Chapter 155: No Rest for the Best

December 1, 2014 – Evening…

The coffee table was drowning in sketches, pencils, and loose sheets of paper, some half-finished, others abandoned mid-design. Tristan sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes fixed on the page, his pencil gliding across the paper in quick, confident strokes.

Barbara, curled up on the couch, was watching in mild amusement, twirling a loose thread from her sweater.

"You’ve been at this forever," she said, stretching her arms above her head.

Tristan didn’t look up. Flip. New page. New angle.

"They have to be perfect."

Barbara sighed dramatically, then slid off the couch onto the floor beside him, peeking over his shoulder.

"Okay, but what makes this one different?"

Tristan tapped his pencil against the sketch, his gaze flickering between this one and the dozen others he had scattered around.

He knew what made it different. He just couldn’t say it.

The boots in his head—boots that didn’t even exist yet—were already legendary. The sleek, sock-like fit of the Nike Mercurial Superfly V (2016). The laceless, seamless look of the Adidas X 17+ Purespeed (2017). The sharp angles and aggressive stance of the Puma Future Z (2021).

He wasn’t a designer. He didn’t understand all the tech that went into them. But as a footballer?

He knew what felt right.

"It just… looks better," he finally muttered.

Barbara raised an eyebrow. "That’s not an answer."

Tristan exhaled, flipping back through his older sketches.

"Some boots just look slow," he said. "Like, even before you run in them, they feel like they’re dragging you down. The best ones? You put them on, and you just know you’re faster."

Barbara gave him a blank stare. "They’re shoes, Tristan."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "No, they’re not."

She frowned, looking at the drawing again. "Okay… but how do you even know what makes them look fast?"

Tristan didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t.

How was he supposed to explain that he had already seen the future of football boots? That the big brands hadn’t even thought of these ideas yet?

Instead, he just pointed at the sketch. "This. This makes sense."

Barbara tilted her head, her eyes scanning the design—not that she knew what she was looking at.

All she saw was a football boot.

But to Tristan?

It was a blend of everything that worked. A lightweight upper, molded into the shape of the foot like a second skin. No traditional laces—just a seamless, locked-in fit. The soleplate split down the middle, freeing the front of the foot for explosive movement.

Barbara hummed, unimpressed. "Looks kinda… smooth?"

"Exactly," Tristan muttered. "No unnecessary junk. Just speed."

Barbara let out a soft laugh. "So your big idea is just making them look cooler?"

"Pretty much."

She shook her head, picking up one of his loose sketches—a simple design featuring a sharp, angular crown near the heel.

"This part’s cool," she said, running a finger over the lines. "But something’s missing."

Tristan studied it for a second before grabbing a pen. With a few quick strokes, he added the number ‘22’ into the base of the crown, blending it seamlessly into the design.

Barbara leaned back, nodding.

"Yeah. That’s it."

Tristan let out a slow breath, finally sitting back to take in the finished sketch.

Barbara grinned, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before resting her chin on his shoulder.

"So… when do I get my own pair?"

Tristan tossed a pencil onto the table, exhaling.

"When I make history in them first."

Barbara rolled her eyes but smiled. "You better make them cute, then."

Tristan flipped the page back to a fresh sheet, already sketching again.

"You know I don’t miss."

And with that, he kept drawing, Barbara still curled up beside him, watching as he pieced together something iconic—without even realizing it.

The front door swung open, and Sofia stepped inside, exhaling deeply as she peeled off her coat. The exhaustion was clear in her posture, her bag slipping from her shoulder onto the nearest chair.

Barbara looked up from the couch, tucking her legs under her. "Long day?"

Sofia sighed, running a hand through her hair. "You have no idea."

Before she could elaborate, the door opened again, and Sophia entered—calm, polished, always on a mission—with a leather portfolio tucked under her arm.

"Evening," she greeted smoothly, offering a quick nod.

"Hey, Sophia," Barbara said with a small smile, shuffling over to make space if she wanted to sit.

Tristan, still hunched over his sketches, looked up briefly. "Yo."

Sofia groaned as she collapsed onto the couch, kicking off her shoes. "I need food. Or sleep. Or both."

