded. "Of course"

Just then, someone else cut through the crowd. Hair perfectly styled. Suit immaculate. A familiar smile.

"Thought I saw you sneaking around," Cristiano Ronaldo said, hand outstretched.

Tristan shook it with a nod. "Congrats on the best man duties."

Cristiano glanced toward Mendes. "He nearly cried. Not from the vows — from having to leave his phone alone for thirty minutes. But it's good to see you again."

Barbara laughed.

Just then, another voice joined them — deeper, smoother, unmistakably Spanish.

"Cristiano."

Florentino Pérez.

The Real Madrid president walked up with his usual calm poise, wearing a tailored navy suit.

"Señor Tristan," he said, turning toward Tristan. "You were very impressive last season."

Tristan straightened slightly. "Thank you, Mr. President." Now this man you had to show respect to no matter who you were.

Florentino tilted his head just a fraction. "Do you mind if we can have a private talk?"

"Of course". Tristan replied back immediately in Spanish as he grabbed Barbara's right hand and started walking towards a more secluded area.

All while Ronaldo watched the entire interaction with an intense look on his face.

They stepped past a row of stone pillars and onto the garden terrace, away from the hum of champagne flutes and whispered football gossip. A breeze rolled in from the Atlantic, soft and salt-tinged. The music indoors dulled to a murmur behind them.

Barbara gave the two space as she walked behind them.

Florentino Pérez adjusted the cuff of his suit and turned, his gaze sharp but calm.

[A/N: Just think all of this is in Spanish.]

"You rejected us after the World Cup," he said without ceremony in.

Tristan didn't respond. He let the words hang.

Florentino continued, voice even. "Normally, Real Madrid doesn't ask twice. If a player says no once, we move on. It's the club's way. Bigger than any one name."

A pause.

"But," he said, eyes narrowing slightly, "there are exceptions. Talent like yours... doesn't come around twice. Seventy-five goal contributions. Nineteen years old. Breaking records in England like you were born for it."

He let the silence stretch, then added, "So I'm asking again. Come to Real Madrid."

Tristan's hands slid into his pockets. He didn't look away.

"Mendes told me," Pérez said, "that this season is your farewell. That after it's done, you're ready for the next step. And what step is bigger than Madrid?"

Tristan nodded slowly. "Of course it's a dream. For every player. Real Madrid is..." He glanced at the skyline for a beat. "It's Real Madrid."

Florentino waited.

"But I'm not here to be the prince behind Cristiano," Tristan said evenly. "And I'm not Neymar, coming in to shadow someone else. I want to build my own legacy. Not walk in someone else's."

Florentino's expression didn't change, but there was something behind his eyes now. Respect, maybe. Or intrigue.

"I haven't set anything in stone," Tristan continued. "That's still the plan — one more season. But plans change. I'll decide when the time's right."

Florentino gave a slow nod, then offered a faint smile.

"Just remember," he said, "we won't wait forever. But if this is the season... then make it impossible for us not to come back."

He turned to leave, pausing just once.

"And Tristan... the throne doesn't stay empty long. If you want it, don't hesitate."

Then he disappeared into the reception, swallowed by chandeliers and laughter.

Tristan stepped back through the stone archway, the soft pulse of music rising again. The golden lights inside made everything look slightly unreal — polished, glowing, weightless.

Barbara stood near the edge of the reception floor, a flute of champagne in one hand, watching the garden entrance like she'd been waiting the entire time.

She raised an eyebrow as he approached.

"Well?" she asked softly. "Do I get to know what that was about?"

Tristan slipped his hand into hers, lacing their fingers together as he gently pulled her aside, away from the main crowd. His voice stayed low.

"He asked again."

Barbara blinked. "Madrid?"

Tristan nodded once.

"What'd you say?"

He exhaled, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. "I told him what I told Mendes. That nothing's set in stone. This season's the plan... but if things change, I'll decide when and how."

Barbara studied his face. "And... do you want it?"

"Who wouldn't?" Tristan said, a faint tilt of his mouth. "It's Madrid. "But I'm not walking in anyone's shadow."

Barbara didn't answer right away.

Instead, she set her champagne glass down on the nearest table, stepped in close, and reached up — one hand behind his neck, the other against his chest.

"I know," she whispered.

Then she kissed him.

"I don't care if you end up in Madrid, Paris, or Mars," she said softly. "As long as you're still mine."

A beat passed.

Tristan's voice was quiet. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

Barbara smiled, her thumb brushing his collarbone. "Good."

Then, as if the air between them had shifted, she took his hand and tugged it gently.

"Come on," she said. "They're starting the dancing. And I want to show off."

With a playful bow, Tristan extended his hand toward her, voice low and warm.

"May I have the honor of this dance, beautiful lady?"

Barbara raised an eyebrow, but her smile gave her away. "You've been rehearsing that line, haven't you?"

"Maybe," he admitted, grinning. "But only because I really want to impress you."

Her fingers slid into his with easy grace. "Good. Because I plan to show you off."

They stepped onto the dance floor, slipping between couples as the quartet shifted into a slow, romantic waltz. The candlelight danced across the polished marble, and the chandeliers overhead glowed like stars caught in crystal.

Barbara turned to face him, sliding his hand to her waist and lifting her chin just slightly.

"Okay," she whispered. "Just like we practiced."

Tristan gave a mock-serious nod. "Right. Try not to step on the goddess in heels. Got it."

She laughed, light and genuine, and began to lead him gently into the first few steps. Her movements were fluid, natural — years of ballet and stage presence wrapped in one elegant frame. Tristan followed, clumsy for a beat, but catching on quickly under her guidance.

He found her rhythm.

Her breath.

Her smile.

"You're doing better than expected," Barbara said, teasing as she turned beneath his arm and came back to him, chest to chest.

"I have an excellent coach," he replied. "Strict, terrifying... beautiful."

"Flattery," she said, "will keep you from getting your toes crushed."

They continued dancing, their bodies moving as one — not perfect, not polished, but full of something better: chemistry.

Every step drew them closer. Every laugh softened the space between.

Around them, the party shimmered with movement and music, but inside their little bubble, there was only this — the feel of her fingers in his, the brush of her dress, the steady rhythm of hearts syncing beat by beat.

After a few more turns, Tristan leaned in, voice brushing her ear.

"Still glad you came with me?"

Barbara looked up at him, eyes soft. "Are you kidding? You brought me to Portugal, fed me cake, and danced without stepping on me. You're doing amazing."

He laughed, low and quiet. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

She didn't answer with words. Just a hand rising to his jaw, a kiss pressed to his cheek, and a smile so full it made the chandelier light feel dim.

As the hours passed and the party began to wind down, Tristan and Barbara said goodbye to Mendes and Sandra before heading back to their hotel.

..

The next morning, the hum of the private jet was steady, almost soothing — a low, constant presence beneath the silence that hung between them. The view from the cabin window stretched endlessly: clouds rolling like waves, the sky pale and open.

Barbara sat curled in her seat, legs tucked beneath her, a light sweater draped over her shoulders. She glanced sideways at Tristan.

He'd barely looked up from his phone since takeoff.

His thumb moved slowly, scrolling through something. Not typing. Not smiling. Just reading. Focused.

Barbara tilted her head slightly.

He wasn't texting anyone. She knew that.

The odds of Tristan cheating on her? Honestly, laughable. He wasn't that guy. But still — it was fun to poke the bear.

She let the silence hang a little longer, then leaned toward him with a quiet breath, her voice teasing.

"Is there some special girl keeping you company on that phone of yours?"

Tristan blinked, looking up from the screen like he'd just been pulled out of a dream. His eyes searched hers, confused for half a second — until he caught the curve at the corner of her mouth.

"Wait... what?" he said, eyebrows lifting. "Are you being serious right now?"

Barbara shrugged, all innocence, though her eyes were anything but. "I don't know. You've been awfully quiet this morning. Kinda glued to that thing."

He exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile twitching at his mouth. He set the phone down slowly beside him.

"I'm not texting anyone," he said, voice calm. "You'd know if I was."

Barbara leaned back a little, crossing her arms loosely over her stomach. "Mm-hmm. Football excuses again?"

Tristan reached out, brushing her wrist with his fingers — a small touch, slow and deliberate.

"If I was looking at someone," he said, eyes never leaving hers, "it'd be you."

