Sinbad
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Chapter 269: Next Day
🕑 Added 2025-09-15 23:12:16 +0000 UTCApril 3rd, 2016
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The city had never breathed like this before.
Above terraced rooftops, fireworks tore across the sky in crooked blue streaks, scattering sparks like confetti over chimney pots. Car horns blared up and down London Road, a constant, chaotic symphony. Kids leaned out of windows, faces painted, scarves trailing in the wind, chanting the name that seemed to have become Leicester’s heartbeat:
🎵 “TRISTAN!”
“TRISTAN!”🎵
Outside pubs, grown men in beer soaked shirts danced on tables, their pints sloshing like fountains. Teenagers had found drums, tambourines, saucepans, anything they could hit and were leading chants that rattled down cobblestone alleys. Families spilled into the streets, flags tied like superhero capes, parents hoisting their kids onto shoulders so they could wave at passing buses like it was a parade.
At one junction, traffic simply gave up. Taxi drivers abandoned their horns for singing. One leaned out of his cab window, red light flashing overhead, radio dial twisted just in time to catch Peter Drury’s replayed commentary.
“Leicester City. Champions of England. From ridicule to reverence. From survival to supremacy.”
The driver shook his head, laughing, muttering to nobody in particular.
“Never thought I’d hear it.”
In his backseat, a family of four picked up the chant instantly.
🎵 “We are the champions, my friends!” 🎵
He didn’t even bother rolling the windows up.
Across town, an old wood-paneled pub, the kind with brass taps and darts trophies gathering dust froze mid pint. Every eye was fixed on the screen above the bar. Tristan’s strike in the top corner. Vardy tearing away, arms wide. Mahrez’s curling finish, delicate as silk. For one suspended second, silence. Then the place detonated. Strangers hugged strangers. A man fell off his stool and didn’t care. Someone climbed onto the bar and led a chant, off-key but unstoppable.
🎵 “Jamie Vardy’s having a party!” 🎵
In the corner, a pensioner in a flat cap wiped his eyes. “I saw us lose to Hereford in the cup, son. And now look at us.”
Highcross shopping centre had become a carnival. Shopfronts were plastered with Leicester scarves. Security guards abandoned their posts to film the crowds chanting into the fountains. Outside, a busker gave up on Wonderwall and played “We Are the Champions” on loop, and every time the chorus hit, hundreds screamed it back at him until his guitar strings nearly snapped.
Even the cathedral bells rang out, not for service, but because someone bribed the verger with a bottle of champagne.
From Beaumont Leys to Oadby, from Belgrave to Braunstone, Leicester was awake, alive, louder than it had ever dared to be.
And threading through every street, every pub, every voice was one name, one face:
Tristan Hale.
The boy from nowhere who promised a miracle.
The man who delivered it.
Leicester wasn’t sleeping tonight. Leicester would never sleep the same way again.
.
By the time Tristan stepped through the front door, the noise of the city was still echoing outside, fireworks crackling, horns blaring, voices carrying down every street. But here, inside, it was the opposite, warm, comforting and safe.
Tristan had already showered and changed at the stadium. Now he wore simple joggers and a hoodie, hair dry but still a little unruly from the towel. He dropped his bag by the door just as Biscuit came tearing across the hall, nails clicking on the floorboards, tail spinning like a little engine. She barked once, sharp and happy, before bounding up at his legs.
“There he is,” Julia said from the sofa, scarf still looped proudly around her neck. She rose and pulled him into a fierce hug, holding him so tightly he could feel her heartbeat. “I’m so proud of you.”
Ling stood and clasped his son’s shoulder, steady and proud. “Congrats, son.”
Tristan’s throat caught. He just nodded.
On the sofa, Barbara shifted Biscuit onto her lap and grinned at him. “So this is where England’s most boring champion ends up. Back home before midnight, in a hoodie, instead of spraying champagne in a nightclub.”
Tristan dropped into the seat beside her, smiling despite himself. “Guess I’m not built for nightclubs.”
Barbara arched an eyebrow, teasing. “You know, you could’ve gone if you wanted. Or dragged me with you. I’d have looked good in a club.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “That sounds like my nightmare.”
“Then it’s settled,” she said, stealing his sleeve to tug him closer. “You stay boring, and I’ll keep making fun of you for it.”
Her tone softened as she brushed her thumb along his hand. “But seriously… are you okay?”
He glanced at her, then at his parents, who were watching quietly, pride shining through their tired eyes. Finally he exhaled.
