England's Greatest-Chapter 160: Shut Up and Play?

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November 21, 2014 - Belvoir Drive...

The gym buzzed with life, players easing back into club mode after international duty. Some were on stationary bikes, shaking off stiff legs from travel, others halfheartedly stretching, more focused on bantering than actually recovering.

At the center of it all, Tristan was locked in, pull-ups in perfect rhythm, his body moving with calm control.

Lingard, rolling his shoulders as he strolled past, shook his head.

"Man, already so focused. Didn't even let LA slow him down?"

Tristan dropped from the bar smoothly, grabbed his towel, and tossed it over his shoulder.

"Didn't have time to slow down."

Lingard scoffed. "Yeah, sure. Private jets, resorts, Nike meetings—I'm sure that was exhausting."

Vardy, perched on the bench press, didn't even look up. "Bet he had to lift his own fork at those five-star restaurants too. Must've been brutal."

Andy King, finishing a set of hamstring stretches, shot him a look over his shoulder.

"How was it, though? The Nike deal—did they treat you like a king?"

Tristan grabbed his water bottle, took a slow sip, then answered.

"Almost. Still finalizing things, but I'll be involved every step."

Lingard grinned. "So what, you picking the laces next?"

Tristan shrugged, unbothered. "If my name's on it, it has to be perfect."

Danny, finally back in full training, jogged over from the treadmill, cracking his neck like he'd just done a full shift.

"You think you can hook us up with some free boots?" Danny stretched out his leg. "Or are you too big for us now?"

Laughter rippled through the group.

Tristan didn't miss a beat. "You might want to focus on making the squad first."

Danny let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Man hasn't even seen me in training for weeks and he's still talking."

Vardy finally sat up, grinning. "I dunno, mate. You did miss that sitter before the break..."

Tristan rolled his eyes.

"One chance. One."

Mahrez, stretching nearby, finally spoke up. "In Algeria, that gets you benched for three matches."

Tristan glanced over. "Is that what happened to you?"

Mahrez sighed deeply, shaking his head. "We don't need to discuss that."

Laughter spread quickly.

Lingard, never one to miss a chance, pointed at Tristan. "That's one more than Barbara missed."

The gym went quiet for half a second.

Then Vardy lost it.

Tristan just shook his head, already regretting telling them anything.

As he grabbed his phone from the bench, he tapped the screen, checking a message—

And that's when Lingard saw it.

His reaction was immediate.

"Nah, wait—wait! Oi, look at this!"

Tristan barely had time to lock his phone before Lingard was pointing at the screen, eyes wide with realization.

Vardy, always ready to cause trouble, practically lunged off the bench. "What? What is it?"

Lingard turned his phone around, and a wicked grin spread across his face.

"This man's wallpaper. Look at this."

Tristan sighed, already knowing where this was going.

Vardy squinted, then let out a bark of laughter. "Oh, my days. Ain't no way. Man's whipped."

Danny, mid-stretch, raised an eyebrow. "What's the picture?"

Andy King leaned in, "Lemme see—ah, yeah. That's love, right there."

The screen had flashed just long enough for everyone nearby to catch a glimpse—a high-quality shot of Barbara from her Malibu photoshoot, the one where she was staring straight into the camera, looking stunning.

"Man, that's actually cold," Danny muttered, nodding in appreciation. "She looks like she's about to ruin someone's life."

Mahrez, ever the troublemaker, clutched his chest dramatically. "Tristan Hale, England's golden boy, reduced to a simp."

Tristan, unbothered, slipped his phone back into his pocket. "You lot done?"

"Done? No, no," Vardy laughed, shaking his head. "This is just the beginning. This is prime teasing material."

Lingard grinned, nudging Tristan. "What happened to the ruthless, stone-cold Hale, eh? The 'I don't care about anything but football' guy?"

Tristan wiped his face with his towel, expression unreadable. "Still here. Just have a good taste in wallpapers."

Vardy fake wiped a tear. "I can't believe we're witnessing this. The downfall of a footballing great."

Tristan scoffed, walking back toward the weights. "Say whatever you want. I'll still run circles around you lot on the pitch."

Lingard jogged after him, laughing. "Oh, we're saying whatever we want, trust me."

The teasing carried on, but there was no heat behind it.

Before anyone could continue, a voice cut through the conversation.

"Tristan—you might wanna see this."

Ulloa said standing near the treadmills, pointing at the TV mounted on the gym wall.

Sky Sports – Premier League Debate Show

The familiar Sky Sports studio was displayed on the screen, with a headline running across the ticker:

'TRISTAN HALE TOO BIG TOO SOON?'

Seated around the table were Roy Keane, Paul Scholes, Jamie Carragher, and Rio Ferdinand—all locked into the argument as footage of Tristan's LA trip flashed across the screen.

Carragher leaned forward, his hands gesturing sharply.