Barbara grinned, reaching for her glass of water and nudging it toward her. "Hydrate first. Food later."

Sofia grabbed it, taking a sip. "You sound like me."

Sophia, setting her portfolio on the coffee table, glanced between the two assistants. "I can get you both something. Coffee? Tea?"

Sofia blinked. "Are you offering to make it?"

Sophia arched an eyebrow. "No, I was going to ask someone else."

Barbara chuckled, but before she could add anything, Tristan stood up, stretching his arms over his head. "Alright, alright. I got it. Juice for everyone."

Sofia smirked, leaning back. "I’ll take a strong one. Like, orange juice. No ice."

Sophia nodded approvingly. "Responsible choice."

Tristan rolled his eyes but disappeared into the kitchen.

Barbara turned to Sophia, watching as she flipped open her portfolio.

"Alright," Sophia started, pulling out the contracts. "Barbara, here’s what we’ve got—Hermès is offering you a three-year contract to be one of their global ambassadors. The initial offer is $1.5 million per year, with performance-based bonuses if certain campaigns exceed their marketing projections."

Barbara hummed, nodding. "And what about Estée Lauder?"

Sophia adjusted her glasses. "Estée Lauder is a one-year deal, starting at $1 million, with an option to extend if both sides agree. You’ll be leading a new campaign for their luxury skincare line, and they want you at two major events next year—one in Paris and one in New York."

Barbara leaned back into the couch, processing it. "So, basically, I’m going to be really busy."

"Essentially," Sophia confirmed, placing a pen on top of the contracts.

Before Barbara could grab it, Tristan returned, setting down three glasses of juice.

"Drink up, ladies," he said, plopping back onto the floor next to Barbara.

Sophia took hers with a quiet "Thank you."

Sofia eyed hers suspiciously. "You didn’t spike this with protein powder or something, did you?"

Tristan scoffed. "No, but now I wish I did."

Barbara, ignoring the banter, reached for the pen. She skimmed over the contracts once more, then signed her name on both.

Sophia collected them neatly, tucking them back into the portfolio. "And that’s that. Congratulations, Barbara. These are big moves."

Barbara smiled. "Thank you, Sophia. Really."

Before she could say anything else, Tristan leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head.

"That’s my girl."

Barbara froze for half a second, then cleared her throat, shifting in her seat. "Tristan…"

Sofia, watching with a knowing look, took a very slow sip of her juice.

Sophia didn’t react beyond an impressed nod. "Good branding."

Tristan grinned, leaning back against the couch, completely unbothered.

Barbara sat up straighter, pretending she wasn’t a little pink in the face. "Anyway! So, about those followers, Sofia?"

Sofia, hiding her amusement, pulled out her phone. "Right. So, Tristan, you started the season with 8.1 million followers on Twitter and 8.3 million on Instagram. Now?" She turned the screen toward him. "21 million on both."

Barbara whistled. "Damn."

Sofia nodded. "And you, Barbara? You were sitting at 1.96 million on Instagram a few months ago. Now? 4.96 million."

Barbara arched an eyebrow. "That’s… a big jump."

Sofia smirked. "Yeah. You can thank Tristan for that."

Barbara nudged Tristan’s leg with her foot. "So, what, I’m just a side effect of your fame?"

Tristan chuckled, grabbing his juice. "Nah. More like a power couple move."

Sophia, as usual, stayed on task. "Your individual brands are growing, but they’re also feeding into each other. This gives you both more negotiating power for future deals."

Sofia nodded in agreement. "And it means more eyes on you, so let’s keep avoiding scandals, yeah?"

Barbara shot Tristan a look. "That part’s for him."

Tristan raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, I’m behaving."

Barbara rolled her eyes, but she was still smiling.

Sofia tapped her phone screen, setting it aside. "Alright, that’s all the business for today.”

Barbara set the pen down, her smile widening as she leaned back into the couch, stretching her arms above her head. "Alright, that’s done. Now—how about we go out and celebrate?"

Sophia didn’t even hesitate, closing the portfolio with a crisp snap. "I’m in."

