Chapter 207: A Generational Problem

October 9, 2015 – 11:41 PM

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The TV flickered in the corner. A loop of tunnel footage, grainy slow-mo, and panel show clips cycled endlessly. Headlines crawled along the bottom of the screen like stock tickers:

TRISTAN VS HODGSON: THE SYSTEM CRACKS

IS ENGLAND’S GOLDEN BOY TOO BOLD?

TUNNEL TENSION: LEADERSHIP OR INSUBORDINATION?

MIDFIELD OR MUZZLE: IS ROY WASTING A GENERATIONAL TALENT?

Tristan lay on his back in a pair of soft green pajamas—Barbara had packed them, of course. She was pretty much in charge of his clothes now. Not that he was complaining. 

His phone blinked silently on the nightstand, overflowing with group chats, voicemails, and pundits who suddenly sounded like prophets.

He changed the channel to Sky Sports just to understand what the mainstream media was saying.

 David Jones sat in the middle, flicking his notes like he wanted to throw them into a bonfire.

“To the question we’ve been dodging all day,” he said, voice taut, eyebrows raised like he was daring someone to say it out loud. “Can Roy Hodgson lead England to European glory playing this kind of football?”

Tristan shifted slightly, his leg brushing the cold edge of the bedsheet. No they can’t win anything until Roy Hodgson is out of the helm. Of course he gave it his all during the Euros. For his country, for England. If he can even get even close to winning the Euros, then he has a high chance of winning the Ballon D'or. So he is giving all his effort but there’s only so much he can do with this team. 

To Jones’s left, Jamie Redknapp leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled beneath his chin like he was praying over bad news. “Not with a 4-4-2. Not when you’ve got a player like Tristan,” he said, voice flat with disbelief. “He’s not just ahead of the game—he’s playing a different sport entirely. Thirty-five goal involvements. In thirteen matches. That’s not form. That’s physics-defying.”

Paul Merson shook his head slowly, his face halfway between a smirk and a wince. “Let’s just say it: we’ve never had a player like him. Ever. Not Shearer, not Rooney, not Gazza. And yet…” He scoffed, incredulous. “He’s being told to track back. To hold midfield shape. It’s like buying a Ferrari and using it to deliver milk.”

Tristan almost smiled. Almost. He could hear Vardy’s voice in his head now, imitating the phrase in the plane tomorrow. Someone would. Someone always did.

“And Roy—look, respect where it’s due—but he’s managing like it’s 1998. Everything’s symmetrical. Safe. Predictable. But you can’t cage talent like this. You’ve got to let him go. Let him break things.”

Tristan’s eyes drifted to the ceiling. Break things. He liked that. Just give him the same freedom as in Leicester, is that so hard to do? He wanted to shout at Hogdson but he didn’t because he wasn’t that of a player. 

David narrowed his eyes. “So what do you play, then? 4-3-3? 4-2-3-1?”

“Anything that lets Tristan float,” Jamie said. “False nine, advanced ten, even off the left in a tight triangle. He’s gravity. You don’t position gravity—you orbit it.”

Merson pointed at the desk. “That’s the whole problem—discipline over dominance. You’ve got a player with Messi-level numbers—nineteen goals, sixteen assists—and instead of asking, ‘How do we weaponize this?’ we’re asking, ‘How do we contain it?’”

Jones let the moment stretch. “Let’s talk leadership. Isn’t the real problem that there’s already a captain in the room? That Rooney’s still the face of the team—and that creates a ceiling?”

Jamie leaned back slowly, face tightening with every word. “Look… I love Wayne. We all do. But this isn’t his era anymore. He’s slowing the game down. Still trying to be everything, everywhere. And you can’t have one foot in 2006 and one in 2016. He’s dragging tempo. He’s dragging shape. And honestly—he’s dragging the dressing room.”

Tristan closed his eyes. He was conflicted when it came to Rooney, he was a good friend/ mentor but at the same dude was also too old to lead this Captain just like in his first life.

Merson didn’t flinch. “Everyone’s thinking it. No one wants to say it. But yeah. It’s time. He’s not the heartbeat anymore. He’s the echo.”

David Jones’s tone darkened. “So you’re saying what? Bench him?”