"Listen, I don't care how talented he is! He's nineteen! You don't just skip an England game because you fancy a few days off!" His voice grew louder, matching his frustration. "This wasn't a pre-season friendly against some no-name club—this was Scotland, our oldest rivals! And for what? A Nike meeting? What message does that send?!"

Scholes, arms folded, shook his head.

"This wouldn't have happened ten, fifteen years ago. Young players now have way too much control over their careers." He exhaled, shifting in his seat. "And look, I get it—Tristan's got the talent. He's special. But at nineteen? Already deciding when he plays for England? That's too much, too soon. Simple as that."

Keane, sitting at the far end of the panel, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, unimpressed.

"Lads, this isn't just about skipping a game." His voice was flat, deliberate. "This is about discipline."

The studio fell slightly quieter, everyone listening.

Keane's stare was sharp. "We all praise him, say he's top five, top ten in the world. But now he's picking when he plays? Dictating his own schedule? That's a dangerous road."

He didn't stop there.

Keane leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at the screen. "And let's be honest—he wasn't just there for Nike, was he? He went to be with his girlfriend. That model, what's her name? Barbara Palvin?"

Scholes let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Saw the pictures."

Keane scoffed. "This is exactly what ruins young talents. We've seen it before—fame, the flashy lifestyle, the distractions. He's already the biggest name in English football, and now he's flying off mid-season to rub shoulders with celebrities? You think Fergie would've allowed this? You think Roy Hodgson—if he had a choice—wanted this?"

Carragher pounced, shaking his head.

"It's perception, Rio. Players are watching this. The next nineteen-year-old coming up will see Tristan Hale dictating terms to the FA, and they'll think they can do it too. That's where it all starts to fall apart."

Ferdinand had been sitting back, listening, but now he shook his head, running a hand over his beard.

"Alright, let's calm down for a second." His voice was measured, controlled. "First off, this wasn't a competitive match. If England had a must-win qualifier, Tristan's there. But it was a friendly. And guess what? England's medical team knew he was carrying fatigue. Leicester knew. Hodgson knew. This wasn't him 'refusing to play'—it was agreed upon."

Keane scoffed, his patience thinning.

"Oh come on, Rio. Fatigue? He's nineteen. I played sixty games a season and still turned up for every Ireland match. But now we're giving lads days off for 'fatigue?' What's next? Personal spa days?"

Carragher waved a hand. "And let's talk about how this looks. When he's back home, what's he doing? Training? Staying sharp? Nah—he's in Malibu. Going to photoshoots with his girlfriend. You think that sits well with the England fans?"

Scholes let out another small chuckle, shaking his head. "He's got half the country thinking he's already a Hollywood star. What's next, a movie deal?"

Rio finally leaned forward, his frustration breaking through.

"Right, but let's talk about what actually matters—his performances. Has that kid ever let England down? No. Has he ever slacked off at Leicester? No. He's been the best player in the league, carrying a newly promoted club, and he's still England's best performer. The FA backs him. His club backs him. So why are we pretending he's some prima donna who's gone rogue?"

Keane wasn't convinced. "Because, Rio, when young players start thinking they're untouchable, that's when the downfall begins. The minute he thinks he's bigger than the game, that's when the trouble starts. And if no one puts their foot down now, it'll be too late later."

The broadcast transitioned from the studio to post-match footage, showing Roy Hodgson seated at the press table, Wayne Rooney beside him, both fresh from England's 3-1 win over Scotland.

Journalists filled the room, hands already raised, voices eager as the FA's press officer nodded to the first reporter.

A journalist from The Telegraph leaned into the mic.

"Roy, obviously a strong performance today, but Tristan Hale's absence has been a talking point all week. Can you clarify why he wasn't here?"

Hodgson, hands folded on the desk, exhaled slightly before answering.

"Well, as I've said before, Tristan made us aware well in advance that he wouldn't be available for this camp. There was no issue on our side—we discussed it, and given his schedule and the amount of football he's played, we were comfortable with him sitting this one out."

Another reporter, this time from Sky Sports, leaned forward.

"But isn't it unusual for a nineteen-year-old to have that kind of leeway? Some say this sends the wrong message about commitment."

Hodgson blinked once, as if the question wasn't worth entertaining, but answered anyway.

"It's not about leeway, it's about management. Tristan has been a key player for both club and country this season. We trust him, and decisions like this are made for the long-term benefit of both the player and the team."

A different journalist, from TalkSPORT, didn't wait before jumping in.

"Wayne, as captain, do you think this sets a bad precedent? A young player missing a game for personal reasons?"

Rooney, who had been leaning back slightly, straightened.

His voice was calm, but firm.

"I don't think it's an issue, to be honest," he said, shrugging slightly. "Tristan's played nearly every minute for club and country this season. He's earned a bit of trust. The squad knew, the manager knew—there was no drama. People just need something to talk about."

A few of the reporters exchanged glances.

Rooney wasn't giving them anything to stir controversy.