Her expression softened, just barely. The joke was still hanging in the air, but now her voice lowered, less playful. "Well. Good answer."

He leaned forward and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering there for a second.

Barbara rolled her eyes — not annoyed, just amused. "You're lucky you're cute."

Tristan smiled faintly, then leaned back in his seat. "I'm waiting for something."

She raised an eyebrow, curious again. "Someone or something?"

He hesitated for just a moment. Then slid the phone across the seat toward her.

Barbara took it, glancing down.

The screen showed a photo of a footballer. Short. Intense look in his eyes. A bit baby-faced.

"N'Golo... Kanté?" she read the name softly. "Okay... he looks nice? But kind of—tiny?"

Tristan nodded once, the seriousness returning to his voice. "He's the one. If we sign him, we win the title."

Barbara blinked, looking at the photo again. She didn't doubt Tristan's instinct — he'd predicted everything else right so far — but the guy looked like he belonged in a youth academy.

"He looks like he gets carded at R-rated movies," she said under her breath.

Tristan chuckled quietly, not denying it.

"But you believe in him," she added.

He turned to her, his face open, voice quiet. "I believe he'll change everything."

Barbara studied him for a moment, her hand reaching out to rest on his arm.

"I believe in you," she said. "Even if this guy turns out to be five-foot-nothing."

He let out a soft breath, like something in him had unclenched.

"I'll show you," Tristan said, leaning his head back against the seat. "This year's going to be different."

Barbara smiled gently, eyes on him, thumb tracing slow circles on his arm.

"I know."

.

August 3, 2015 – Nightfall, Leicester

..

The blue Range Rover rolled to a gentle stop in front of the house, its headlights briefly illuminating the front garden. Inside, the car was quiet. Peaceful. Just the low hum of the engine and Biscuit's tiny, sleepy huffs from Barbara's lap.

John turned his head slightly from the driver's seat. "We're home," he said, his voice soft but steady.

Tristan leaned forward slightly. "Thanks for the drive."

"No problem," John said. "You two get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."

Barbara murmured a quiet "Goodnight," then gently scooped Biscuit up, cradling the little dog like a baby. The Maltipoo let out a barely audible whine — not because she was upset, but because she'd just been woken from a nap. Her ears drooped. Her tail flopped once, lazily.

As soon as the car door opened, the night air swept in — cool and still, with just the faint scent of grass and late summer rain.

They stepped out together.

Tristan opened the door, and Barbara stepped inside first, carrying Biscuit against her chest like something fragile. The little dog yawned, then snuggled in deeper.

Barbara set Biscuit down gently onto the entryway rug. The pup blinked a few times, gave a little shake, then trotted toward the kitchen like she owned the place.

Tristan watched her go with a faint smile. "Back to her kingdom."

Barbara slipped off her heels, sighing softly as she leaned against the hallway wall. "Your mum had her so spoiled?"

Tristan snorted. "She made more effort for Biscuit's dinner than mine."

Barbara turned to look at him. "To be fair, Biscuit didn't almost miss her own birthday party because she stayed late at training."

Tristan walked past her and dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. "That was one time."

"Honestly, how could you forget it, you were meeting my parents for the first time," Barbara said, walking toward the living room.

The soft rustle of Biscuit's tiny feet echoed from the tile in the kitchen. A second later, she reappeared, dragging her blanket behind her like a sleepy toddler.

Barbara crouched down and helped the pup settle into her usual spot on the couch. "You good, princess?" she whispered.

Biscuit let out a low, satisfied hum. A full-body stretch, a dramatic sigh, and then she curled into a perfect cinnamon roll. Asleep before anyone else could speak.

Tristan came up behind Barbara and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist.

They stood there for a moment — watching their dog sleep.

"You okay?" Barbara asked quietly.

Tristan's chin rested on her shoulder. "Yeah. Just tired. Mentally more than anything."

She turned in his arms. "Was it Madrid? Still thinking about what he said?"

He nodded slowly. "It's a lot. Pérez, Ronaldo all in one room. It makes everything feel closer than it is."

Barbara reached up and rested her hand against the side of his face. Her thumb traced just beneath his eye. "You don't have to decide anything yet."

"I know," Tristan said. "But I feel like the whole world already has."

Barbara leaned in and kissed him gently. "Let the world wait. You decide where you want to go."

With her arms still wrapped around his waist. "Come on," she said, her voice soft, slipping into Hungarian now. "Let's go do our night routine and get some sleep."

..

The mirror fogged gently at the edges, warm steam curling around the corners of the room as the tap ran and the soft scent of eucalyptus filled the air.

Tristan stood shirtless at the sink, a towel slung around his neck, fingers gliding moisturizer across his cheekbones like it was just another part of training. Behind him, Barbara moved through the familiar rhythm of their nightly routine — tying her hair up with a loose clip, patting her face dry with a warm cloth.

Then she caught him in the mirror.

Her eyes narrowed, just slightly.

"Tristan," she said, stepping closer.

He didn't look up, just dipped his fingers into a small jar and started rubbing along his jawline. "Hm?"

"Turn your head."

He did.

Barbara tilted her head to the side, studying him like a stylist about to make a judgment call.

"You're not planning to grow your bread, are you?", She said, folding her arms over the front of her silk pajama top.

"It's not a beard," he muttered. "It's a... light shadow."

She stepped in closer, her bare feet soft against the tile. They were speaking in Hungarian now.

"That's not a shadow," she said. "That's a small forest. I let you keep it thinking you were going to shave it. I should have known something was off with you not getting it shaved after your haircut."

Tristan glanced at her through the mirror, half smiling. "I like it tho babe. I look more serious."

Barbara clicked her tongue. "Serious? You? You could model toothpaste with that face."

He turned fully now, dabbing the rest of the cream onto his forehead. "Let me keep a little stubble. For the season. I don't want to keep looking like some schoolboy."

Barbara leaned against the counter beside him, still unconvinced.

"But I like your baby face."

"That's the problem," he said, drying his hands. "Everyone sees me like that. Young. Too pretty. Too clean. I want to be taken seriously this season."

She went quiet for a second. Then she reached over and picked up the silver razor from beside the sink.

Holding it between two fingers, she said, "Just a trim. Nothing more. Deal?"

Tristan glanced at the blade, then at her, and sighed — exaggerated but not truly resistant.

"Okay."

She smiled now, warm and genuine.

"Sit," she said, nudging him lightly in the chest. He dropped onto the closed lid of the toilet seat. She ran the water again, grabbed a clean towel, and knelt in front of him like she was prepping for surgery.

Tristan watched her with quiet calm as she soaked the towel, pressed it gently to his jaw, then wiped the area with slow, focused care.

"It's like a ceremony," he said softly.

Barbara didn't look up. "I just don't want you looking like a homeless twenty-year-old."

He laughed under his breath.

She tilted his chin with her fingertips and carefully began shaping the faint outline of his beard — just enough to give definition, but leaving the rest untouched.

They didn't talk for a while.

The water ran. The steam drifted lazily around them. From the hallway, faint little snores from Biscuit carried through the door.

Barbara finally sat back on her heels and wiped the razor on a folded cloth.

"All done."

Tristan ran his hand along his jaw, surprised by how much better it looked. "This actually came out really nice."

She leaned in, brushing her lips just beneath his ear. "I know."

Then she kissed him on the cheek — right along the clean line she'd made — and stood up.

"Looking at you like that, a light beard isn't that bad," she whispered in a sultry voice just to get a reaction out of him.

[Tristan > Image Here]

..

The lights were low in the bedroom, just the soft golden glow from the lamp on Barbara's side of the bed.

Barbara had just slipped under the covers, eyes fluttering closed as she nestled into the pillow, when Tristan's phone lit up on the nightstand.

He reached for it instinctively, expecting it to be nothing — maybe a late message from Jamie or a media alert.

But when he saw the name on the screen, he sat up straighter.

Jon Rudkin

"Hello?" he answered, voice low but sharp with curiosity.

"Hey, sorry to call this late," Jon said on the other end, sounding tired as hell. "Figured you wouldn't mind."

Tristan's heart skipped. "What's up?"

"We got him," he said.

Tristan blinked. "Got who?"

"N'Golo Kanté."

There was a long pause. The silence before the explosion.

And then—

"WHAT?!"

Barbara jolted upright in bed.

Tristan was already on his feet, spinning in a circle, staring at the ceiling like he didn't know where to put the joy bursting out of him.

