Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 275: May Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-09-29 00:29:32 +0000 UTCApril 30, 2016 | Belvoir Drive – Boardroom
Tristan sat at the far end of the polished mahogany table, shoulders set back, arms folded loosely across his chest. The chair beneath him was comfortable, too comfortable, like it wanted to swallow him into compliance. He hated that. He hated this whole setting.
Every new sunrise in Leicester felt heavier now. Every match, every training session, every walk past fans who smiled at him like he was theirs forever, all of it was another step closer to goodbye. The thought gnawed at him, no matter how steady or happy he tried to look.
Across the table sat three of the club’s directors, Jon Rudkin, to his right, one of the finance men To his left, another director.
Jorge Mendes looked nothing like them. Reclined in his chair, ankle resting casually on his knee, phone in one hand, his thumb scrolled endlessly.
By the window seat was Claudio Ranieri.
No one spoke for a moment.
Then Rudkin cleared his throat.
“Liverpool are prepared to pay the full release clause.”
“€120 million,” Mendes added, lowering the phone. “They could trigger it any day now. There’s no negotiating. It’s just a matter of timing.”
Tristan exhaled slowly, thumb tracing the edge of the table.
“I know. Klopp called me yesterday.”
Rudkin leaned forward. “Tristan, we want to do this right. You’ve earned more than a quiet goodbye. We want to give you a farewell the city will remember. You deserve that.”
Tristan nodded once. “I appreciate that. I do.”
He paused, then added:
“But not now. Not during this.”
Mendes tilted his head. “You sure?”
“Look,” Tristan said, finally meeting everyone’s gaze. “We’re in the FA Cup Final. We’re one leg away from the Europa League Final. We just won the league. If we win everything… and I stand in the middle of it, waving goodbye like a hero?” He shook his head. “That’s not the story. It’s selfish. It takes away from the team’s entire accomplishment.”
Rudkin started to speak, but Tristan kept going, steady now.
“Everyone in the team deserves the spotlight. If I announce I’m leaving, thats all the world is gonna care about.”
“I’ll announce it after the Euros,” Tristan said. “After that, we do the farewell ceremony. Here. With everyone.”
Rudkin leaned back, nodding slowly.
“Oh,” Tristan added, almost as an afterthought, “Ed wants to perform at the farewell. Said he’ll sing live. Free of charge.”
That broke the tension. Rudkin blinked. “Ed Sheeran?”
Tristan nodded.
Ranieri laughed quietly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Of course he did.”
.
A Few Hours Later
Tristan sat at the kitchen table, fingers wrapped around a warm mug. His tea had long gone cold. Across from him, his mum moved gently around the stove.
Tristan spoke without looking up.
“Am I making the right decision?”
Julia turned off the kettle before it whistled. She set it aside and walked to the table, wiping her hands on a dish towel. she reached down and brushed a hand through his curls like she used to when he was ten and lost a game in the park.
“That’s something only you can answer, sweetheart.”
He nodded slowly. “I just…” He shook his head, voice quieter now. “I think about the fans. The kids. The people who waited outside the stadium just to see me. I’m overthinking about everything. Did you know I increased the revenu for the city?
He exhaled hard. “And I’m walking away from all the love.”
Julia finally sat down next to him. “You’re not walking away from anything” she said. “You’re just walking forward. And there’s a difference.”
She went on.
“You gave this city everything. Every run. Every goal. Every bit of your heart. They love you because they know it wasn’t just football. You mean a lot to this city.”
“And if you’re worried about missing us… Tristan, your not moving to Spain or Italy. It’s Liverpool. It’s two hours by car. You could be back here for tea if you wanted or we just go to you. Same thing for any fans of yours.”
He laughed softly, the first real sound in minutes. “Yeah. You’re right.”
Julia tilted her head. “Of course I’m right. I’m your mum.”
“We’re proud of you. Me and your dad. More than I can say. And so is this city.” Her voice softened. “No one can ask for more than that.”
Tristan swallowed hard.“I just don’t want to regret the move I’m making.”
This is something he’s been struggling all season despite knowing it and green lighting everything. It just didn’t make it easier.”
Julia smiled gently. “Then don’t.”
And with that, she stood again and kissed the top of his head, the way she had done since he was little even now that he was twenty, a football star, a future hundred-million-pound signing.
To her, he was still just her boy.
And the boy to the people of Manchester was a demon.
May 1, 2016 | Old Trafford – 83rd Minute
Manchester United 1 – 0 Leicester City
The stadium was shaking. Red scarves whipped through the air like war banners.
For the first time in two years, Manchester United stood on the brink of beating Leicester City.
Wayne Rooney had scored early in the second half, a low drive, edge of the box, curled past Schmeichel. It was vintage. It was desperate. It was enough to light the flames inside Old Trafford.
And now, here they were. 83 minutes in. A stadium ready to erupt. A team on the verge of breaking Leicester’s unbeaten season.
“Eighty-three minutes,” Rob Hawthorne said, voice nearly drowned out by the crowd. “United are eight minutes away from doing what no one’s done all season hand Leicester City a loss.”