“I’m glad it’s not over yet. I don’t just want this. I want to lift the trophy here, at home. With the fans. With the other cups. And if we can stay unbeaten… one hundred and two points. That’s when it’ll feel complete.”
Barbara looked at him, eyes damp but soft. “You don’t stop, do you?”
“Not yet,” he said smilingly. “Imagine how much better it would feel having all the records made with 4 trophies collected unbeaten.”
At that moment, Felix appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray. The smell of goulash filled the room. “Late night fuel for champions,” he said, setting bowls on the table. Everyone gathered close around the coffee table, laughter mixing with yawns.
Julia raised her glass of wine, Ling following with his whisky. Barbara lifted her tea. Tristan clinked with his water. Biscuit barked until Felix tossed her a treat of her own.
“To the champion of England,” Julia said proudly.
Glasses touched. Biscuit crunched. And Tristan leaned back, Barbara tucked against him, the warmth of his family circling him while the city outside still roared his name.
.
For Tristan, the night ended in warmth and laughter. For the rest of the world, it was only beginning. From Madrid to Manchester, from Rome to Rio, one question echoed across screens and airwaves: Had football just witnessed the greatest title win in history?
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Sky Sports Studio – 11:58 PM
The screen behind the desk blazed:
LEICESTER CITY: CHAMPIONS OF ENGLAND
The panel sat in disbelief which included Gary Lineker, Thierry Henry, Steven Gerrad, David Beckham and Peter drury.
Lights low. Cameras rolling. The sound of the King Power still hummed in the background. Peter Drury’s voice layered over the crowd, the chants, the tears.
Gary Lineker stared into the lens. He opened his mouth once, closed it, then finally let the words come, his voice shaky.
“I said I wouldn’t cry tonight,” Lineker admitted, giving a watery laugh as he blinked fast and waved his hand like he could brush the tears away. “But… look. Just look what they’ve done.”
Thierry Henry leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly. “You know, I was part of an unbeaten season,” Henry said quietly.
“Arsenal, 2003–04. Ninety points. Twelve draws. And we had legends everywhere, Bergkamp, Vieira, Pires… myself. We were supposed to do it. Leicester? They’ve done it with eighty-four points already. Five draws. Six games left. Eighty-three goals scored. And they’re unbeaten in every competition. League Cup already in the cabinet. FA Cup and Europe still alive. Just wow.”
Lineker nodded quickly, emotion still lacing his words. “And that’s the difference, Thierry. You lads were expected to dominate. This was never supposed to happen. Leicester were supposed to survive, not stand on the edge of immortality.”
Steven Gerrard shook his head with a kind of disbelieving grin. “And the mad part is… Tristan told us it was coming. Last year, he stood there, said Leicester would win the league, that there would be a miracle. I’ll be honest, I didn't take his words seriously.”
Henry chuckled, shooting Gerrard a look. “You weren’t the only one. I thought he was crazy.”
Gerrard leaned back, still shaking his head. “Crazy? He’s twenty. Twenty! And he’s carried this lot like he’s been doing it for ten years.”
David Beckham, arms folded, his voice softer, added, “And you know what really sums it up? Reports say Tristan’s not even out tonight. He’s not in a nightclub with bottles of champagne. He’s at home. With his family. With his dog. That’s who he is. He lives football. I seen very few players this obsessed with the sport.”
Lineker laughed, dabbing his eyes again. “Meanwhile, Vardy’s probably already on his seventh Red Bull in a karaoke bar.”
The desk cracked up.
Henry slapped the table, chuckling, “With a kebab in the other hand!”
Gerrard grinned and added, “Guaranteed.”
The laughter faded, leaving only awe behind.
Beckham leaned in again, more reflective. “I’ve played for Manchester United, Real Madrid, PSG. I’ve been in dressing rooms with Galácticos, names that sold shirts all over the world. But this? This feels bigger. My kids were watching the match with me tonight, and they weren’t talking about goals. They were talking about Tristan. About Leicester. About why everyone was crying. That’s when you know it’s different. It’s not just football anymore. It’s inspiration.”
Henry pointed at the replay looping on the screen - Tristan’s thunderbolt from the edge of the box. “And here’s the thing,” Henry said, shaking his head in awe. “If Arsenal had done this now unbeaten, with academy kids and no big transfers, they’d call us revolutionaries. But Leicester? They’ve shattered the structure. They’ve made the impossible possible. This isn’t just history. This is hope for every small club around the world.”