"You got him? Like—actually signed?"

"Yep," Jon said, almost laughing. "Medical done. He's training tomorrow. And I figured since you've basically been campaigning for the man like it's a presidential election..."

Tristan didn't even let her finish. He shouted again, pumping a fist into the air. "Let's gooo!"

Barbara just blinked, eyes wide. "What—?"

Tristan didn't answer. He ran to her side of the bed, scooped her up in his arms like she weighed nothing, and twirled her once before dropping her gently — but with absolute triumph — onto the mattress.

Barbara let out a startled laugh as she bounced slightly on impact, her hair falling across her face.

"Sweetheart,calm down," she said, laughing breathlessly. "What's happening?"

Tristan leaned over her, eyes wide with the kind of joy he usually only saved for goals and trophies.

"We signed Kanté."

He kissed her once, quickly, then sat back on his knees, running a hand through his curls like he still didn't believe it.

On the phone, Jon was still talking. "And listen — he doesn't speak much English. Staff thought since you've been so vocal and, you know, might actually burst from excitement — maybe you take him under your wing?"

"Yes," Tristan said instantly, already pacing toward the dresser like he needed to get dressed now. "Yes, yes, yes. I'll do it. Don't worry about it."

"Alright," Jon said, chuckling. "Then get some sleep. Big day tomorrow. Oh also there's another surprise for you tomorrow as well."

He hung up.

Tristan stood frozen in the middle of the room.

Barbara, still lying on the bed, propped herself on one elbow.

"Well?" she said, watching him with a crooked smile.

"I'm gonna help him settle in," Tristan said, eyes still lit. "I'm going to mentor him."

Barbara smiled fully now, a warm glow in her chest as she looked at him. "You're really happy, huh? You were even learning French for him."

He climbed back into bed, heart still racing.

Barbara curled up beside him, her head resting against his shoulder as she closed her eyes.

..

The next morning they woke up to the smell of fresh eggs, sourdough toast, and brewed coffee floated through the kitchen, soft jazz playing low from the corner speaker. Sunlight poured through the half-open blinds, stretching across the floor in long golden stripes.

Barbara sat at the island in one of Tristan's oversized shirts, hair messy. She was nursing her second coffee, legs tucked under her on the stool, eyes half-closed but still managing to look better than most people did on a red carpet.

Felix moved between the stove and the counter with his usual focus, plating two breakfasts down. He slid a dish in front of Tristan first — poached eggs on avocado toast, roasted tomatoes, grilled asparagus — then another in front of Barbara, slightly smaller, tailored just how she liked it.

"I added the turmeric to your eggs," Felix said, glancing at Tristan. "Soma said you've been a little inflamed post-travel."

"Thank you," Tristan said, already picking up his fork.

They ate quietly for a few minutes. Biscuit lay sprawled at their feet like a tiny, defeated marshmallow, paws twitching in a dream.

Just as Tristan finished the last bite of toast, John stepped in, sleeves rolled up, carrying a massive black shipping box in both arms.

"Tristan," he said, nodding toward them. "I'm going to need a pay increase for this."

Tristan stood instantly. "I–yeah sure, talk to Sofia about it."

John grunted, easing the box down onto the living room rug with a soft thud. "You weren't kidding when you said it was heavy. I nearly threw my back trying to get it through the hallway."

Tristan crouched beside it, fingers already pulling at the packing tape. "Thanks, man."

John gave a wave and headed back out, muttering something about needing another coffee.

Barbara padded over from the kitchen, hugging her mug to her chest. The ceramic was warm against her fingers — a comfort more than a need. She stopped just beside the couch, her eyes tracing the edges of the massive black box.

The sound of ripping tape caught Biscuit's attention. Her ears twitched. One eye opened. Then closed again. The sun patch clearly won.

Tristan crouched on the rug, already pulling boxes out one by one like he was unboxing trophies.

"Mahrez," he said, reading the name off the first. "Vardy. Schmeichel. Wes. Lingard..."

Barbara walked a little closer, lowering herself onto the armrest, her legs tucked under her. "You really did the whole lineup?"

"Not everyone can wear them," Tristan said, stacking another box. "Some of them are already signed to other brands. Nike was gonna cover any fines if they wore mine anyway, but..."

He paused, glancing up at her.

"That just felt like a dick move. I couldn't give half the team something and not the others. So, I figured I'd give everyone the shoes whether they wear them or not."

Barbara took a sip of her coffee, watching him. "That's very you."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "What does that mean?"

She shrugged, her tone teasing. "You act like you're cold sometimes, but then you do things like this."

He didn't reply. Just opened the next box.

Barbara leaned in as he lifted a pair of cleats — white leather, blue swoosh, gold soleplate. A black collar wrapped the ankle. The gold crown stitched above the laces caught the light, just above the small block of initials.

"Lions' Pride," Tristan said. "For England. Well—Vardy, mostly. Everyone else, I gotta talk to first. They're locked in with deals."

Barbara tilted her head, her eyes following the curve of the design. "They're beautiful. Glad to finally see them."

Tristan didn't say anything. He reached for the second box, this one heavier. Black leather, same crown. But the shape felt... sharper. Less ceremonial. More business.

"Storm Pulse," he said. "Main club boot. The one I'll wear most of the season."

Barbara crossed her legs, balancing the mug against her knee now. "So this is it?"

Tristan looked at her. "Yeah. My line. Nine Regnants. Latin — 'they rule.'"

He set both pairs side by side, the contrast between white and black clear as day.

"Like how Ronaldo has Mercurials," he added. "Messi with Adidas. This one's mine. We're dropping these two first. Then limited editions, probably next year."

Barbara watched him for a moment — the way his fingers moved over the leather, slow and careful like he was checking armor. The way his posture shifted, subtly proud.

He turned and picked up one of the white boots, then crouched in front of her.

"What?" she asked, suspicious now.

Tristan tapped her ankle. "Come on. Foot."

Barbara let out a small sigh but lifted her leg. "You know this won't fit me, right?"

"Doesn't matter."

He slipped the cleat on like it was glass. It hung awkwardly off her heel, clearly a size too big, but he tied it up anyway.

"There," he said. "First model test complete."

"They are," he said. "Custom molded for me. Yours... not so much."

He stood again, walking back to grab the black pair.

"I told Sofia to talk to Nike," he said, not looking at her this time. "If we ever did a limited edition drop... something inspired by you might actually sell."

Barbara looked up at him slowly. Her expression didn't shift much — just the corners of her mouth softening, her brow lifting slightly.

"She said they'd be interested," Tristan added, almost offhand.

Barbara exhaled through her nose. "Of course she did."

He tossed her the other shoe. "Well. Better start designing."

[Nine Regnants: Lions' Pride > Image Here]

[Nine Regnants: Storm Pulse > Image Here]

Barbara caught the boot with both hands, looking down at it in her lap.

Tristan was still standing near the boxes, watching her quietly as he adjusted the strap of his training bag.

"You're really leaving me with twenty-five pairs of cleats and a half-eaten avocado toast?" she said dryly, glancing up.

He smiled. "Of course not." He said before shouting for John and Felix, "Oi, you two help me put them in the car."

Barbara shook her head, setting the boot gently on the coffee table. "You look good in your kit."

Tristan looked down at himself, then back at her. "You think so?"

She nodded once, then stood and walked over, fixing the small fold in his collar and brushing an invisible bit of lint from his sleeve. Her hands lingered a second longer on his chest.

"You feeling alright?" she asked quietly.

Tristan nodded. "Excited. Bit of nerves maybe. But I feel good."

"About Kanté?"

"Yeah." He breathed out. "It's finally happening and everything else this season. I need to win, we have to win, if we don't win, it be my biggest failure."

Barbara's eyes softened. "You've been talking about this since January."

He gave a small laugh, then leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. "Thanks for listening through every bit of it."

"Always."

There was a pause.

Then she whispered, "Make sure he feels welcome, alright?"

Tristan nodded again, eyes locking with hers. "I will."

Barbara leaned in one last time, kissed him gently — short and sure — then tugged at the front of his training top with a teasing smile.

"Now go before you're late."

Tristan stepped back, a grin tugging at his lips. "Yes, ma'am."

He turned and grabbed his bag before carrying some of the shoe boxes that were left by Felix and John.

Barbara watched him until the door opened, and he threw her one last look over his shoulder.