One reporter, desperate for a different angle, pressed again.

"So you're saying there's no concern about his professionalism?"

Rooney's jaw tensed slightly, his patience wearing thin.

"I'm saying he's one of the best players we've got. And if he needs a break in November so he can be at his best in March, I'll take that every time. We move on."

Hodgson, sensing that there was nothing else worth saying, simply nodded toward the press officer, who wrapped up the session.

The screen cut back to the Sky Sports studio, where Carragher was already shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, but that's not how it worked in our day."

Carragher let out a frustrated sigh, sitting forward in his chair.

"It's all a bit much, isn't it? One moment he's pulling out of the England squad, next minute he's in LA, private jets, Nike deals, and—let's be honest—half the press is talking about his relationship more than his football."

Keane, arms folded, leaned back in his chair.

"Distractions. That's what it is. The best players keep football first. But now? Now, it's photo shoots, lifestyle, all this nonsense. It's a dangerous road."

Scholes, who had been listening, let out a small breath.

"He's nineteen, and already, you can tell he likes the attention. These things add up—if he's not careful, it'll affect his game."

Carragher scoffed, shaking his head.

"And then you've got all these headlines about his girlfriend—listen, she's a model, we get it. But all I'm saying is, this isn't exactly helping him stay focused on the football."

Keane, who had been silent for a moment, finally waved a dismissive hand.

"The greats never needed all this. They just played."

Rio, who had been listening up until now, finally spoke.

"Alright, let's calm down for a second." He leaned back before glancing at Keane

Keane folded his arms, unimpressed.

"Rio, when young players start thinking they're untouchable, that's when the downfall begins. The minute he thinks he's bigger than the game, that's when the trouble starts. And if no one puts their foot down now, it'll be too late later."

The screen lingered on Keane's words as the debate raged on, but inside the Leicester gym, the players watching the segment had gone quiet.

The weight in Tristan's hand lowered slowly, his fingers tightening around the metal, but he didn't say anything.

Lingard folded his arms, shaking his head. "That's some proper nonsense. Everyone in the squad knew. And we won."

Danny, rolling out his hamstring, scoffed. "They're acting like you skipped a World Cup final."

Tristan grabbed his towel, wiping the sweat off his forehead before setting it down with a little more force than necessary.

"They'll find something to complain about either way."

Jesse clicked his tongue, watching Tristan carefully. "Now they're saying you've got too much power already."

Tristan let out a slow breath, grabbed his water bottle, took a sip. "Yeah? And?" His voice was calm, but his grip on the bottle tightened slightly.

"They'll move on when someone else makes headlines next week." He placed the bottle down, then added, "Besides, it's just a few old heads. Not like a proper legend is giving me advice. It's just Jamie and Roy Keane—not exactly players I admire or respect."

There were a few chuckles from the squad.

But Tristan didn't laugh.

The moment Keane mentioned Barbara, his whole posture shifted.

Danny noticed first. "Mate, you good?"

"They can talk about me all they want." His eyes didn't leave the screen. "But they don't talk about my personal life."

Lingard's grin faded. "Tris—"

"They don't."

Tristan's jaw locked. His breathing was steady, but there was a weight behind his words. "She's not some PR stunt. She's not some headline. She's my girlfriend. And they don't get to drag her name into this."

Danny shifted slightly. "You know they'll say whatever gets clicks."

Tristan exhaled slowly, pressing his tongue to his cheek. He knew that.

But that didn't make it right, especially coming from former football players, but again, what was he expecting from Jamie Carragher and Roy Keane to show proper class?

His eyes flicked back to the screen one last time, watching Carragher still talking.

Then, without another word, he turned toward the weight rack, grabbed a dumbbell, adjusting the weight.

His voice was even. "Come on, we have better things to do."

The tension in the room didn't disappear, but the squad got the message.

The players exchanged glances with each other before grabbing their own weights.

....

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in deep oranges and purples, casting long shadows over the nearly empty driving range.

Tristan wasn't sure why he was here.

Correction—he knew exactly why.

Vardy had dragged him.

Not just for fun, but to distract him, to calm him down after the Sky Sports segment.

Tristan had spent the rest of the training session quietly simmering, keeping his emotions locked in, channeling them into his work.

Vardy, always watching, always aware, hadn't said much. Just gave him a look before telling him,

"You need air, lad. Let's go."

Which led them here.

To golf.

Which, in hindsight, was probably the worst way to cool off.

.

It wasn't crowded—just a few scattered groups, some taking their swings seriously, others there for the laughs.

Tristan stood still, hands on his hips, staring at the row of golf clubs lined up in front of him.

He exhaled through his nose.

"You lot act like this is normal."

Mahrez, standing beside him, adjusted his glove, giving the club in his hand a quick spin.

"It is," he said simply. "You're just bad at it."

Lingard stretched his arms overhead, rolling his shoulders with ease.