Lineker leaned across the desk, his voice almost breaking again. “That’s the beauty, Thierry. It is unbelievable. And yet here it is, real, in front of our eyes. Those fans tonight, they’ll never forget it. Not in fifty years.”
Gerrard spoke again, his tone raw now, almost confessional. “I spent my whole career chasing this. Came close. Slipped. Lost it all. And this lad, he promised a miracle. I laughed. We all did. But he saw it before anyone else. He was that confident in himself and in leicester.”
Peter Drury, quiet until now, finally lifted his head. His voice rose like a hymn, every word deliberate. “There is something almost sacred about this. Not just the title, but the way it was won. No oil money. No billion-pound project. Just a boy who grew up in Leicester, who said as a child that he would bring trophies here. A team built on trust and discovery. Football as a sport doesn’t get any better than this.”
Henry exhaled deeply, shaking his head with a faint, reverent smile. “If Barcelona or Bayern had done this, people would call it destiny. But Leicester? They call it a miracle. And that’s what it is.”
Gerrard nodded firmly. “Immortality. That’s the word.”
Lineker’s voice was hoarse, but his smile shone through. “I can’t wait to see them lift it. I really can’t.”
Finally, Drury turned to the camera, the studio lights catching the glimmer in his eyes. His words wrapped the night in poetry.
“And when they do… it will not be the coronation of a champion. It will be the confirmation of a miracle. Leicester City. Champions of England. Undefeated. Carrying football itself back to its purest truth.”
.
It wasn’t just the mainstream media that didn’t know how to react.
It was everyone. Fans of football around the globe, regardless of shirt color or rivalries.
The final whistle hadn’t even finished echoing at the King Power before the world hit send. Across every time zone from Tokyo to Toronto, Lagos to Los Angeles, keyboards lit up, phones buzzed, servers slowed.
Football’s digital universe had gone into meltdown.
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Trending Worldwide
#LeicesterCity
#Champions
#Undefeated
#102Dream
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@Aee: I just watched a 20-year old predict a miracle, deliver a miracle, and then go home. You can’t get any better than this man. Congratulations to Leicester City for winning the league. Congrats to all the players and the city.
↳@Eat_Shit: Man said ‘miracle’ last year and we all laughed. Who’s laughing now?
↳@Steven: Not me. I’m still crying, man. This is a dream come true man.
@MessiISTHEGOAT69: I don’t even like English football and I stood up clapping when they won. What a story, well deserved. Congrats to Kante, my favorite player in Leicester.
↳@BARCAFAn911: Bro we’ve got Messi, but this Tristan kid? He’s different. Pure storybook stuff."
↳@Amos: Feels like god himself is writing this story. Like what the fuck, I can’t wait for a documentary about this team a decade later lol.
@RealMadridReports: Florentino Pérez is definitely watching this with a glass of Rioja and a transfer budget."
↳@MadridistaTom: If Tristan lands in Madrid this summer, Bernabéu will explode."
↳@Sin_Bad: Fuckl off, you and Liverpool. He’s not leaving. He can’t leave. He’s Leicester."
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Every feed was the same: clips of Tristan, flags waving, Vardy shirtless, Ranieri tossed in the air.
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Next Morning
The sun broke gently over the rooftops, casting a golden haze through the half open blinds. The city was quieter now. Hungover, maybe. Dreamlike.
Inside the Hale house, the only sound was the faint hum of the fridge and the soft clack of Tristan’s thumb against his phone screen.
He sat at the kitchen table. Biscuit curled up on the floor beside him. A cup of lukewarm tea sat forgotten at his elbow. He was the only one up as everyone else was still sleeping.
His phone was a graveyard of missed calls and messages.
124 unread texts.
38 WhatsApps.
17 voicemails.
Hundreds of mentions.
He scrolled slowly, eyes dry.
Beckham: You were incredible. The whole country’s proud of you. My sons wouldn’t shut up about you. Congrats on winning the league and I know you win the other two trophies as well. Proud of you man
Tristan: That means the world coming from you. Thank you. Tell your boys I’ll send them shirts if they promise not to turn into United fans 😅
Gerrard: Well done mate, couldn’t be happier for you and the club.
Tristan: Appreciate it, let me know when you free, there’s a few things I gotta tell you
Hazard: Bro, you’ve made me cry 😭🔥 What a player. What a season. Congrats, man.