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Barbara stood still in the hallway, holding her coffee mug to her chest. The silence filled in slowly, soft and total — no voices, no footsteps, just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant tick of the hallway clock.

She stared at the door for a second longer.

"Well," she murmured, her voice low and dry. "Daddy's off to build his empire." She said to Biscuit.

Her tone was playful, but her expression wasn't.

From the couch, Biscuit lifted her head at the sound. Her ears twitched once. A lazy tail wag followed, half-hearted and slow.

Barbara let out a breath that was almost a laugh. She padded across the room, crouched beside the couch, and ran her fingers through the soft fur between Biscuit's ears.

"You think he's gonna do it?" she whispered. "Win everything?"

Biscuit blinked, then let out a tiny, high-pitched yawn and rested her chin against Barbara's knee.

"That's what I thought."

Barbara stayed like that for a moment, her fingers tracing light circles across Biscuit's head, her eyes drifting back to the boxes again.

He was ready. She knew that. More ready than he'd ever been. But she also knew what came with it — the pressure, the noise, the spotlight that never dimmed. He made it look easy. That didn't mean it was.

She stood slowly and stretched, her arms rising overhead, fingertips brushing toward the ceiling. Her oversized shirt — Tristan's — slid a little higher on her thighs as she shifted her weight.

"Alright, little one," she said, voice quieter now. "Daddy's gone. Mommy's got a shoot in an hour."

She turned toward the hallway, already running through the checklist in her mind — dress steamed, hair set, Sofia waiting in the car, makeup bag zipped halfway open on the counter. Still had to text the stylist about the lighting.

Then she paused. Looked back down.

"Wanna come with me?"

Biscuit's head lifted instantly. Ears upright. Tail tapping once against the cushion.

Barbara let out a soft chuckle. "Didn't even have to bribe you with food."

She bent and scooped her up, settling the little dog against her chest. Biscuit curled into her instantly, nose tucked near the collar of her shirt like she always did when she was still half-asleep.

Barbara kissed the top of her head.

Then she walked toward the bedroom, barefoot, carrying her coffee in one hand and Biscuit in the other.

Outside, the sound of an engine faded into the distance — the start of a very big day.

..

By the time Tristan made it to base, it was nine, an hour before training started.

The parking lot was pretty much empty.

John pulled into the player's lot and eased the Range Rover into one of the shaded spaces near the main building. The engine idled for a few seconds before he turned it off, glancing at Tristan in the passenger seat.

"You sure you don't want me to hang around?" he asked. "Wait until you're done?"

Tristan shook his head, hand already on the door handle. "Nah. Barbara's got that shoot in London today. She only has Sofia with her. I'd rather you go with them."

John blinked, then nodded slowly. "You sure? She's got security at the shoot, yeah?"

"She does," Tristan said. "And I know Sofia's with her, but still. You know how I am."

John gave a small smile. "You don't trust London?"

"I don't trust people," Tristan replied. "And I don't trust being away when I don't need to be."

John leaned back in his seat and exhaled. "Alright then. I'll head straight back. You just focus on football."

Tristan pushed open the door and grabbed the first stack of cleat boxes from the back. "Can you ask one of the guards to give me a hand getting these to the locker room?"

John stepped out and nodded. "I'll sort it."

Tristan set the boxes on the curb, watching as a club staffer spotted him and started jogging over from the other entrance.

John clapped him on the back before sliding into the driver's seat again. "I'll text you once we're back in town."

Tristan nodded, then gave a final glance toward the Range Rover before heading inside with the shoes.

..

Thirty Minutes Later...

Tristan had just placed the final box of cleats in front of the lockers when he heard the echo of footsteps in the corridor. Steady. Close. He stood, wiping his palms down the sides of his track pants as the figures rounded the corner.

One was tall and broad-shouldered, with a familiar square jaw and that unmistakable face that always looked like it was holding back a joke.

The other... was quiet.

Shorter. Lean. Watching everything.

"You've got to be kidding me," Tristan muttered, breaking into a slow smile.

Harry Maguire raised his hand in mock surrender. "Surprise."

Tristan walked forward and pulled him into a quick, solid hug, stepping back with narrowed eyes.

"You said you'd call if anything happened."

Harry gave a lopsided shrug. "I wanted to. Got the call late last night. Drove straight down. Jon wanted it hush until it was done."

Tristan's gaze shifted to the man beside him — dark eyes, reserved posture, hands clasped behind his back. He looked like he was taking in the entire locker room in five-second sweeps. Memorizing it.

"And this must be—"

"N'Golo," Harry said, nodding. "He doesn't speak much English yet. Staff said I'd show him around until you showed up."

Tristan stepped forward and extended a hand. "N'Golo, right? I've been waiting for you."

Kanté blinked, then smiled gently and took the handshake — firm grip, quiet eyes. He said something softly in French that Tristan didn't catch completely.

[A/N: Just think all dialogue between Tristan and Kante is in French.]

Tristan tried anyway. "Bienvenue. Uh... welcome. I'm Tristan."

He pointed to himself, then tapped his chest twice. "Tristan. Midfield. You... me... good. Yeah?"

Kanté's smile widened slightly, and he gave a small nod. He didn't say much, but his shoulders eased a little.

Tristan motioned toward the line of boxes. "Shoes," he said, slowly. "Nike. For the team."

Kanté nodded again, his eyes drifting to the rows of cleats, lined up like a gallery.

Harry raised a brow as he scanned the labels. "You've been busy."

Tristan smirked. "Nine Regnants. My line. One for every starter last season. Plus a few extras for everyone else who joined."

Harry found a box labeled "Mahrez" and tapped it. "Let me guess. You picked the colors too?"

"Of course," Tristan said, already opening one of the top boxes. "This one's Storm Pulse — black, blue, for the club. Other one's white — Lions' Pride. Bit flashier. That's the England version."

"And my name's not on one yet?" Harry asked.

"Give it a week."

He turned back to Kanté. Slower now. "Tomorrow. You. Pair. Custom. Your name. Okay?"

Kanté gave a polite nod, then pointed at the cleats and said something soft in French — the only word Tristan caught was "beaux."

"Merci," Tristan said automatically. "And don't worry. I'll teach you some of the words. The team can help too."

Just then, voices filtered in from the hallway — boots scraping the floor, bags slapping backs, bursts of laughter trailing closer.

Vardy appeared first, Mahrez close behind. Drinkwater. Schmeichel. Wes. The morning crew.

Vardy stopped in the doorway and froze. "What the—?"

Mahrez stepped in and tilted his head. "You opening a store in here, Tristan?"

"Close," Tristan said. "Come have a look."

One by one, they filed in, slowly circling the boxes like a bunch of kids peeking into a Christmas pile.

Wes crouched to read the silver label on his box. "These for us?"

Tristan nodded once. "Nike sent over my first line. I told them I didn't care if some of you had brand deals — everyone's getting a pair. Wear them or don't. That's up to you."

Schmeichel lifted the lid off his own and whistled under his breath. "These look serious."

"Storm Pulse," Tristan said, holding up a black boot. "For the club. Low-cut collar, lighter plate, responsive stitching."

He picked up the white one. "Lions' Pride. For the national setup. Haven't given these to anyone yet."

Mahrez flipped his own boots over in his hands. "These feel nice. Like... really nice."

"Don't let it go to your head."

Vardy was already pulling his cleats out and trying one on over his sock. "You telling me I get to keep these?"

"They're yours. You think Nike would sue Nike. Come on now." Tristan said to Vardy, who started putting them on.

By then, most of the players were on the floor or against the lockers, already slipping boots on, comparing the weight, the feel, the grip on the soleplate.

Mahrez turned his boot slightly in the light. "You know what this means, yeah?"

Tristan raised a brow. "What?"

"You're officially the poster boy now."

"I thought I was before."

"Now you've got the boots to prove it."

Vardy leaned back against a locker. "You got a pair that make me faster?"

"Those cost extra."

Laughter bounced off the walls before the other players started coming in.

Ben slipped in next, stopping short as his eyes landed on the boxes.

"Did I miss something?" he asked.

"No," Tristan said. "You're just on time."

Ben's expression shifted, hesitating. "I don't have a starting spot..."

"Doesn't matter," Tristan said. He handed him a pair. "You train with us. You get one. And why wouldn't I give my friend my own shoes, come on, don't be a idiot."