"We haven't even started yet."

Tristan's expression remained flat.

This was already a mistake.

Vardy, meanwhile, was in his element.

He lined up his shot, shifting his stance dramatically before giving his hips a little exaggerated wiggle.

Then, with full confidence, he swung.

The ball sailed effortlessly into the distance, landing just past the 150-yard marker.

Vardy turned back to them, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "See? Easy."

Mahrez tilted his head slightly, giving a measured nod. "Not bad."

Lingard cracked his knuckles, stepping up and grabbing a club.

"Watch this," He squared up, adjusted his stance, and swung—

CRACK.

The ball sliced violently to the right, disappearing into the darkness. A loud thud followed as it slammed into something out of sight.

The people in the next bay flinched.

Mahrez was the first to react. He blinked. "That's... a skill."

Vardy, staring in disbelief "What the hell was that?" he said before breaking into laughter.

Lingard shrugged, setting his club down like he'd just accomplished something impressive.

"Still went far, though."

Tristan, arms crossed, shook his head.

"Yeah. In the wrong direction."

Lingard turned to him, grinning. "Distance is distance, bro."

Vardy, still laughing, turned to Tristan.

"Alright. Crown Jewel. Let's see what England's future Ballon d'Or winner can do."

Tristan sighed, stepping up and gripping the club.

As he lined up his shot, Lingard crouched next to him, voice barely above a whisper.

"Bro, you look so stiff."

Tristan ignored him. Took a breath.

Swung.

Whiff.

The ball barely moved, rolling a pathetic five yards off the tee.

Silence.

Then, Vardy and Lingard collapsed.

Mahrez closed his eyes briefly, rubbing his temple like this was physically painful to witness.

"That was embarrassing."

Vardy wiped his face, still laughing. "Oh my God. I thought you'd be bad, but that? That was horrific."

Lingard clapped a hand on Tristan's shoulder.

"Nah, nah, we just gonna ignore that? Man plays football for a living and still can't hit a ball?"

"First time. Shut up."

Tristan reset the tee pissed.

He lined up again, this time blocking out the snickering behind him.

This time, he actually hit it.

The ball lifted, traveling a decent 40 yards before bouncing awkwardly and rolling to a stop.

Vardy let out a low whistle.

"Bro, I think my nan hits further than that."

Tristan let out a slow breath. "This is dumb."

Lingard spun around, eyes lighting up.

"Aight, bet time."

Vardy perked up instantly.

"Go on."

Lingard pointed at Tristan, already grinning.

"Five more shots. If he can hit past 100 yards, we cover his next meal."

Vardy gave it some thought, then nodded.

"And if he doesn't, he covers ours."

Mahrez lifted an eyebrow. "So either way, we eat."

Lingard clapped his hands together.

"Exactly."

Tristan sighed, gripping his club tighter.

"Fine. But if I win, you all shut up."

Vardy lifted his hands.

"Can't promise that."

Mahrez stepped back, arms crossed.

"Let's see it."

Tristan lined up, adjusting his grip properly this time.

And this time—he actually got it right.

The ball shot forward, flying through the air, passing the 100-yard marker with ease.

Lingard took a full step back, hands on his head. "NO WAY."

"Still think that was luck." Vardy said with a bitter tone folding his arms.

Tristan set the club down and turned to them.

"So that's dinner on you lot, yeah?"

Lingard exhaled deeply.

Vardy clapped his hands together.

"Alright, let's get out of here before Tristan somehow learns how to actually play golf."

The last bit of golden sunlight faded behind the horizon, streetlights flickering on as the group headed toward the parking lot.

Vardy slowed his pace, falling in step beside Tristan.

The teasing from earlier had settled, but Vardy could tell Tristan wasn't okay.

He'd seen it all day—at training, at the range. Tristan had been holding it in, but it was still there.

Vardy nudged him. "Alright, spill."

Tristan didn't break stride.

"Spill what?"

Vardy raised an eyebrow.

"You know what."

Tristan let out a slow breath, adjusting his hoodie sleeves.

"I'm fine."

Vardy didn't believe him for a second. "Yeah, and I'm England's best golfer."

Tristan shook his head, but Vardy wasn't backing off.

"Come on, mate. You don't get quiet unless something's really getting to you."

"It's not about me." Tristan replied rubbing his hair.

Vardy already knew the answer.

"It's Barbara. It's about my personal life, there was no reason to go after it. They shouldn't have dragged her into it."

Vardy sighed. "They shouldn't. But you know how this works. Still can't believe they went there."

Tristan pressed his lips together. "She's not some story. Not some distraction. She's mine."

Vardy clapped him on the back.

"She alright?"

Tristan nodded.

"Yeah. Told me not to do anything stupid."

Vardy chuckled.

"She knows you well."

For now, that was enough.

.....

The soft glow of the TV flickered across the dimly lit room as Tristan walked in, kicking off his shoes near the door. His body still carried the tension from training, from the Sky Sports debate, from everything.