“And what a time to do it,” added Alan Smith. “At home. Against the champions. There are people jumping in the stands, Rob. They’ve waited a long time for this.”
Leicester looked sluggish. Drenched. Unfocused.
Vardy couldn’t find space. Mahrez was doubled every time he touched the ball. Even Kanté had given the ball away twice.
But Tristan wasn’t having it.
“Push up!” he roared, shouting his lungs out, waving his arm furiously. “Press the middle! Don’t let them breathe!”
“Stay wide. Riyad, stay wide!”
His voice somehow managed to reach them. His curls ruined by sweat, his back drenched. They overestimated the sheer desire of the United players to just get even one win so they didn’t take them seriously.
No way they were losing their unbeaten run to bums like United.
Not here. Not now. Not them.
He dropped deep, dragging Valencia with him, then spun out with a feint so quick it made the defender stumble. Tristan switched feet mid-stride, flicked the ball past Blind with one toe, then slalomed through Herrera like he was part of the grass.
“Move!” he barked. “Vardy! Run the fucking channel!”
And still he kept going, cutting inside like a knife in water, the crowd rising with every step.
He was twenty yards out when Schneiderlin lunged.
A clipped ankle. The slightest twist.
Tristan went dow.
And instantly —
The noise stopped.
Not just Leicester fans.
Old Trafford itself fell quiet.
Like every soul in the building had forgotten how to breathe.
The silence cracked like glass. It wasn’t a normal foul. It wasn’t even a normal free kick. It was Tristan Hale, twenty yards out. Dead center. And everyone in Old Trafford knew exactly what that meant.
Rob’s voice broke the hush, pitched with urgency. “Oh no, no, no… Manchester United cannot do this here. Not like this. Not to him.”
Alan almost sounded nervous. “They’ve given Tristan a free kick, Rob. Dead center. Twenty yards. This kid has a heart of iron and a wand of a right foot. His record from here… it’s ridiculous. Only Messi and Ronaldo rival his numbers from direct free kicks.”
Hawthorne inhaled sharply. “He’s scored more than anyone this season. This could be the moment.”
Around the stadium, the noise shifted from triumph to terror. Red scarves lowered. Some fans clasped their hands in prayer. Others muttered to each other. The Leicester end erupted, sensing what might happen.
Down on the pitch, Ranieri had stepped out of his technical area, his scarf bouncing as he clapped furiously, eyes burning with excitement. “TRISTAN SCORE!” he shouted, hands cupped to his mouth. “Go on!”
Tristan pushed himself up off the grass.
Vardy came jogging over, breathless. “You alright?”
Tristan didn’t answer. He bent down, picked up the ball, and set it carefully on the white dot.
“Form up,” he barked to the others without looking. “Jamie, crash the rebound. Riyad, far post. Morgan, edge for the second ball.”
They moved instantly. He wasn’t asking. He was ordering.
Tristan took four steps back. The entire stadium held its breath. Even the referee’s whistle sounded small, like a bird call lost in a forest.
He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat. No way we’re losing our streak to bums like United.
Then he opened them, and they were green fire.
He took one step. Two. Three. Struck through the ball with his instep, body folding over it perfectly. The wall jumped. De Gea lunged.
The ball bent left, then right, a vicious whip of swerve and dip.
Top corner.
Off the underside of the bar.
In.
Old Trafford gasped. The Leicester end exploded.
“HE’S DONE IT! TRISTAN HALE! HEART OF IRON, FOOT OF GOLD! TWENTY YARDS OUT AND HE MAKES IT LOOK LIKE A TRAINING DRILL!”
Alan was laughing, stunned. “Unbelievable! Absolutely unbelievable! Every time they count him out, Rob, he rises! This boy isn’t just good, he’s inevitable as one can be!”
Tristan ran screaming towards the Leicester fans, fists pumping once, twice, then kissed at the badge on his chest. His teammates mobbed him anyway.
Ranieri spun on the touchline, arms raised like he’d just seen a miracle.
The scoreboard flickered.
83’ Leicester City 1 – 1 Manchester United
The streak lived. The champions had spoken.
.
Full Time
Manchester United 1 – 1 Leicester City
The whistle blew.
FWEEEEET.
Not a single cheer came from the red end of Manchester.
Instead—
“BOOOOOO!”
“SACK VAN GAAL!”
“FRAUD!”
It began as a low murmur, then rose into a chant.
By the time the players shook hands, the Stratford End was drowning in fury. Some fans had already stormed out. Others stayed only to vent.
Old Trafford wasn’t celebrating a draw.
It was seething.
Because they had them. They had the champions. And then, Tristan reminded them who they were.
A decaying giant.
The Leicester players were huddled together near the away section, arms raised, fingers pointed toward the travelling fans who were still jumping, still singing, still waving their scarves in celebration.
Back in the commentary booth, Rob Hawthorne’s voice came one last time, cold and clean and iconic:
“They called him England’s Crown Jewel. They called him Leicester’s miracle. But after tonight…”
“Manchester will know him by a different name.”
“The Devil of Old Trafford.”
.
2k chapter, short one I but I really liked the last line lol so I decided to end it here.
Comments
SKA
Think you mean May Part 1 for the title.