Sofia, on the other hand, let out a long, suffering groan, flopping dramatically onto the couch. "Barbara, I love you, but I’ve been putting out fires all week. Do you know how exhausting it is keeping up with your boyfriend? I need sleep, not overpriced cocktails."

Barbara laughed, but before she could respond, Tristan spoke up from the floor.

"Yeah, I’m gonna pass on that one," he said, flipping his sketchpad to a fresh page. "Not getting in the middle of a girls’ night out."

That wasn’t entirely the reason.

Going out in public with Barbara would draw too much attention. The media had already latched onto them after his England squad drama. If he was seen celebrating with her instead of, you know, playing football, the headlines would be unbearable.

Not that he cared. But he liked his girlfriend having peace, thank you very much.

More than that, though… he didn’t want to be the reason Barbara didn’t spend more time with Sophia.

Barbara was new here. No real friends in Leicester. She had him—and that was great—but he didn’t want to be her entire world. She deserved a group, people she could laugh with, vent to, just be herself around.

And Sophia? She was family to her. Barbara didn’t even realize how much she had drifted from her over the past few months.

So, yeah. Girls’ night out was a good thing.

Barbara smiled, tilting her head at him.

"Wow, scared of a girls’ night out?" she teased. "Don’t worry, babe, we got it. I don’t need you to have fun."

Tristan shrugged, barely looking up. "Love, please don’t get drunk."

Sophia smirked, adjusting her bag. "Relax, Tristan. I got her. We’re just going out for dinner, no clubs, no trouble."

Barbara rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. "You make it sound like I’m some reckless party girl."

Sofia exhaled, pushing herself up. "Fine. But if I’m going, I’m wearing sneakers, and I’m leaving the second I start hearing drunk karaoke."

Barbara grinned, victorious. "Deal."

She turned back to Tristan, stepping over his sketches before kneeling down next to him on the floor.

Her fingers grazed his jaw, tilting his face up.

"Don’t do anything stupid, please, babe," she murmured, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips.

Tristan’s hand found her waist instinctively, thumb brushing over the fabric of her sweater.

Barbara pulled away, her blue eyes twinkling.

Tristan huffed, reluctantly letting her go. "Go have fun."

Barbara pressed one last quick kiss to his cheek, then stood up, grabbing her bag.

As the three of them headed toward the door, Tristan stretched out on the couch, flipping back to his sketches.

Finally. A quiet night.

And Barbara?

She had a night to enjoy.

The front door clicked shut, and the house fell into a comfortable silence.

Tristan stretched his legs out along the couch, picking up the remote. Finally. A quiet night.

He wasn’t even paying attention as he flipped through the channels—just background noise while he let his mind slow down.

A football replay. Some talk show. A cooking competition.

Then—Sky Sports.

The ticker at the bottom of the screen caught his attention:

"Tristan Hale's Post-Match Comments—Disrespectful or Justified?"

Tristan sighed, rubbing his temple.

Here we go again.

On screen, Jamie Carragher, Paul Scholes, Roy Keane, and Rio Ferdinand sat around the studio table, a still image of Tristan walking through the tunnel paused behind them.

The clip played.

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

The camera cut back to the panel.

Carragher let out a short chuckle, shaking his head. "Well… that’s certainly one way to handle criticism."

Scholes exhaled slowly, crossing his arms. "Not exactly subtle, is he?"

Tristan leaned back, arms draped over the couch, eyes locked on the screen.

David Jones, the host, turned to Keane.

"Roy, let’s start with you. You were the first to bring up Tristan’s personal life in this debate. Do you think you crossed the line?"

Keane tapped his fingers on the table, taking his time before speaking.

"I’ll be honest," he finally said. "Maybe I took it a bit too far there."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. Well. That’s new.

Keane shrugged, staring straight into the camera. "I don’t like dragging a player’s personal life into a football discussion. That wasn’t right. I’ll hold my hands up on that one."

Paul Scholes blinked, clearly caught off guard.

Keane wasn’t done. "But everything else? I stand by it. Every word."

Carragher leaned forward, amused. "Even after that little message from him?"