Shinji walked in next, jogging in place like he was already halfway through warm-ups. He paused, then gave a slight bow toward Tristan.

"Boots?" he asked with a tilt of the head.

"Boots," Tristan confirmed. "One sec."

He gave one of the extras to him.

Shinji opened it like a ceremony. "Black is strong."

"Storm Pulse," Tristan said. "Club version."

Shinji nodded once, then held up a boot to the ceiling light. "I will score in this."

"I'll hold you to that."

Then came Drinkwater.

He stopped at his locker, looked down at the box like it might explode.

"Danny," Tristan said. "Before you even ask — yes. There's one for you."

Drinkwater sat down and began unlacing his old boots. "They better fit."

"They do," Tristan said. "I told them your arch pronates slightly."

Danny paused. "Wait. What?"

"Just try them on."

Vardy leaned back against his locker, legs stretched, admiring his own pair like he'd just bought a sports car.

"You know what this means, yeah?" Mahrez said from his side, arms crossed.

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You've officially made it."

"I thought I made it when the manager stopped calling me 'the kid.'"

Mahrez nodded toward the boots. "This says more."

Kanté, still holding the cleats with quiet reverence, looked over at Tristan. He said something again in French, slowly, careful with the words.

Tristan didn't catch all of it, but he understood the feeling.

He gave a simple nod. "I'm glad you're here."

The locker room buzzed now. Players fitting boots, stretching toes, turning the shoes over, commenting in their own way — a tap on the heel, a subtle nod, a soft "yeah, these'll do."

..

The sun hung low over Belvoir Drive, casting a soft amber glow across the grass. Morning haze still clung to the edges of the pitch, lifting slowly as the warmth began to creep in. Cleats crunched gently against the turf.

Coaches shouted instructions in the distance. Laughter rang out from the far side, where Vardy and Mahrez were already juggling a ball between them, shouting insults and flicking passes with the kind of chaos only they could turn into rhythm.

Tristan stepped onto the pitch, boots laced, sleeves rolled. Ben Chilwell walked beside him, Kanté just behind — quiet as ever, eyes scanning everything. The new cleats were already dirtying with each step, but they moved like second skin. No stiffness. No hesitation. Just fit.

Near the halfway line, Wes Morgan stood at the center, arms folded. The moment the last of the squad filtered onto the pitch, he lifted his voice — steady, grounded, unmistakably captain.

"Alright, lads! Before we get going—"

He pointed toward the group behind Tristan. "Couple new faces for the season. First, Harry Maguire. You've seen him before. He's back. Big head, bigger boots to fill."

A few chuckles rumbled through the group as Harry gave a single wave, expression unreadable but relaxed.

Wes turned to Kanté. "And this here's N'Golo Kanté. Straight from France. Doesn't speak much English yet, so don't act like clowns around him."

More scattered applause followed. A few whoops from Vardy. Mahrez clapped once, nodded. Even Schmeichel, leaning on the goalpost, gave a subtle lift of his chin.

Kanté didn't move. His posture was polite but closed, like he wasn't sure whether to wave or bow or stay invisible. His eyes flicked across the faces — scanning, registering, taking mental notes. He said nothing.

Tristan stepped a little closer and leaned in, voice low and calm.

"Don't worry," he said in French. "They'll love you once you get going."

Kanté blinked and looked up. There was a brief pause. Then:

"Tu parles français?"

Tristan gave a small shrug. "Enough."

A faint change — barely a shift — but something softened in Kanté's shoulders.

Harry, standing just behind them, raised an eyebrow. "Well. Makes you a better host than me."

"Perks of caring," Tristan said, then nudged him lightly. "Back line duty. Go make some noise."

Wes clapped his hands sharply. "Let's get warm. Rondos. You two—" he pointed between Tristan and Kanté, "—you're with me."

They split off. Cones were set. Balls rolled into the grid. Familiar instructions echoed: "Two in the middle. Ten passes. No nutmegs, Vardy."

Tristan stood beside Kanté as the ball zipped into play. For a while, Kanté said nothing. Just moved. Sharp cuts. Tiny adjustments. Always close. Always alert.

Tristan watched it unfold with the quiet appreciation only another midfielder could spot.

It was in the way Kanté timed his steps before the pass even left the foot. The way he'd shift his weight just slightly to cover two players at once. The way he didn't call for the ball, but always showed.

He wasn't loud. Wasn't flashy.

But he was already there — five seconds ahead.

Vardy shouted from the far end, "Oi, is he a ghost or what? He's never where you expect him."

"Speak for yourself," Mahrez called back, flicking a pass behind his heel. "He's reading your mind."

"Then my mind's broken," Vardy muttered.

Wes grinned mid-pass. "You'll get used to it. Or cry trying."

Tristan nudged Kanté lightly. "Keep playing like that," he said in French, "and they'll be terrified of you by Friday."

Kanté didn't answer — just intercepted the next pass before anyone saw it coming.

Tristan caught Wes glancing over.

"See it?" he asked.

Wes nodded slowly. "Reads the game like he's been here for years."

The ball zipped again. Another pass. Another interception.

And still — not a word from Kanté.

Just movement. Precision. Purpose.

A few of the younger players began whispering behind drills. Shinji asked Ben, quietly, "He too good?"

"Tell me about it," Ben said, breathless from chasing. "Where the hell did they find him."

..

The sharp blast of a whistle cut through the morning air.

"Alright!" a coach shouted. "Full-pitch match setup. Whites versus blues — bibs on, get moving!"

The players scattered into motion, tugging on training bibs and forming two sides. Ranieri stood at the edge of the pitch with his arms crossed, eyes squinting against the sunlight. Next to him, assistant Craig Shakespeare had a clipboard in one hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear.

Tristan trotted to midfield, adjusting the strap of his shin pads. Kanté hovered near him, eyes alert but quiet, like he was still learning the rhythm of the group.

Tristan gave him a quick nod. "You with me." He said in french.

Kanté nodded once — smiling.

Wes barked from the back line. "Let's keep it tight, lads. Build from the back."

As play kicked off, the ball zipped between feet — the tempo quick, the touches sharp. It didn't take long for Kanté to show what he was about.

He didn't burst into tackles. He didn't dive into reckless challenges. He just... appeared. One second a pass was gliding smoothly through midfield — the next, it was gone, stripped cleanly by Kanté's toe. A single pivot, and he was off again, feeding a short ball to Tristan under pressure and moving into space.

Ranieri raised an eyebrow.

Benett ijotted something.

"Did you see that?" Benetti murmured. "I be damned; I think he might be able to stop Tristan."

Ranieri nodded. "If he can limit Tristan to 70%, then we have the best defensive midfielder in the world."

The ball moved to the left wing. Kanté shuffled over, intercepting the switch before it even left the boot. Again — not flashy. Just timed to perfection. He didn't speak. Barely called for the ball.

He just moved.

And never stopped.

"All the running and hes not even tired yet" Benetti said quietly, "we might have a problem."

Ranieri glanced sideways. "What problem?"

"If he keeps playing like this, we'll never take him off."

Ranieri watched as Kanté ghosted into another passing lane, collected the loose ball, and calmly laid it off before jogging back into position.

After twenty minutes, Tristan turned a quick pass at the top of the box, played a one-two with Kanté, and slipped a ball through for Vardy, who slotted it under the keeper without hesitation.

The play had been quick.

Surgical.

Kanté at the center of it all — without taking a single extra touch.

On the sidelines, Claudio finally spoke again.

"Let's use him off the bench first match," he said. "Second half. If we're struggling, we switch the shape. 4-2-3-1 instead of 4-4-2. Let's see what it looks like in a real fight."

Benetii tapped the clipboard. "You thinking him and Drinkwater as the two pivots?"

"Exactly," Ranieri said. "Let the others run wild. He'll sweep up the mess."

Back on the pitch, the game rolled on. Kanté didn't score. Didn't shout. Didn't wave his arms or demand praise.

But when training ended, sweat clinging to everyone's shirts and the players breaking into small groups, Tristan walked up to him, patting him lightly on the back.

"You're different," he said simply. "That's the good kind."

Kanté just smiled — humble, quiet — and nodded once.

Then he looked at Tristan, face bright, "You too good."

Tristan laughed. "Thank you."

..

The players trickled off the pitch as the final whistle blew. Sweat clung to shirts, boots thudded against the turf, and someone shouted something about needing three ice baths and a massage before lunch.