Jamie’s answer came fast. “Yeah. Bench him. Let him manage moments, not matches. Bring him on when the job’s nearly done. But stop building a system around a fading icon when you’ve got a comet blazing through your squad—and you’re not even pointing at the sky.”

The silence that followed was different this time. 

Merson broke it. “That tunnel footage?” His voice was softer now. “That wasn’t just two people brushing shoulders. That was the past refusing to move… and the future walking straight through it.”

Tristan exhaled. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. It was good to see everyone on his side. 

“Don’t be asleep, princess,” Vardy said through the door. “Brought caffeine.”

The door creaked open without permission. A Red Bull arced through the air. Tristan caught it without looking.

Vardy strolled in like he owned the place. “Jesus,” he said, glancing at the TV. “You’d think you called Roy’s mum a slur and nicked his dog.”

Tristan didn’t smile. He sat up slowly, cracked the can, took a sip. “They’re milking it,” he muttered.

“They’re starving,” Vardy said, collapsing onto the guest bed like it was his. “International break. No drama except you. Golden Boy, golden mouth.”

Tristan said nothing. Just watched the screen—muted panel footage looping again. Him and Hodgson walking side by side into the tunnel. The zoom-in. The freeze frame. Lip-readers already cashing in.

“You alright?” Vardy asked eventually.

Tristan nodded. “Just tired.”

“They’ll spin it however they want. Rooney said you handled it fine. Hendo too. It’s just…” He paused. “Roy’s old-school.”

Tristan looked down at the can in his hands. “I get it. He wants control. Structure. But I see space, I move. It’s not rebellion.”

“No one with a brain thinks it is,” Vardy said. “Mourinho was on talkSPORT calling you ‘the most tactically advanced English player since Gazza.’”

“Guardiola said last month I play like a Spaniard.”

“Exactly. And Hodgson’s trying to install a fireplace in a rocket ship.”

Tristan finally cracked a smile.

“Besides,” Vardy added, folding a pillow under his head. “You scored a worldie. If I did that, I’d walk into the tunnel in a crown and sunglasses.”

“You’d get fined.”

“Yeah. But I’d look great.”

They watched the panel for a while. Static pundits. Fingers pointing. Names on ticker tape.

Then Vardy spoke again, still facing the screen.

“You know he’s not gonna change.”

Tristan didn’t answer. The fizz in the can had died. So had the energy in his chest.

“You’re gonna have to decide,” Vardy said. “If this is worth the leash.”

A moment passed.

Tristan leaned back, exhaled through his nose, and tossed the empty can toward the bin. It hit the rim. Missed.

He stared at it for a second. Then:

“Let’s get through the Euros first before we do anything big” His voice was calm. “The stability of the team comes first before anything else.”

He could make this into a bigger deal, call for Hogdson to be fired but that’s not who he is. He rather let the FA make the move. 

Vardy didn’t say anything at first. Just raised an eyebrow and shifted on the guest bed like he’d just been benched in a pub fight.

“Stability,” he muttered. “You sound like my financial advisor.”

Tristan smiled faintly. “You have a financial advisor?”

“Yeah. Me mum.”

Before Tristan could reply, his phone buzzed on the nightstand — Love calling.

He swiped it up.

The screen lit up with warm hotel light. Barbara, hoodie on, skin clean, hair tied back. No makeup. Biscuit curled beside her, halfway inside a soft grey travel carrier, looking vaguely betrayed by the world.

“Hi,” she said, soft and cautious, like she wasn’t sure what kind of night it had been.

He smiled. “Hi.”

From the bed, Vardy let out a low, theatrical groan. “Oh God. Here we go.”

Barbara heard it. “Is that Vardy?”

“Unfortunately,” Tristan said.

Vardy waved lazily at the phone. “Evening, First Lady of Football.”

Barbara smirked. “Don’t you have your own room to be annoying in?”

“Nope. This one has better lighting. And tragic romance.”

“Don’t let me interrupt your bromance.”

“You’re FaceTiming. That’s not interrupting. That’s an ambush.”

Barbara grinned. “Tell him he’s lucky I like him.”

Tristan relayed it. Vardy pretended to gag and rolled onto his back dramatically. “Honestly, it’s like watching a perfume ad in real time,” he muttered, covering his face with a pillow.

Tristan just chuckled and focused back on her.