Keane didn’t blink. "You think that rattles me, Jamie?"

Carragher smirked, holding his hands up. "Just asking, mate."

Keane turned back toward the camera.

"Listen, I get it. Tristan’s a top player, special talent. But when I criticize young players, it’s not coming from a bad place. I’ve seen what happens when lads believe their own hype too soon."

Tristan’s fingers tapped against his knee, his jaw tightening slightly.

Keane continued. "This isn’t about talent. It’s about mentality. I’ve seen too many young players lose their way, thinking they’re bigger than the game. And that’s all I was saying."

Scholes nodded, jumping in. "Look, I don’t care if he swears at us or tells us to shut up. That’s football. You get stick, you give it back. But if you’re the face of English football at 19, you have to expect people to hold you to a higher standard."

Carragher tilted his head, thinking. "I just wonder if he cares too much about what people say. This whole thing—what does it really achieve?"

For the first time, Rio Ferdinand leaned forward.

"It tells you exactly who he is," he said, his voice calm but firm. "He’s not backing down. He’s got his own way of handling things. And you know what? I respect it."

Keane let out a sharp breath. "Respect it all you want, Rio. But that attitude—it can go one of two ways. It can drive him to the top, or it can be his downfall."

Carragher nodded. "And we’ve seen both sides of that story before."

David Jones, sensing the tension, turned back to Keane.

"So you regret bringing up his personal life, but you still think he’s walking a dangerous path?"

Keane gave a slow, deliberate nod. "Exactly."

Carragher turned to Ferdinand. "What do you think? Does this say more about us, or about Tristan?"

Ferdinand smiled slightly, shaking his head. "I think it says more about English football and how we treat our young stars. When Wayne Rooney was coming up, he had to fight off criticism every week. Cristiano got it. Beckham got it. Now, it’s Tristan’s turn. This is just the start."

Keane stared at the screen, watching as they replayed the clip again.

"Let’s just see where he ends up," he muttered.

Tristan finally clicked the remote, shutting off the TV.

Fuck them.

He’d known Keane wasn’t going to back down. He didn’t care.

But not a single one of them stepped in when his girlfriend got dragged into it.

That was all he needed to know.

He wasn’t going to apologize.
He wasn’t going to explain himself.
He wasn’t going to say another word about it.

Meanwhile—

“Okay, so,” Sophia tilted her head, twirling the stem of her wine glass. “How’s living with Tristan?”

They were in a restaurant Tristan broughtBarbara to before and so here they were.

Barbara didn’t even hesitate before smiling. “It’s good. Really good.”

“That’s it? ‘Good’?” Sofia raised an eyebrow, setting her glass down with a thud.

Barbara laughed, resting her elbow on the table. “What do you want me to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sophia leaned in, resting her chin on her hand. “Maybe how it feels to live with one of the most talked-about footballers in the world?”

“And one of the most stubborn.” Sofia sighed, shaking her head.

Barbara took a slow sip of wine. “He’s not that bad, but yeah, he can be stubborn. God, he still asks if he can hire me a bodyguard. As if John isn’t enough.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t send someone to follow me here.”

“He probably wanted to,” Sophia smirked, setting her glass down. “But he didn’t want to seem like he was spying on you.” She turned to Sofia, motioning toward her. “Although, his assistant is literally sitting right here.”

“Hey, don’t look at me.” Sofia raised her hands. “I don’t do relationship security.”

“I’m serious, though,” Barbara leaned back, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers. “It’s been amazing. We wake up, have breakfast together, he goes to training, I work, we text, we meet up later—it’s… normal.”

“Normal?” Sophia arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced.

Barbara hesitated, then laughed. “Okay, as normal as it can be.”

“So, no mess? No bad habits?” Sofia tapped her fingers on the table, watching her carefully.

Barbara let out a dramatic sigh. “He leaves his clothes everywhere. Like, I swear, there’s a hoodie in every room—but to be fair, half of them are there because I steal them.”

“So it’s your fault too?” Sofia narrowed her eyes, her lips pressing together as if she were solving a mystery.