Tristan tugged his bib over his head and turned to Kanté, who was still jogging in place like his body hadn't gotten the memo that training was over.

"You ever stop moving?" Tristan asked in french laughing.

Kanté slowed, his breathing controlled despite the intensity of the match. "I like to stay warm," he said, soft-spoken as ever, his accent thick but clear.

Jamie Vardy jogged over, tossing a bib at Tristan's chest. "Warm? He was everywhere. I looked up once and thought he cloned himself."

"I'm telling you," Mahrez chimed in, joining them with a grin, "I passed it sideways, blinked, and it was already going the other way."

Tristan glanced over at Kanté, who had the decency to look modest — even as the rest of the squad started crowding around, tossing comments and praise like confetti.

Kanté gave the smallest of smiles, lowering his head, shoulders ever so slightly hunched.

Tristan stepped in with a hand on his back. "Ignore them. They're just mad you made all their stats look average."

"Exactly," Mahrez said, pointing at Tristan. "Even golden boy here had to up his tempo."

Tristan raised his hands in surrender. "Hey — I'm just happy he's on our team. Could you imagine playing against this guy?"

Vardy made a fake shiver. "Nightmare fuel. I'd fake an injury at the tunnel."

They all laughed — loud and real — and for a second, the pressure of the season felt like a distant thing.

Then Wes Morgan shouted from the other end of the pitch. "Alright, lads! Hit the ice tubs before the physios start chasing you!"

The group began to disperse, heading toward the recovery stations, but Tristan nudged Kanté lightly with his elbow.

"Come on," he said. "You hang with me today."

Kanté nodded wordlessly, falling in step beside him.

As they walked, Mahrez dropped back next to them. "You speak French, bro?"

"Enough to keep him from thinking we're all idiots," Tristan said.

Kanté chuckled under his breath.

Vardy jogged backwards in front of them, grinning like a schoolboy. "Oi, we teaching him Leicester slang or nah?"

Kanté looked confused.

Mahrez smirked. "Let's not traumatize him yet."

And like that, the banter kept rolling — light, effortless. Bonds were forming. Not because they were told to. Not because the cameras were on.

But because respect was earned. Because talent was obvious.

And because in a squad chasing something bigger, it was only a matter of time before the engine at the heart of it all became one of them.

Tristan glanced sideways as they walked into the training building, towel over one shoulder, boots swinging from the other.

"You doing alright?" he asked quietly.

Kanté nodded. "It's good here."

"Yeah," Tristan said, bumping their arms lightly. "It's about to be great."

The sky over Leicester was turning amber by the time Vardy pulled up outside Tristan's place, engine rumbling low as the car idled at the curb.

"You good?" Vardy asked, leaning across the center console.

"Yeah," Tristan replied, tugging his bag over one shoulder. "Appreciate the lift."

Vardy smirked. "Don't say I never do anything for you."

Tristan gave him a lazy salute before stepping out. The door shut behind him with a solid thunk, and moments later the car rolled off, exhaust fading into the distance.

He stood for a moment at the front step, keys in hand, staring at the quiet house. No lights on inside. No Felix in the kitchen. No scent of food, no Barbara voice echoing down the hall, no Biscuit sprinting toward the door.

Just stillness.

He unlocked the door and stepped inside.

"Biscuit?" he called out instinctively, even though he already knew she wasn't home.

Silence.

He dropped his bag by the console and kicked off his shoes. The place felt bigger without them.

With nothing pressing to do, he made a beeline for the living room, plopped down onto the couch, and grabbed his phone. He sank into the cushions, one arm behind his head, the other scrolling as the soft hum of the refrigerator became the only sound in the house.

Instagram first — Barbara had posted something from her shoot in London. Hair curled, heels sharp, city skyline in the back. Sofia in the reflection, crouched with a light meter.

He double-tapped.

Then he swiped to Twitter.

Trending topics.

#Tristan and Ronaldo

#NineRegnants

A short smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he scrolled. Someone had posted a side-by-side of his cleats next to Messi's Adidas pair — captioned "Era incoming?" with a fire emoji.

He kept scrolling.

A Reddit link caught his eye next. He opened it.

[DISCUSSION] Premier League 15/16 – Full Season Predictions, Transfers, Trophies, and Player Awards

Posted by u/TheFoxFiles

📅 April 9, 2025

📍 "In Tristan We Trust" flair

⬆️ 12.2k upvotes | 💬 1.3k comments

Alright folks, it's that time again.

With the Premier League kicking off in just a few days, here's my definitive season preview for 2015–2016. From title contenders to stat leaders to surprise packages — everything's here. Bookmark it. Screenshot it. Roast me in May if I'm wrong.

🏆 Title Contenders Tier List

S-Tier (Favourites):

Chelsea – Defending champions. Mourinho's men still stacked. Hazard in his prime.

Manchester City – Sterling and Aguero could cause chaos. Defense shaky though.

Arsenal – Quiet window but team chemistry's solid. Cazorla + Alexis still class.

A-Tier (Challengers):

Manchester United – Lots of talent, but inconsistent. Rooney aging, defense a question mark.

Liverpool – Benteke signed, Coutinho needs to cook. Defense and system still shaky.

Leicester City – YES, Leicester.

Finished 6th last season.

Tristan Hale literally won every award besides the Golden Boot.

Added extra depth

Their Europa League run might drain them, but man... this team has something.

B-Tier (Dark Horses):

Tottenham Hotspur – Kane's still a weapon. But they're Spurs, y'know?

Southampton – Always pesky.

Everton – Depends on Lukaku + Barkley consistency.

🥇 Golden Boot Predictions

Aguero – It's his to lose.

Tristan – Was literally like 5 goals away from winning it last season and we know our boy can hold a grudge. Golden Boot was the only personally trophy he was missing

Kane – Was one of the best strikers last season

Diego—injured derailed but when healthy, hes a monster

Vardy – Wild card pick.

..

🧱 Relegation WatchWatford

Norwich

Sunderland

Bournemouth (Sorry lads, love the story though)

..

🏅 Major Trophy PredictionsPremier League: Chelsea

FA Cup: Arsenal

League Cup: Man City

Europa League: Leicester City (Calling it now)

Champions League: Bayern or Barca

PFA Player of the Year: Tristan Hale

New novel chapters are published on freewёbn૦νeɭ.com.

Young Player of the Year: Raheem Sterling if only Tristan isn't seen as a young player anymore

Manager of the Year: Claudio Ranieri... if Leicester breaks top 4 👀

🔁 Final Table Prediction

1st: Chelsea

2nd: Man City

3rd: Arsenal

4th: Leicester City

5th: Man United

6th: Liverpool

7th:Spurs

8th: Everton

Mid-table ceiling

9th–20th

Who cares...

Just enjoy the show

..

This season is going to be mad.

Leicester might actually go deep in Europe.

Tristan is HIM. Vardy's still hungry and crazy.

And you just know the top six are going to hate playing at the King Power.

Let me know what you think below. What did I get wrong? Who's overrated? Can Leicester shock the league again?

🦊 #InTristanWeTrust

Tristan laughed reading the post before clicking on another.

[r/PremLeagueTalk] – Thread: "Ranking the Top 20 Premier League Players Going Into 2015–16"

u/TheScoutVisionary · 3 hours ago

New season. New signings. New dreams. Who are the players to watch this year?

Here's my Top 20 list (based on last season form, current trajectory, and team dynamics):

Tristan Hale (Leicester City)

Already the best player in the league at 19. Won everything last season except the Golden Boot. 35 goals, 40 assists across all comps. No sophomore slump coming. This is the Ballon d'Or path.

Eden Hazard (Chelsea)

Can't deny his brilliance. Should bounce back strong after a mixed finish. Chelsea still run through him.

Sergio Agüero (Man City)

If he stays fit, he's the Golden Boot favorite. Still the most ruthless finisher in the league.

Alexis Sánchez (Arsenal)

Arsenal's heartbeat. If they challenge for the title, it'll be because of him.

David De Gea (Man United)

Still the best goalkeeper in the world. Don't care what anyone says. Cesc Fàbregas (Chelsea)

Form dipped, but he's still one of the best passers in Europe. Don't sleep.

Jamie Vardy (Leicester City)

Premier League's chaos merchant. Relentless. If he clicks with Tristan again, defenders are screwed.