“You okay?” Barbara asked quickly. “I saw the clip. The headlines are—”

“Yeah,” he interrupted gently. “I know.”

“Was it that bad?”

He hesitated. Then shook his head. “No. Just words. But the media… they make it feel like I shouted at him on live TV.”

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

He shifted the phone, lying flat again on the pillow. The green pajamas wrinkled at the collar.

“I just… every time I try to play like I do at Leicester,” he said, “it’s like someone’s dragging me back by the collar. Like I’m not allowed.”

Barbara frowned. “Because they don’t know how to use you.”

“It’s international football,” he said quietly. “System matters more than talent.”

“If they can’t see it yet… that’s not on you.”

He looked at her properly now. Her eyes were still worried. Biscuit’s ear flicked once in the frame. The hotel lamp behind her made everything soft and gold.

“You’re in New York,” he said. “You shouldn’t be thinking about me.”

“I’m always thinking about you,” Barbara said, like it wasn’t up for debate. “Soma’s diet is haunting me. I saw a cupcake on the street and almost cried.”

He laughed, quiet and tired.

“You eating well?” he asked.

“I’m doing the whole routine. Protein, greens, five workouts. I’m going to be glowing or passed out.”

“You’ll look amazing.”

She tilted her head. “You miss me?”

He nodded.

“You better,” she said, smiling. “Also — wear the cologne I like for Lithuania.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“I may not be there,” she said, “but I’m still yours. So smell like it.”

From the other bed, Vardy made a loud fake retching sound. “I’m gonna open a window if you two say one more cute thing.”

Both of them ignored Vardy as they said their goodbyes.

.

Vilnius, Lithuania

LFF Stadium – EURO 2016 Qualifier

Kickoff: 7:45 PMFFF

The floodlights buzzed faintly above Vilnius like angry flies. A cold wind skimmed the tops of half-empty seats. Industrial music pulsed through the speakers before fading to static silence. The pitch glistened like wet cloth under the lights.

The camera panned across the teams. England in white. Lithuania in yellow and green.

Tristan stood near the center circle, bouncing once on his toes. Breath steady. Shoulders loose. He’d promised Hodgson he’d stay in midfield. Play disciplined. Structured. He was listening — for now. But even standing still, he felt more annoyed at Hodgson than ever. It felt like Brazil all over again. 

Guy Mowbray picked up the commentator as the ball rolled.

“England in control from the first whistle. And there’s Tristan… deeper than we’re used to seeing — but look at that touch. Every pass breathes through him tonight.”

England controlled the early minutes. Short passes. Clean triangles. No fire, but no errors. Tristan anchored just behind Henderson, reading angles like a man playing snooker in his head. Twice, he took the ball under pressure and slipped away like mist.

At one point, he pinged a no-look ball across the pitch to Baines with such precision, even the camera took a second to catch up.

Milner cut in from the right. Found Tristan just outside the D. One glance. A shift of weight. The pass was released like a spell.

Vardy broke the line. First touch. Second swing.

Goal.

Low. Clean. Bottom left.

0–1.

“Tristan Hale!” Mowbray shouted. “Threading needles! And Vardy — clinical as ever.”

“That’s not a pass,” Jenas laughed. “That’s a magician slipping a card into your wallet. Vardy doesn’t even look surprised. That’s trust.”

Hodgson stood on the sideline, arms crossed. Relief, not joy. Since their talk and brief argument, he could feel that annoyance from Tristan and that rest of the players. 

He was tired of all this. He was old He as the manager was doing what was right for the sake of winning. If things spiral out… 

He ought to have a talk to the FA after this break. 

Lithuania tried to push higher, but it wasn’t brave. It was desperate. Their midfield overcommitted, and Tristan just kept moving—calm and inevitable.

He wasn’t flashy tonight. That was the point. No zigzags. No bursts. Just gravity. He orbited everything.

Minute 32: A tackle in his own half — clean and surgical. The crowd gasped more than they cheered.

Minute 39: A reverse ball with backspin that landed dead at Milner’s feet. Commentators paused, just to watch it settle.

Halftime:
0–1. England cruising. But not coasting.

“We’ve seen England keep the ball before,” Mowbray said. “But we haven’t seen them own it like this — not in an few months.”

“And it’s coming from 22,” Jenas added. “Everything runs downhill from him. He’s not even sweating.”