Tristan: 😂 Apperciate it it. Hope we face off soon. I owe you one.
Klopp: What you’ve done with Leicester is why people fall in love with football. Beautiful. Truly beautiful. Congratulations.
Then came the two that made him pause.
Messi: Felicidades, campeón. That was incredible to watch. Congratulations on the win.
Ronaldo: Congratulations, champion.
He finished the last of the replies, setting his phone down.
Outside, the city had begun to stir again. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang. A delivery van drove by with a Leicester flag taped to its mirror.
He exhaled slowly, leaning back into the quiet of the room. His chest was still heavy with adrenaline, but his mind felt oddly clear, as if the world had stopped spinning just for him.
“System,” he whispered in his head. “Show my current stats.”
A soft chime answered. Then, like a dream folding itself open, a cool blue panel shimmered across his vision.
[Name] – Tristan Hale
[Age] – 20
[Team] – Leicester City
[SHO] – A
[PAS] – A
[DRI] – B+++
[PAC] – B++
[DEF] – B
[PHY] – B+++
[Auxiliary Items]
• Anti-Injury Card (x1)
• Minor Injury Prevention (x3)
• Stamina Recovery Cards (x3)
• Training XP Boosters (0)
[Templates Unlocked]
• Kevin De Bruyne
• Federico Valverde
• Fernando Torres
• Alisson Becker
• Jadon Sancho
[Special Notice]
Draw – One available due to winning the league 🎯
You have 1 remaining slot for a Player Template.
This will be your last Template
Initiate draw?
Tristan stared at the words for a long moment.
The last one…
He’d built so much already. He’d grown beyond what anyone could’ve imagined. “Yes,” he thought.
The panel shimmered. A white card spun slowly in the center, weightless, suspended between past and future. Then it flipped.
Gold trim rippled outward, bright but controlled, like a quiet sunrise rather than fireworks. And then the name appeared with a soft chime.
[Template Acquired – David Beckham]
Position: RM / CM
Traits: Long Passing, Curve, Leadership, Dead Ball Specialist
No explosion of numbers. No flood of new stats. Just a quiet glow, subtle changes trickling into place.
[PAS]: A → remains A
Free Kicks: Slightly improved
Long Passing: Slightly improved
Set Piece Conversion: +2%
That was it.
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
Was it underwhelming? A little. Part of him had hoped for something seismic, one last great leap. But as his eyes lingered on the name, a smile broke across his face.
Beckham.
His idol. His reason. The man whose free kicks he’d copied endlessly in the park, whose posters still hung in his childhood bedroom. Beckham was why he’d fallen in love with football in the first place.
The last slot. His idol.
It felt fitting like a circle closing. A boy who had dreamed with Beckham’s posters on his walls now standing as the best player in the world, carrying his city to immortality.
He wasn’t disappointed. Not at all.
The system had already given him enough. It had changed everything. But the rest, the grind, the sweat, the fear and the triumph that had been his. And now, with Beckham’s name shining faintly on his screen, Tristan felt at peace with it.
He tapped the panel closed.
The glow faded from his vision, replaced by the dim gold of his living room. Biscuit stirred in her sleep at the edge of the sofa, stretching her paws before curling up again. The kettle clicked off in the kitchen, steam hissing into silence.
Outside, Leicester was still awake, still singing, still dreaming.
And inside, Tristan sat back with a smile, knowing that in some strange, poetic way, David Beckham himself would walk with him into whatever came next.
“Morning, boss,” Felix said as he stepped into the kitchen, hair sticking up at odd angles, dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he’d barely slept, but the grin plastered on his face gave him away. “Still feels like a dream, huh?”
Tristan sat at the counter with a glass of water in hand, staring at nothing in particular until Felix broke the silence. He smiled faintly. “Yeah. A dream I don’t wanna wake up from.”
Felix gave a low chuckle. “Careful. Dreams end.”
Before Tristan could answer, the faint shuffle of socked feet whispered down the hallway. Barbara appeared, drowning in one of Tristan’s old t-shirts that nearly reached her knees, hair wild, eyes half shut.
“Morning,” she mumbled, voice still soft with sleep.
Tristan turned immediately, smile widening. “Good morning to you too, babe.”
Barbara squinted at him, mock annoyed. “How are you up before me?” She padded across the kitchen, sliding behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her forehead pressed into his back like she was anchoring herself there. “I need your discipline. Or at least your alarm clock.”
He laughed under his breath, leaning back into her hug. “Discipline? You’d last half a day before you start napping again.”