Barbara was curled up on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, phone in hand, scrolling through the inevitable flood of headlines.

She didn't even look up when she spoke. "You're pissed."

Tristan sighed, running a hand through his hair as he made his way toward the kitchen.

Barbara finally lifted her gaze, her eyebrows arching slightly.

"Love."

He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, cracked it open, and took a slow sip.

"Alright. Maybe a little." Tristan replied cooling off.

Barbara set her phone aside, watching him carefully. She could always read him too well despite only being together for a few months now.

"Just ignore it," she murmured as she pushed herself up from the couch. "You know they'll move on to something else soon."

Tristan leaned against the counter, exhaling through his nose, fingers tapping lightly against the water bottle. "Yeah. But I don't like it."

Barbara took the last few steps toward him, standing right in front of him now.

"I know." Her voice was soft, reassuring, but her hands were firmer, reaching out to brush her fingertips along the edge of his hoodie before settling them on his waist. "But you snapping back is exactly what they want."

Tristan inhaled through his nose, his fingers tightening around the water bottle before setting it aside so he could pull her closer.

The weight in his chest loosened just a little.

Barbara pulled back first, but she didn't go far, her lips still brushing against his.

"I don't care what they say," she whispered. "And you shouldn't either."

Tristan sighed, pressing his forehead against hers for a second before letting out a small chuckle. "Easier said than done."

Barbara gave a mock frown, lips slightly pursed."Yeah, well... try."

"Alright." Tristan let out a slow breath, nodding once.

Barbara narrowed her eyes at him. "Promise?"

Tristan brushed his thumb over her hip, watching her for a second before answering.

"I'll try."

Barbara pulled back slightly, raising a brow. "That's the best I'm gonna get, isn't it?"

Tristan grinned slightly, finally feeling some of the tension leave his body.

"Yep."

She rolled her eyes but didn't let go, instead tilting her head to kiss him again, softer this time.

When she pulled away, she rested her chin against his chest, arms wrapped loosely around his waist.

"Just don't make it worse, okay?"

Tristan's arms came around her in return, pressing a small kiss to the top of her head.

"No guarantees."

Barbara groaned against his hoodie.

"Babe."

He laughed, his chin resting lightly on her head.

"Fine. I'll behave."

Barbara sighed dramatically, her fingers playing with the fabric of his hoodie.

"Doubt it."

Tristan tilted her chin up again, pressing another slow kiss against her lips, this one lingering longer than the last.

When he pulled back, her eyes sparkled just a little.

"You know me too well."

Barbara huffed, tapping a finger against his chest. "That's the problem."

Tristan chuckled, kissing her one last time before finally letting her go.

Some of the frustration from earlier had faded.

...

November 22, 2014 – King Power Stadium

The air was crisp, the kind of cold that settled deep into your bones, signaling winter football had fully arrived. The hollow thud of boots against the tunnel floor mixed with the distant hum of the crowd, a slow build of noise as the stands filled.

Leicester's warm-up had just finished. The squad had disappeared down the tunnel, but Tristan barely made it two steps inside before one of the club's media officers caught his arm.

"Quick one before kick-off," the guy said, nodding toward the Sky Sports crew stationed near the entrance.

Tristan exhaled through his nose, adjusting the zip of his track jacket. He was used to these now, but that didn't mean he liked them.

Still, part of the job. And he was more annoyed with the media than ever before.

He rolled his shoulders once before walking over, his face neutral as the Sky Sports reporter—a familiar face he'd spoken to before—extended a hand.

"Tristan, appreciate your time."

Tristan took the handshake briefly, offering a small nod.

"No problem."

The red light on the camera flicked on.

The reporter wasted no time, shifting slightly on his feet as he glanced toward the camera.

"We're here with Leicester's Tristan Hale, ahead of today's match against Sunderland." His tone was practiced, smooth, a balance of neutral and engaging. "Tristan, big game today, coming off the international break—how's the squad feeling?"

Tristan held his posture relaxed, but the sharpness in his gaze said otherwise. His focus was already settling, the game pulling at the edges of his mind.

"Uh we're feeling pretty good," he answered, his voice even, clipped. "Everyone's ready to go. We've had a good week of training, and we know how important this one is."

The reporter shifted slightly.

"You sat out England's friendly against Scotland—there's been plenty of debate about that decision. Do you feel the criticism was fair?"

Tristan didn't react immediately.

But there was a fraction of a pause, a measured beat before he spoke.

"People will always have opinions, and that's fine." His tone remained steady, deliberate. "But for me, it was a decision made with the manager, the FA, and the club. I've played a lot of minutes this season, and sometimes, you have to be smart with your body. And I'm always getting fouled you know so I know sometimes it seems like I get plenty of rest when I'm taken off at the 60th minute. But when the entire time, opposing players are trying to break you, it's different."