Mesut Özil (Arsenal)

Quietly led the league in chances created. Still silky. Still class.

Yaya Touré (Man City)

May not be peak Yaya, but he's still a monster when he wants to be.

Riyad Mahrez (Leicester City)

The magician. Most underrated winger in the league. Watch this space.

Harry Kane (Tottenham)

Has to prove last season wasn't a fluke. Big test coming.

Jordan Henderson (Liverpool)

Captain now. Big role. Massive engine.

Wayne Rooney (Man United)

Aging, but still a threat in big games.

Christian Eriksen (Tottenham)

So technically gifted. Could be their main creative force this year.

Vincent Kompany (Man City)

Injuries or not, he's still a leader at the back.

Theo Walcott (Arsenal)

Make-or-break season. Could explode... or fade.

Danny Drinkwater (Leicester City)

Pass-master with underrated defensive ability.

Ross Barkley (Everton)

Raw, but the talent is real. Could be England's next big hope.

Philippe Coutinho (Liverpool)

Another magician, but needs more consistency.

..

Bonus Predictions:

Golden Boot: Agüero

Top Assists: Tristan or Özil

PFA Player of the Year: Tristan

FWA Footballer of the Year: Hazard

Young Player of the Year: Hale (again)

Best Signing: Kanté or Depay

Most Improved: Barkley or Mahrez

Most Red Cards: Lee Cattermole (lol, some things don't change)

Top Comment (u/VardyTime9):

Why is this Tristan not winning everything under the sun, lol. I agreed with everything else but come on now, everyone already knows whose going to win the individual awards.😂

Tristan couldn't help but send a screenshot of all the posts to the group chat and watched the choas start before muting the chat.

Tristan was just about to refresh Reddit again when his phone buzzed in his lap.

Sofia: Did you watch the Nike videos yet?They're final. Going out on the 7th. Day before kickoff. Timing's perfect.

He stared at the message for a second, then locked his phone and reached for the TV remote. A few taps later, he was casting from his inbox, the title card appearing in bold letters across the screen:

NIKE FOOTBALL: "CROWN THE STREETS" 

He leaned back against the couch, barefoot, legs stretched out over the coffee table. The screen faded into black, then flickered into a grainy shot of a city park court. Dim streetlights. Chain-link fence rattling in the wind. A group of rowdy kids talking trash, laughing, setting up a 5-a-side match.

Then came the sound.

That signature creak of old bones.

The camera panned to an elderly man — hunched, grey-haired, wearing mismatched socks, a tattered windbreaker... and a pair of Nine Regnants: Storm Pulse cleats.

Tristan laughed under his breath as he watched himself — in full old-man prosthetics, glasses slipping down his nose, muttering under his breath about "kids these days having no touch."

He remembered the day of filming — how long it took to apply the makeup, the voice, the swagger.

On screen, the kids laughed when "old man Tristan" asked to join the game.

Then the music dropped.

In the span of ten seconds, the entire court changed.

The old man nutmegged one. Cruyff turned another. A flick over the third's head. Cut to stunned faces, jaws dropping. One kid yelled, "Ayo, WHO IS THIS?"

And then came the reveal.

The wig pulled off mid-dribble. The slow motion of Tristan Hale bursting into a full sprint, eyes locked, the Storm Pulse cleats glinting under the streetlight as he curled one into the corner net.

CROWN THE STREETS.

NIKE FOOTBALL x TRISTAN HALE

Release: August 7

Tristan grinned, arms folded. "Still got it."

The second video autoplayed right after. A different vibe entirely.

Tristan sat in silence as the video started.

His phone buzzed again.

Sofia: You like them? We're prepping the full campaign release tomorrow. Socials on the 6th, global drop on the 7th. You good to record a short thank-you message for the fans too? Just 30 seconds. Nothing scripted. Be you.

He typed slowly.

Love both. Tell Nike the "Uncle Same" one's going viral before kickoff. And yeah, I'll send you something tonight.

..

Next Morning

The first ping came at 6:02 a.m.

Tristan didn't hear it.

Biscuit did.

The Maltipoo lifted her head from her designated corner of the duvet, ears flicking. Another buzz. And another. Then the sound of a notification burst — five messages in a row.

Barbara stirred first.

She rolled over, face still tucked into Tristan's chest, one leg tangled around his. Her hand reached blindly for the phone on his nightstand.

"Babe," she whispered, eyes squinting at the brightness, "your phone's about to explode."

Tristan groaned, still half-asleep. "What time is it?"

Barbara tilted the screen. "Too early. And too viral."

He blinked. "What?"

She turned the phone around.

Instagram notifications. Twitter mentions. WhatsApp blowing up.

The Nike campaign had launched.

Barbara sat up slowly, hair a mess, voice rough with sleep. "Do we even need to look? Or should we just assume it's everywhere?"

Tristan was already reaching for the phone. One swipe, one refresh—and there it was:

@NikeFootball History is forged in the streets.

The king just crowned them.

👑⚽🔥

#CrownTheStreets

#NineRegnants

[📽️ Watch Now]

The video had over 3.1 million views in an hour.

Tristan sat upright. "Check the comments."

Barbara yawned and grabbed her own phone off the charger. "On it."

Barbara whistled. "They're calling it a short film."

He shook his head, almost in disbelief. "The second one dropped too?"

Barbara tapped through. "Yep.You look cool."

Her phone buzzed again. Sofia.

Sofia: We're trending in 12 countries. The campaign rollout is a hit.

Barbara read it out loud.

Tristan exhaled, resting his forehead against hers.

From the hallway, Biscuit barked once — not loud, more like a reminder.

Feed me.

Barbara laughed. "Alright, alright, your highness."

She slid off his lap and padded toward the kitchen, barefoot, wearing one of his old England training tops. Biscuit followed close behind like a royal shadow.

Tristan sat there for a moment longer — shirt wrinkled, curls a mess, phone still buzzing with mentions and reposts.

"This is the life."

..

The locker room was louder than usual.

A chorus of whoops, shouts, and howling laughter erupted the moment the video hit the group chat. Most of the players had seen the teaser on Nike Football's Instagram—just a shadowy thumbnail with the caption "Crown drops tomorrow."

But none of them had seen the full thing. Not until Vardy pressed play on his phone and held it up like it was holy scripture.

"Bro..." Vardy wheezed, pausing at the moment the old man slid into a Cruyff turn. "That's you?! That's actually you?!"

Tristan leaned back in his chair, arms folded, a lazy grin playing across his face.

Mahrez was standing, slack-jawed. "The prosthetics. The limp. The VOICE. You even had the auntie socks on."

"Madness," Drinkwater muttered, shaking his head. "Fully looked like he was about to hand out Werther's Originals."

"AND THEN—BOOM," Vardy said, flipping the phone around to show the wig flying off. "That

"Man," Mahrez muttered, still watching. "We've got a proper superstar now."

..

August 7, 2015 – Afternoon, Belvoir Drive Media Room

The room was cooler than usual—air-con humming low, lights diffused and bright. The Leicester City crest hung on the back wall like a crown, polished for the cameras.

Gary Lineker sat relaxed in his chair, sleeves rolled up, cue cards fanned across his lap. Across from him, Tristan Hale, Jamie Vardy, and Riyad Mahrez leaned back into their seats—three different temperaments, one shared purpose.

"Ready?" Gary asked, looking up with a slight tilt of his head.

Mahrez gave a calm nod.

"Born ready," Vardy muttered, adjusting his mic.

Tristan gave a faint smile. "Let's go."

The red light clicked on.

Gary's tone shifted with it—smooth, controlled. "We're a day out from the start of a brand new Premier League season, and I'm joined by three of Leicester's sharpest blades—Vardy, Mahrez, and of course Tristan."

A polite smile from Mahrez. A casual "Cheers" from Vardy.

Tristan just nodded slightly.

Gary raised an eyebrow. "Let's start with the obvious. Tristan—Nike. Two videos dropped this week. One of you as an old man destroying kids in a street match. The other... more cinematic. You and Barbara. Rain. Velvet. Thunder. Any regrets?"

Tristan exhaled a laugh. "None. I told Nike I wanted both sides. The street, and the storm."

Vardy leaned into the mic. "Schmeichel's got the fashion ad as his phone background. Can't make that up."

Mahrez added, "And Ben Chilwell nearly cried laughing at the wig one."