Tristan sat on the bench at halftime, staring into nothing. He hadn’t checked the stands once. Hadn’t looked at Hodgson. Hadn’t looked for cameras.

He just kept replaying every touch in his head.

Second Half

Rooney didn’t come back out.

Harry Kane trotted on — eyes bright, energy restless.

“Well, well,” Mowbray said, tone playful. “That’s the captain sitting out the second half. That’s… significant.”

“It’s overdue,” Jenas said bluntly.

Sterling juked at the top of the box. Drew two defenders. Flicked it back to Henderson.

Henderson didn’t stop. Passed square.

Tristan — two touches. Then a soft, lifted chip through a seam barely a foot wide.

Kane caught it in stride like he’d been born into that run.

Strike. Net.

0–2.

“Oh my word,” Mowbray gasped. “It’s a Tristan highlight reel tonight.”

“That’s geometry,” Jenas added. “It’s like he draws the run before the runner even blinks.”

Tristan kept his shape. Kept the ball. Kept the tempo down like he was dimming a stage light.

Minute 74: He walked the ball into a triangle between Sterling, Clyne, and Kane — and killed three Lithuanian counters with one reverse flick.

When the final whistle blew, he didn’t raise his arms. 

Then looked up at the scoreboard:

Lithuania 0 — England 2

Job done.

He just stood there, hands on hips, staring at nothing.

Cameras flashed. Kane jogged over, patted his back. Tristan barely acknowledged it.

He walked into the tunnel with his head low—not defeated, just… disconnected.

He didn’t want to play like this anymore.

As he disappeared down the concrete hallway, someone called his name behind him—he didn’t turn. 

Even the photographers could tell. 

Tristan Hale had won.

But he wasn’t happy.

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The press room smelled like warm plastic and bitter coffee. Fluorescents buzzed overhead. Microphones clicked. Translators leaned into headsets behind scratched panels of glass as the English media filled the first two rows — notebooks open, pens ready, already hunting for soundbites.

Roy Hodgson walked in on schedule. Stiff blazer. High collar. Expression tight but polite. He sat. Adjusted the mic. Folded his hands.

The press officer nodded. “We’ll begin with questions for the manager.”

The first hand up — a senior reporter from BBC Sport.

“Roy, congratulations on the result. Can we start with the decision to bench Wayne Rooney for the second half? Was that tactical, fitness-related… or something else?”

Roy didn’t blink. “Wayne remains an important part of this squad. Tonight was about fresh legs. We wanted to give Harry a chance. He took it well.”

Second question — a journalist from The Mirror, voice sharp, already leaning forward.

“But is that a permanent change? Kane starting ahead of the captain — are we witnessing a handover?”

Roy’s answer didn’t shift in tone.

“No. This team evolves by performance, not sentiment. Wayne is still our captain. This was rotation.”

Next up — a bold voice from The Telegraph.

“Roy, let’s talk about Tristan Hale. Two assists, dominated the tempo — but he played deeper than we’ve seen all season. Was that by design?”

Roy gave a tight smile.

“Yes. He executed the plan well. Disciplined. Controlled the rhythm of our midfield. Contributed on both ends.”

“But doesn’t that limit him?” another reporter cut in — same corner of the room. “There were clear moments where he wanted to push forward — and you were shouting at him to drop back. Why restrain a player like that?”

Roy’s hands folded tighter.

“Because this is international football. It’s not chaos. It’s not flair without cover. It’s balance. Tristan is twenty. Still learning how and when to pick his moments.”

The Telegraph reporter came again — sharper now.

“But Roy — when he did push forward, he created both goals. Doesn’t that suggest you’re underusing him?”

Roy’s face twitched — just once. But he kept his voice flat.

 “It suggests he’s a talented player. And it also proves why we have structure. If we send five forward every time he sees space, we’ll get punished. He knows that. We’ve spoken.”

A pause followed. Then:

“Was there tension at halftime?”

 “He looked unsettled. Cameras caught the walk down the tunnel. It didn’t look like nothing.”

Roy let the silence hang a beat too long before answering.

“We exchanged words. That happens at this level. He was passionate. So was I. We spoke again after the match. We’re fine.”

“Are you, though?” came the follow-up. “To the fans watching — it doesn’t look fine. He’s the most talked-about player in world football right now… and you’re asking him to sit in midfield.”