A slight breeze drifted through the tunnel as the reporter nodded, shifting the conversation forward.

"Some people have suggested that missing that game was a sign of special treatment—does that add pressure to the expectations on you?"

The 𝘮ost uptodat𝑒 novels are pub𝙡ished on freeweɓnovēl.coɱ.

Tristan exhaled lightly, his hands slipping into the pockets of his track jacket.

"No."

The single-word response hung in the air for a moment before he continued.

"I know what's expected of me. If people want to talk, they can talk, but my job doesn't change. Every game, I go out to help my team win."

The reporter, still watching him closely, leaned in slightly.

"You've quickly become Leicester's most important player. Do you feel like a leader already?"

He didn't rush his response, letting the weight of the question settle before answering.

His gaze flickered toward the tunnel entrance, toward the sounds of his teammates inside, before settling back on the reporter.

"We've got experienced players in the squad," he said, his voice low but firm. "But yeah, I hold myself to high standards. I don't think leadership is about age—it's about showing up every week, setting the tone, and delivering when it matters."

The interviewer nodded slightly, satisfied with that answer.

"Sunderland today—what kind of game are you expecting?"

Tristan pressed his lips together for a moment before answering, "They're tough. Organized, disciplined. They'll sit deep and try to frustrate us, so we have to move the ball quick, stay patient, and take our chances when they come."

The wind shifted slightly, whistling faintly through the tunnel entrance.

"Final question—Leicester are currently fifth in the table. What's the ceiling for this team?"

For the first time in the interview, a trace of a smile flickered at the corner of Tristan's lips.

Just the kind of expression that hinted at something the rest of the league hadn't figured out yet.

"We take it one game at a time," he said, his tone firm but deliberate. "But we're not here to make up numbers like our boss has been saying for a while. We want to compete."

The interviewer held his gaze for a beat, then gave a small nod.

"Tristan, thanks for your time. Best of luck today."

Tristan returned the nod, voice low.

"Cheers."

The red light on the camera flicked off.

He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders once before turning on his heel and heading back toward the tunnel.

The match was waiting.

Time to work....

..

[I asked Patreon members no one really wanted this match.]

The final whistle blew, piercing through the electric atmosphere of the King Power Stadium.

The crowd erupted, a deafening cheer rolling through the stands as Leicester City sealed another dominant victory—3-0 against Sunderland.

Up in the Sky Sports commentary box, Martin Tyler's voice rang out, smooth and controlled despite the excitement.

"And there's the whistle! Full-time at the King Power, and Leicester City roll to another impressive win—three goals, three points, and another statement performance."

His co-commentator, Alan Smith, didn't hesitate to pick up where he left off.

"A goal from Jamie Vardy, another from Leonardo Ulloa, but yet again, Tristan Hale is the name on everyone's lips."

There was no arguing with it.

One goal, two assists.

Down on the pitch, Tristan wiped sweat from his forehead, his body still buzzing from the intensity of the match.

Even as he walked toward the tunnel, the roar of the crowd still echoed in his ears, a mix of chants, applause, and pure energy.

As he approached the entrance, something caught his eye.

A group of young fans, pressed up against the railing, waving frantically.

One of them, a boy no older than ten, stood out.

He was wearing a replica 22 shirt, the name slightly oversized on his back, the sleeves rolled up as if trying to grow into them.

With one smooth motion, he pulled his match-worn jersey over his head and walked toward the kid, placing it straight into his hands.

"That's for you, mate."

The boy's eyes went wide, mouth dropping open in pure shock before he turned to his dad, practically vibrating with excitement.

The cameras caught everything.

A moment frozen in time.

Tristan turned away, heading for the tunnel, but he wasn't alone for long.

Footsteps jogged up beside him—Vardy, still buzzing from the game, his breath coming in short bursts of laughter.

"Good job" Vardy grinned, nudging him. "Another easy day at the office, yeah?"

Tristan didn't even break stride.

He turned slightly, his voice carrying through the tunnel entrance, cutting through the noise without effort.

"Hey, Carragher.Scholes.Roy. Shut the fuck up and keep my girl's name out of your mouth."

The words hung in the air for a second.

Then—chaos.

Vardy immediately doubled over, hands on his knees, wheezing so hard he nearly dropped his water bottle.

"OH FUCK—" He gasped between laughter, shaking his head.

Ulloa, just a few steps behind, let out an exhausted sigh, shaking his head.

"Dios mío..."

A few members of the coaching staff nearby exchanged glances, some biting back smiles, others pretending they hadn't heard it.

But the cameras had.

Every single second of it.

As they entered the tunnel, the reaction was instant.

Lingard, just catching up, threw an arm around Tristan's shoulder, "Nahhh, you're different!" he howled. "Man just called them out on live TV!"

Vardy was still wheezing, slapping Tristan's back as they disappeared into the tunnel. "Oh, you know they're gonna be all over that."