“See? This is what I mean,” Sophia pointed at Barbara. “Everyone always blames the boyfriend, but you? You’re the real problem here.”

“Okay, maybe.” Barbara grabbed her glass, taking a long sip to avoid their knowing stares.

“Footballers and their enabling girlfriends,” Sofia muttered, shaking her head as she picked up her drink.

Barbara set her glass down, voice softening. “But honestly? He’s the best person I’ve ever met. Sweet, thoughtful, always making sure I’m okay. Sometimes, I catch myself thinking about our future—kids, marriage, everything.”

“He really loves you.” Sophia smiled, warmth in her voice.

Barbara nodded. “Yeah… he does. And I know he probably didn’t come tonight because he wanted me to spend time with you two. He’s always checking in, making sure I have people around, that I’m not just sitting around waiting for him.”

“You’re happy.” Sofia studied her, then nodded as if confirming something for herself.

Barbara met her gaze, her expression soft. “Yeah. I really am.”

“Good. You deserve that.” Sofia set her glass down, giving Barbara a look that made her chest warm.

“You two act like I was miserable before Tristan.” Barbara rolled her eyes, a playful smile still lingering.

“I mean… Niall Horan and Justin Bieber.” Sophia shrugged, taking another sip of her drink.

“Oh my God, are we really bringing them up?” Barbara groaned, dropping her head onto the table.

“I’m just saying, you’ve been through some shit.” Sophia raised her hands as if she were innocent.

“And I thought you two were moving too fast.” Sofia leaned back against the booth, arms crossed.

“Do you still think that?” Barbara lifted her head, watching Sofia closely.

“No.” Sofia shook her head, exhaling. “If you’re happy, that’s all that matters.”

“I mean, it’s fast, but sometimes when you know, you know.” Sophia added, nodding.

Barbara smiled, settling into her seat. “Exactly.”

A brief pause settled between them as they sipped their drinks.

“Sooo… how’s the sex?” Sophia tilted her head, her voice too casual.

Barbara nearly spit out her wine. “Jesus! Can you not?”

Sophia laughed, covering her mouth. “Oh my God.”

“Oh, come on. You do realize I knew the second you guys did it, right?” Sofia leaned in, her grin widening.

Barbara narrowed her eyes. “How?”

“Babe. You weren’t walking straight for a week.” Sofia stated matter-of-factly, taking a sip of her wine.

Barbara’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

“And I’ve seen the marks.” Sofia added, nodding knowingly. “You two went feral.”

Barbara buried her face in her hands. “I thought we hid it.”

“Clearly, you didn’t.” Sofia shook her head, looking far too pleased with herself.

“So, damn, he’s that good?” Sophia smirked, leaning forward. “He’s got the looks, the personality, and the skills in bed? You hit the jackpot.”

Barbara stared at them for a second, pressing her lips together.

“Oh, that means yes.” Sophia pointed at her, eyes widening.

Barbara groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Why am I friends with you?”

“Because I ask the important questions.” Sophia lifted her glass in a toast.

Barbara picked up her drink, shaking her head.

….

December 2, 2014 – King Power Stadium

Leicester City vs. Liverpool…

The King Power Stadium was alive, a sea of blue scarves waving under the floodlights. The cold December air carried the familiar scents of hot pies, beer, and fresh-cut grass, while the players moved through their final warm-ups on the pitch.

The Sky Sports broadcast cut to the commentary booth, where Martin Tyler and Jamie Carragher settled in, the hum of the stadium filtering through their microphones.

Martin Tyler leaned forward slightly, watching the players go through their last drills. "A crisp December night here at the King Power, and we are set for an intriguing battle between two teams with very different ambitions this season. Leicester City, the Premier League’s biggest surprise, sitting in fifth place. Liverpool, desperate to climb back into the Champions League spots. But, Jamie, one name has dominated the headlines leading up to this game."

Carragher exhaled lightly, his arms crossed as he watched Leicester’s number 22 casually flick the ball up, juggling it with ease before rolling it off his thigh into a smooth first touch. "Yeah, and we all know who it is—Tristan. He’s been the talk of the football world, not just because of his performances, but because of everything around him. The England debate, the media circus, the tunnel moment last weekend… and now, he steps onto this pitch with everyone watching."