The room held its breath.

Roy leaned forward slightly. “Tristan is part of a team. A good team. One that just won away from home. I’m not here to build stars. I’m here to build something that wins.”

Another voice cut in — Martin Samuel from The Mail.

“Do you think this team can win a tournament playing this way?”

Roy didn’t hesitate.

 “Yes.”

No follow-up. Just a long, loaded pause.

The press officer glanced at the clock.

“One more.”

Neil Ashton from The Sun raised his hand.

“Is Tristan undroppable at this point?”

Roy adjusted his chair. Thought for a second. Then:

“No player is undroppable. But Tristan’s talent is obvious. And I’d rather have him on the pitch than off it.”

He stood before anyone could follow up.

 “Thank you.”

The cameras clicked. A few reporters exhaled. Notes were scribbled fast. And behind the curtain, the next name on the media sheet — Tristan Hale — was already waiting.

He didn’t even look at Hodgson as they passed.

The press officer gave the nod as Tristan sat down.

 “Questions for Tristan Hale.”

The first hand up — a reporter from Nemzeti Sport, Hungary’s biggest sports paper. A translator leaned in close with a mic.

The reporter cleared his throat, then asked — in Hungarian: “Tristan, mit üzenne a magyar szurkolóknak, akik ön miatt kezdtek el angol meccseket nézni?”  (“Tristan, what would you like to say to the Hungarian fans who started watching England matches because of you?”)

Tristan blinked. Then smiled — his biggest one all day.

It felt weirdly… comforting. Hungarian. God, he missed hearing it spoken out loud. Barbara usually filled that quota at least eight times a day — usually while scolding him for not putting socks in the laundry basket.

He leaned into the mic. “Köszönöm a támogatást.”  (“Thank you for the support.”)

The room stirred. A few translators looked up. Cameras clicked louder. The Hungarian reporter looked like he’d just been gifted a signed Puskás jersey.

Tristan added in English, just a touch more casual: “I haven’t heard Hungarian in four days, so… thanks for that. Felt like a warm-up call with my girlfriend.”

Those who could understand what was going on laughed, leaving the English reporters confused as before the questions started.

Then came the BBC.

“You’ve now assisted three times and scored one goal this window — how do you feel about your performances?”

Tristan sat back slightly. “Happy we won. That’s always the first thing.” He shifted in his seat. “As for the performances… I just play what I see. If I see space, I move. If I see a run, I play it.”

Next — a writer from The Guardian.

“Tristan, there’s been a lot of noise after the Estonia match. Tunnel footage, body language… Was there tension with Roy Hodgson?”

“There was a disagreement,” he said, voice level. “That happens. Especially when both people care.”

“Was it tactical?”

He nodded. “Yeah. He wants me in the midfield. I like freedom. We talked.”

The room buzzed — camera shutters stuttering, some quiet typing.

The Independent chimed in next.

“But do you think you’re being restricted? A lot of your best moments came when you ignored instructions.”

That one made Tristan smile. Barely.

“I don’t ignore instructions,” he said. “I interpret them differently.”

A few quiet laughs. Not from him.

“You want my honest answer?” he added, eyes lifting slightly. “There’s a way I play. Leicester built a system around it. England hasn’t — yet. That’s not a criticism. Just a fact.”

From Sky Sports:

“Is it frustrating having to change your role so drastically at international level?”

“Not frustrating,” Tristan said. “Just different. It’s not about me. It’s about the team. If I need to drop deeper, I will. If I’m needed up top, I’ll be there. That’s football.”

Quick follow-up.

“Some say you’re the most talented English player since Sir Bobby Charlton. Do you feel pressure carrying that title?”

He leaned forward a touch.

“I don’t carry anything. I create. Pressure’s just a signal of where people saw me. .”

One last voice — The Athletic.

“If you had full control over your role… where would you play?”

A pause.

Then Tristan looked up, slow and calm.

“Anywhere is fine,” he said. “As long as I’m near the ball. But I would prefer a role where I’m allowed to push forward. I’m not asking to play as a false nine.” 

Now would his answers cause problems, yes but fuck it. He was tired. 

“That’s all for tonight.”

Tristan stood.  No smile. No wave.

Just a twenty-year-old leaving the room with the whole country trying to figure out what to do with him.