Tristan simply shrugged, completely unfazed. "They'll find something to complain about either way."

Vardy shook his head, still grinning. "Nah, you just gave them something."

And with that, they disappeared into the dressing room.

The game was over.

But the story was just getting started.

The media room at King Power Stadium was packed, cameras flashing as reporters jostled for position, voices overlapping as they called out questions before the session even began.

Leicester's manager, Nigel Pearson, had already spoken, offering his usual mix of blunt answers and measured praise.

But now?

Now, all eyes were on the man of the match.

Tristan Hale.

The moment he walked in, dressed in his Leicester tracksuit, the noise level spiked.

Reporters knew exactly what they wanted to ask.

Tristan settled into his seat, the microphone positioned in front of him. He leaned back slightly, arms resting loosely on the table.

The press officer gave a nod, signaling for the first question.

A journalist from Sky Sports leaned forward, setting the tone with something safe.

"Tristan, a fantastic performance tonight—one goal, two assists. How are you feeling after that win?"

Tristan nodded slightly, his voice even.

"Happy, obviously." His answer was smooth, controlled. "We knew Sunderland would sit deep, but we stuck to our game, moved the ball quick, and took our chances. It was a good performance all around."

There was a brief pause.

Then the real questions started.

A reporter from TalkSPORT leaned in, his posture shifting slightly.

"Tristan, we all saw what you said heading into the tunnel—calling out Jamie Carragher, Roy Keane, and Paul Scholes on live television. Was that frustration boiling over?"

Tristan exhaled slowly through his nose, the only sign that he had been expecting this.

He didn't rush his answer.

"Not really." A brief pause, his tone indifferent. "Just felt like saying it."

A murmur rippled through the room.

The TalkSPORT journalist pushed further.

"But do you think it's a good idea to be calling out legends of the game, especially at your age?"

Tristan finally leaned forward, his arms resting against the table, his expression unreadable.

"I respect players who've done it at the highest level." His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "But I don't have to respect every opinion. They talk, I play football. Simple as that."

And then—he tilted his head slightly, gaze steady.

"And only one of them is a legend of the game. I don't know anyone who calls Jamie Carragher a legend. He was average, riding a bus driven by Gerrard."

Silence.

Reporters shifted slightly in their seats, some holding back reactions, others exchanging quick glances.

Tristan didn't stop there.

"As for Roy and Scholes?" He gave a casual shrug. "I'd rather not say my thoughts. But I'll tell you this—United will pay for it. If they think 7-1 was bad, they haven't seen anything yet.Wait until next season."

Flashes popped from cameras.

A journalist from The Guardian cleared his throat, cutting through the tension.

"Are you concerned this will add to the perception that you have too much power too early in your career?"

Tristan's jaw flexed slightly, but his demeanor didn't change.

"I've said it before—people will talk." He leaned back again, his voice composed. "They'll always have something to say. But none of it changes what I do on the pitch."

A foreign journalist, this time from L'Équipe, chimed in next.

"Tristan, many players your age don't command this kind of attention—positive or negative. Do you enjoy being in the spotlight?"

Tristan tilted his head slightly, considering his response before answering.

"I enjoy playing football." He let the words settle for a beat before continuing. "Everything else? That's just noise."

More flashes.

More murmurs.

The press officer, sensing the intensity building, cleared his throat.

"Last question."

A reporter from The Athletic was quick to jump in.

"Do you think your rise in English football is being viewed differently because of your age? If you were five years older, do you think there would be less criticism?"

Tristan gave a small shrug, as if he had already thought about this before.

"Maybe." His voice was thoughtful, but not uncertain. "But I don't think about it like that. Whether I'm nineteen or twenty-five, my job is the same. Play. Win. Perform. That's it."

The press officer wrapped things up.

"Thanks, everyone. That's all for today."

Tristan stood up, giving a small nod before stepping away from the table.

Unfazed.

But outside the media room?

The world was already losing its mind.

Within minutes, Tristan's tunnel moment had gone viral.

🔴 @SkySports

"Tristan Hale calls out Carragher and Keane on live TV after Leicester's 3-0 win!"

⚪ @B/R Football

"Cold. Tristan Hale walks into the tunnel, tells Keane, Scholes, and Carragher to 'shut up' and keeps it moving."

🔵 @ESPN UK

"England's Crown Jewel does NOT hold back."

....

@Angel: "Vardy was laughing so hard, you KNOW this clip is gonna live forever."

@mud104: "If this kid wasn't at Leicester, I'd be fuming. But since he's not in red... yeah, it's funny."

@CarragherBurner: "Keane is gonna lose it on Monday Night Football. Can't wait."

....

The moment Tristan unlocked his front door, his phone was still buzzing from back-to-back calls. First Sophia. Then Mendes.

Media training.

New PR team.

Apparently, he'd almost given Mendes a heart attack.

"Tristan."

He had barely stepped inside before he heard it.