Martin, nodding, glanced toward the Leicester dugout where Nigel Pearson stood, arms folded, his expression unreadable. "And, of course, Jamie, you’ve been in the thick of that discussion yourself."

Carragher exhaled sharply through his nose, shifting in his seat. "Yeah, look, I won’t dodge it—I had my say, he had his. He called me out, he called Keano out, and fair enough. He’s got that bite to him. But this is different, Martin. This is Anfield under the lights, a Liverpool team desperate for a result. If he wants to talk, he’s got to back it up."

Martin chuckled lightly, keeping his tone neutral. "Well, if history tells us anything, it’s that Tristan thrives under pressure. We know how insane his stats are, Leicester’s talisman, and tonight, he faces a Liverpool team that needs a statement performance."

Carragher sighed, his eyes flickering toward the Liverpool players warming up. "And that’s what worries me. He feeds off this. He’s already torn apart Arsenal, Chelsea, City—and, yeah, I’ll say it—what he did to United was embarrassing. If Liverpool don’t get this right, they could be next."

The broadcast transitioned smoothly to the team sheets, graphics filling the screen.

Liverpool (4-3-3)

🧤 GK: Simon Mignolet
🛡 RB: Glen Johnson
🛡 CB: Martin Škrtel
🛡 CB: Dejan Lovren
🛡 LB: Alberto Moreno
🔴 CM: Steven Gerrard (C)
🔴 CM: Jordan Henderson
🔴 CM: Joe Allen
⚡ RW: Raheem Sterling
🎯 ST: Rickie Lambert
⚡ LW: Philippe Coutinho

Martin Tyler’s voice carried through as the Liverpool players finished their pre-match huddle. "Liverpool line up in their usual 4-3-3, but no Daniel Sturridge once again. Jamie, how does that affect their approach tonight?"

Carragher shifted forward slightly. "It’s a big loss, Martin. Rickie Lambert is a completely different kind of striker. He’s physical, he can hold up play, but he’s not stretching defenses like Sturridge does. That means all of Liverpool’s attacking creativity has to come from Sterling and Coutinho."

Martin nodded. "And, of course, Steven Gerrard in that deeper midfield role. He’s the captain, the leader—but at 34 years old, is he going to have the legs to deal with Leicester’s pressing game?"

Carragher let out a low breath, shaking his head. "That’s the key battle, Martin. Gerrard can dictate a game with his passing, but against Leicester? They’ll press and force mistakes. If Gerrard doesn’t get help from Henderson and Allen, Liverpool could find themselves exposed."

Leicester City (4-2-3-1)

🧤 GK: Kasper Schmeichel
🛡 RB: Ritchie De Laet
🛡 CB: Wes Morgan (C)
🛡 CB: Marcin Wasilewski
🛡 LB: Paul Konchesky
🔵 CDM: Esteban Cambiasso
🔵 CDM: Danny Drinkwater
⚡ RW: Riyad Mahrez
🎩 CAM: Tristan Hale
⚡ LW: Marc Albrighton
🦊 ST: Jamie Vardy

Martin’ s voice carried the slightest hint of intrigue as Leicester’s team sheet appeared. "And there’s the big news—Danny Drinkwater returns from injury in the starting line up.”

Carragher gave an approving nod. "Yeah, and that’s massive, Martin. Before his injury, Drinkwater was Leicester’s second most important player in midfield. He wins the ball back, dictates the tempo, and allows Cambiasso to focus on breaking up attacks. With him back, Leicester look stronger in the middle of the park."

Martin continued, "And then, of course, the man playing just ahead of them—Tristan."

Carragher’s tone remained firm. "Yeah, and this is where the game will be won or lost. He’s floating between the lines, picking up space where defenders don’t want to follow. If Henderson and Allen don’t track his movement, he’ll pick them apart. We’ve already seen what happens when you give him too much time on the ball. And you certainly don’t want to give him that especially today with Barbara Palvin the stands, we know what happens when she’s in the stands.”