Even Gary chuckled. "But it's more than just jokes. You've got your own cleat line now. Global campaigns. Does it shift the pressure at all?"

Tristan shook his head. "Pressure's the same. I said it before—none of that means anything if I don't show up. I didn't sign up to be a poster. I signed up to win."

A pause. Mahrez glanced at him, eyes unreadable but thoughtful.

Gary leaned forward. "So let's talk football, then. Last season—you finish sixth. Amazing run in Europe, but the Napoli loss in the quarterfinals still stings. How do you each look back on that?"

Vardy's jaw tightened slightly. "We shocked a lot of people. But for us? Sixth wasn't enough. Napoli outplayed us in Italy. We felt that. And I think we're still feeling it."

Tristan added quietly, "I didn't sleep after that second leg. Not properly. I blamed myself. Still do, a bit."

Gary glanced down at his notes. "You had two assists and a goal in that tie."

"I know," Tristan said. "Still wasn't enough."

Mahrez spoke next, his voice even. "We were learning. But this season... I think we're done learning. It's time to do."

The silence that followed was loaded.

Gary let it sit before continuing. "Alright then. Let's go there. What's the goal this year? Tristan did say they would be a miracle season coming soon. So what exactly counts as a miracle to the team than."

Vardy didn't hesitate. "Top four. No excuses."

Mahrez nodded. "Europa League final. At least."

Tristan's eyes stayed on the floor for a beat, then lifted. "I rather keep close until we at least played half the season."

"And on a personal level?" Gary asked. "Last year you won the Golden Boy, Player of the Year, Young Player, Playmaker, FWA Footballer of the Year... you basically swept everything but the Golden Boot."

"I want that this year," Tristan said. "Golden Boot. Clean sweep. And then I want to go to the next level."

Mahrez tilted his head slightly. "Ballon d'Or?"

Tristan didn't flinch. "Yeah."

Gary let out a low breath. "Big words."

Tristan didn't break eye contact. "Big season."

Gary smiled at the conviction, then turned to Mahrez and Vardy. "What about you two? Personal goals?"

Vardy sat up. "I want more goals than last year. I don't care who scores more between us, but I want to hit twenty five. Maybe more."

Gary chuckled, flipping to his final card. "Alright. Last question before we wrap. You walk into matchday one. First whistle's about to blow. What's going through your head?"

Mahrez was first. "Stay calm. That's what I always to myself."

Vardy followed. "Beat everyone up."

Tristan took a breath. "I just think... start strong. Set the tone. Don't let them breathe.

He paused.

"Because I know they're watching. The whole league. The world. And I want them to know we're not here by accident."

Gary looked between them. The room felt heavier now.

"Well," he said, lowering his notes, "if I were a defender watching this, I'd be terrified."

Tristan allowed himself the smallest smile.

"Good," he said.

..

Later that evening...

The car eased up the familiar gravel path, tires crunching softly beneath the tires as the hedges blurred past.

Barbara sat quiet in the passenger seat, Biscuit nestled in her lap like a warm, living pastry. The pup's ears twitched occasionally, her head tucked snug under Barbara's forearm. A breeze floated in through the half-cracked window—pine, jasmine, the faint scent of cut grass.

Tristan glanced over as he slowed to a stop. "You sure you're okay coming like this? You barely slept last night."

Barbara's eyes stayed on the windshield for a beat. Then she turned, expression unreadable except for the small arch in her brow. "Tristan. I look fine."

He looked at her properly this time.

Hair still loose from the drive. Soft cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. A shadow of tiredness under her eyes, but her gaze steady. Still the kind of beautiful that made silence feel earned.

He smiled faintly. "Yeah. You do."

The moment held for a second longer—then Biscuit stirred, her tiny paws stretching against Barbara's arm like she was waking from a dream.

The car hadn't even fully stopped when the front door swung open.

Julia stepped outside—flushed cheeks, apron still tied around her waist, one hand lifting to block the sun.

Her eyes landed on the passenger seat. "Barbara?"

Barbara opened the car door slowly, sliding one arm under Biscuit and stepping out into the warm light. She wore tan sandals, soft linen trousers, and a white knit cardigan that hung a little off her shoulder.

Julia gasped, both hands flying to her face. "Oh my goodness, look at you. How are you, darling?"

Barbara gave a small smile, lifting Biscuit slightly as she walked forward. "I came here for dessert, auntie. That's all."

Julia laughed as she reached them, wrapping one arm around Barbara and the other carefully steadying the Maltipoo. "You're family. You get two."

From the driver's side, Tristan stepped out and shut the door behind him. His boots crunched the gravel. "She says that now," he muttered, "but she'll be sneaking leftovers home."

Barbara didn't deny it.

She just reached out with one hand, fingers brushing his wrist lightly as they followed Julia up the steps—quiet, like the touch itself was more of a thank-you than anything she could say.

Inside, warm light spilled from the kitchen. The smell of baked apples and something savory drifted down the hallway. Tristan's father, Ling, appeared around the corner, drying his hands with a dishtowel.

"Evening, you two," he said, his voice calm and worn like an old sweater.

Barbara smiled, stepping toward him. "We brought Biscuit."

"She better not try to raid the table again," Ling said, crouching to pat the dog's head anyway.

"She learned her lesson," Barbara lied, passing the dog to Julia, who was already cooing at her like she was the long-lost heir to the family.

Tristan watched from the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

[Ling Hale > Image Here]

[Julia Hale > Image Here]

The dining table was already set—nothing dramatic, just clean plates, a jug of cold lemon water with mint leaves floating lazily inside, and a large oval dish in the center filled with roast chicken thighs, golden potatoes, and blistered cherry tomatoes on the vine. Off to the side sat a bowl of buttered green beans and a modest apple crumble cooling on the counter.

Barbara settled next to Tristan near the head of the table, quietly helping herself to a little of everything. Biscuit had already claimed a corner spot under Julia's chair like it was reserved. The pup sniffed, shifted once, and then curled into a nap.

Julia poured them all water and slid into her seat at the end. "Alright," she said, clapping her hands softly once. "Let's eat before the vegetables go cold."

For the first ten minutes, the room was mostly filled with clinks and low conversation—Ling asking Barbara about the shoot, Julia commenting on how Biscuit looked "even fluffier somehow." Tristan picked at his food a little slower than usual, chewing thoughtfully, his elbows resting on the table in that relaxed, unguarded way he rarely showed outside this house.

It wasn't until plates started clearing that Julia finally asked.

"So," she said, cutting herself a piece of chicken and glancing over at her son. "How are you really feeling about tomorrow?"

Tristan looked up mid-sip. "Tomorrow?"

"The match," she said, gently. "The new season. All of it."

Barbara's fork paused in the air, then continued slowly to her mouth.

Ling leaned back in his chair slightly, arms crossed, his expression patient but observant.

Tristan exhaled through his nose and leaned back too. "Honestly? I feel... ready."

Julia waited a beat. "But?"

Tristan smiled faintly, eyes flicking from her to his plate. "There's always a 'but,' isn't there?"

"Well," Ling said, "that's how we know you're thinking."

Tristan's shoulders lifted and fell. "I don't know. Last season we finished sixth. Got knocked out by Napoli in the quarters. This year feels different. Expectations are different."

"You're different," Julia said gently.

He looked at her again.

She went on. "You've grown into something bigger than yourself. Whether you wanted it or not."

There was a brief pause, then Barbara spoke—her voice quiet, but sure. "He hasn't changed though. Not in the ways that matter."

Tristan glanced sideways at her, his face unreadable for a second. Then he nodded once, like her words had landed somewhere he didn't need to explain.

"I just want to win," he said. "I want this team to win."

Ling gave a small nod, eyes thoughtful. "And the pressure?"

"It's there," Tristan admitted. "It always is. But I don't feel buried by it. I feel like I'm carrying something for a reason."

Julia reached across the table and rested a hand briefly on his. "That's all we need to hear."

There was a soft beat of silence. The kind that filled a room without weighing it down.

Then—

"Alright," Barbara said, setting her fork down gently. "Serious moment over. I want that apple crumble."

Julia laughed and stood. "Finally! Someone with their priorities in order."

Outside, the crickets had started. Inside, the conversation drifted to lighter things—what Felix had burned last week, whether Biscuit needed a new collar, the way Ling still refused to upgrade from his decade-old phone.

It was a normal night.

.

13069

Season starts next Chapter.