Barbara's voice. Unimpressed.

Tristan exhaled slowly, already knowing exactly what this was about.

As he turned the corner into the living room, he found her standing there, arms crossed, phone in hand.

The TV was paused on a very familiar image.

Him. Post-match. Walking into the tunnel.

Barbara didn't say anything at first. She just raised an eyebrow, tapping her manicured nails against the back of her phone.

Tristan ran a hand through his hair, dropping his bag by the door. "Oh, so we're starting with this?"

"Starting? Babe, I've been waiting." Barbara said watching him.

Tristan sighed, walking toward the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

"They were talking nonsense. They'll move on."

Barbara followed him, arms still firmly crossed, leaning against the counter.

"Oh, they'll move on." She let out a dry laugh. "But not before every football show on the planet replays that clip a thousand times."

Tristan unscrewed the cap, taking a slow sip of water. "Not my fault they talk too much."

Barbara let out a frustrated sigh, setting her phone down on the counter.

"Tristan, you literally called them out on live TV." She gave him a pointed look. "And you did it right in front of the cameras. What did you think was gonna happen?"

He shrugged, completely unfazed. "I thought Jamie would shut up."

Barbara threw her hands in the air.

"Oh my God, you are like a kid sometimes."

Tristan almost smirked, but the look on her face stopped him from pushing his luck.

She wasn't actually mad—not in the serious way. She could never be mad at Tristan.

But she was annoyed.

Not at what he said, but because she knew exactly what was coming.

The talk shows. The debate panels. The interviews where every journalist would ask, "Tristan, do you regret your comments?"

He'd have to deal with it.

And since she was his girlfriend, she'd have to hear about it too.

Barbara let out a deep breath, stepping closer, her arms still crossed.

"Babe, do you even know how much work Sophia has to do now?"

Tristan took another sip of water before setting the bottle down, meeting her gaze.

"Relax." His voice was calm. "Mendes is putting together a PR team. And this is better. It shows I'm not going to take any bullshit—especially when it's about my life, our life."

Barbara blinked. "Tristan."

His fingers wrapped gently around her wrist, pulling her toward him.

"My job is to play football." His voice dropped slightly, steady, sure. "Everything else is just so annoying.."

Barbara narrowed her eyes, still not fully convinced. "You're lucky you played well today."

Tristan's lips twitched as he leaned in slightly. "You watched?"

Barbara rolled her eyes.

"Of course, I watched. You think I was gonna miss my boyfriend winning Man of the Match?"

His fingers brushed against her hip, pulling her just a little closer.

"Then why are we arguing?"

Barbara pressed a hand against his chest, tilting her head slightly.

"Because you have zero media training, and I have to suffer because of it."

Tristan let out a soft laugh, "Sounds like a you problem."

Barbara's jaw dropped.

Before she could shove him away, he kissed her—quick, teasing—before pulling back.

Barbara glared at him.

"You can't just kiss me every time you're in trouble."

Tristan leaned in again, voice lower this time. "Are you sure?"

Barbara narrowed her eyes, lips twitching.

"...I should stay mad at you."

Tristan's grin grew, his fingers tracing slow circles against her back. "But you're not going to."

Barbara sighed, finally giving in, wrapping her arms around his neck. "You're lucky I like you."

Tristan pulled her even closer, voice warm against her ear.

"I know."

...

November 30, 2014—Belvoir Drive—Film Room

The room was filled with the low hum of conversation, players stretching in their seats, shaking off any lingering fatigue from yesterday's match.

Leicester had gone away to QPR and handled business—2-0, another clean sheet, another win.

Tristan had picked up another assist, threading a perfect pass to set up the second goal to Ulloa with Mahrez scoring the first goal.

As Pearson stood at the front of the room, he wasn't one for unnecessary praise.

"Solid result yesterday," he said, clicking the remote, bringing up the match highlights on the screen. "Professional performance. Could've had more."

The video rolled, showing Tristan splitting the QPR backline with a defense-splitting pass—the kind that had become his trademark.

Danny, sitting beside him, nudged his arm. "Might have to start calling you Assist Merchant soon."

Tristan didn't even look at him. "Could've scored if you weren't so slow."

A few of the lads laughed, but Pearson didn't let them dwell on it.

"Right," the manager continued. "We move forward. QPR is done. Liverpool next."

The screen switched—the QPR match disappearing, replaced with footage of Liverpool's last game.

The mood in the room shifted.

Everyone sat up a little straighter.

They all knew what this game meant.

Pearson pointed at the screen. "Let's talk about them."

Liverpool. December 2nd.

Now, the real work began

.....

7450 word count not counting this end section

Torrent and Bel'Ami Pandjo and Mugni, I wrote this Chapter based on your comments; hopefully you guys like it.

9 more Chapters, plus if we get to 350 power stones so I can post another Chapter today

Also if you have any questions in regards to the story, ask me on discord as I won't check wb comments much anymore.