The broadcast cut to the VIP section, where Barbara and Sophia were seated, eyes locked onto the field.

Barbara, wrapped in a beige coat, sat with her hands clasped together, her expression unreadable.

Sophia leaned over slightly, her voice light. "Nervous?"

Barbara let out a slow breath, but didn’t take her eyes off the pitch. "No."

Sophia tilted her head. "Liar."

"Fine. A little." Barbara said back exhaling, shaking her head.

Sophia laughed, sipping some coffe. "Relax. If there’s one thing your boyfriend loves, it’s proving people wrong."

Barbara didn’t reply—her focus remained fixed on Tristan jogging toward the tunnel, disappearing from view.

….

The air inside the tunnel was thick, the weight of anticipation pressing down on both teams. The distant roar of the crowd outside vibrated through the concrete walls, but inside, there was nothing but the quiet shuffle of boots against the floor, the occasional sniff, and the low murmur of last-minute conversations.

Tristan stood near the front of the Leicester line, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers, his mind already dialed in. But before he could fully settle into that pre-match zone, a sharp tug at his sleeve made him glance down.

A small boy, barely seven, clung onto his arm, his oversized Leicester jersey almost swallowing him whole. His other hand gripped at the fabric nervously, eyes wide with excitement and just a little bit of fear.

"Tristan?" he whispered, like saying his name too loud would make him disappear.

Tristan crouched slightly, bringing himself down to the kid’s eye level.

"Yeah, mate?"

The boy swallowed, gripping his jersey tighter. "You have to win today."

Tristan bit back a grin. "Is that so?"

The kid nodded furiously, eyes practically shining with conviction. "Yeah. And you have to score."

A second later, another little voice piped up from beside him—a girl, maybe six, her Leicester scarf wrapped three times around her tiny neck.

"And you can’t let them push you!" she declared, glaring at the Liverpool players like she was ready to fight them herself.

Tristan let out a soft chuckle, reaching out to ruffle her hair. "Don’t worry, I got this."

The boy held up a pinky, his tiny hand barely peeking out from the oversized sleeves of his kit. "Promise?"

Tristan didn’t hesitate, linking his pinky with his. "Promise."

The mascots beamed before scampering back into place, but Tristan barely had a moment to stand up before—

"Oi, Tristan. Just don’t score seven on us, yeah?"

Jordan Henderson was beside him now, grinning as he clapped a hand onto his shoulder.

"Yeah, mate," Glen Johnson added, leaning in. "We don’t need a repeat of what you did to United."

"No promises."

That earned a few chuckles, but before the conversation could continue, Jamie Vardy—of course—had to get involved.

"Ohh, here we go. England’s golden boy and his Liverpool fan club!" Vardy grinned, nudging Tristan. "Mate, you lot wanna swap shirts now, or you actually gonna try and stop him?"

Henderson rolled his eyes. "We’ll handle it, don’t you worry."

Johnson smirked. "Yeah, yeah. We’ll see."

Vardy turned to Tristan, lowering his voice just slightly. "No pressure, yeah? Just the whole world watching."

"Sounds about right."

Danny, tightening his wrist tape beside them, snorted. "Mate, he lives for this."

Before anyone else could say anything, a quiet presence joined them.

Suddenly, Steven Gerrard was beside Tristan.

No teasing. No banter.

Just a hand on his shoulder, firm, grounding.

Tristan felt it before he even turned.

"Talk after the game, yeah?" Gerrard’s voice was low, steady.

Tristan nodded once. "Yeah."

Gerrard patted his shoulder before stepping forward, his eyes already fixed on the tunnel entrance.

A second later—

The signal came.

The players stepped forward.

The roar of the King Power Stadium exploded, a wall of sound crashing down as Leicester City and Liverpool emerged from the tunnel into the floodlit arena.

Tristan lifted his chin.

His eyes locked ahead.

It was time.

….

5050 word count 

I wanted to finish this game in this chapter,but I’m so tired. I finish it next chapter instead of 3 chapters for one game like before. And I start skipping matches again. 

Anyway,peace,and thank you to all the new members who have joined.