“Mhm.” She nuzzled against him, refusing to let go. “Worth a try.”
Right then, Biscuit came tearing into the kitchen, scarf from last night clamped in her teeth, tail wagging furiously like a metronome set too fast. She barked once, loud and sharp, as if to remind everyone who the real star of Leicester was.
Barbara lifted her head just enough to glare playfully at Felix. “You’re not feeding her bacon.”
Felix, already crouched near the cupboard, froze mid-motion. “...Too late.”
“Felix!”
“She earned it! She supported from the stands like the rest of us,” Felix protested, hand raised in mock defense. Biscuit barked again, as if to back him up.
Tristan chuckled. “Can’t argue with that. She’s part of the team now.”
Barbara rolled her eyes but kissed his shoulder before letting him go.
By the time the plates were ready, Julia and Ling wandered in, both looking a strange mixture of exhausted and overjoyed.
Julia walked straight to Tristan, squeezing his shoulder as she passed. “There he is. Our champion.”
Soon, everyone sat around it together. The plates were full, eggs, toast, Felix’s heavy-handed bacon. The sun poured in through the windows, warm and golden, cutting across their tired but glowing faces.
.
After breakfast, Tristan and Barbara slipped out for a walk. Hoodies up, sunglasses on, keeping it low key. Biscuit padded between them, ears bouncing, tail high, their little furry bodyguard on patrol.
The streets of Leicester were quieter than the chaos of last night, but the celebration lingered everywhere. Flags draped from balconies. Blue and white scarves hung off lampposts. Empty champagne bottles stood proudly on doorsteps like trophies of their own. Even the pavement carried reminders, chalk scrawls from kids that read things like Foxes Forever and Tristan for King.
They turned a corner.
And froze.
On the brick side of a corner shop, ladders still leaned against the wall. Paint cans lay open. The mural wasn’t even finished yet but Tristan knew instantly who it was.
It was him.
The likeness was uncanny: hair ablaze like fire, eyes sharp, a crown hovering above his head as though the artist had seen this night years before. And beneath it, in looping blue letters:
The Boy Who Kept His Promise.
Barbara’s fingers found his, warm and certain.
“You changed this place,” she whispered, a soft smile tugging at her lips.
Tristan didn’t answer right away. He just stared. His throat tightened, his chest too heavy to speak. It wasn’t the crown, or the words, or even the fact that the city was already painting him onto its walls.
It was the truth of it. The promise he’d made. The miracle he’d delivered.
For a long time, he just stood there, silent.
Tristan finally tore his eyes from the wall, exhaling slowly. “Yeah,” he said quietly, almost to himself.
They walked on, Biscuit tugging happily at the lead, but Tristan’s eyes lingered on the mural until the corner swallowed it behind them.
His phone buzzed in the pocket of his hoodie.
Mendes.
He sighed, thumb hovering, then answered.
“Tristan!” Jorge Mendes’ voice burst through the line like a champagne cork. “My boy, my miracle, my bloody fairy tale! Do you know what you’ve done?”
Tristan chuckled softly. “I’ve had a hint.”
“No, no, no,” Mendes rattled on, laughing breathlessly. “You don’t understand. I’ve got Nike calling me on one line, Adidas begging me on the other. EA Sports wants you on the cover. Samsung’s offering half a city in Seoul. Beats by Dre? They’ve already mocked up headphones with your face on the box. You’re not just a player anymore. You’re bigger than the sport. You’re a global” he broke into a manic laugh “—phenomenon!”
Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Barbara who was watching with raised brows. “I’m still in Leicester, Jorge. Just walking Biscuit. You’re vibrating through the phone, you know that?”
“I should be vibrating!” Mendes roared. “Do you realize what you’ve done? A twenty-year-old. England captain. Premier League champion. Undefeated. The whole planet is watching you. Brazil, China, America, my inbox is collapsing. You could sell toothpaste in Mongolia right now and they’d queue around the block!”
“Or,” Tristan said, calm as ever, “I could just… stay here, eat fish and chips, and play football.”
There was a pause. Then Mendes groaned, long and theatrical. “You’ll kill me before my time, boy. But fine. Fine! Enjoy your little miracle bubble. Just know when you’re ready to step out, the world is waiting with open arms and open wallets.”
“Thanks, Jorge.”
“Don’t thank me thank yourself! And for God’s sake, answer your texts once in a while. Beckham’s already messaging me asking why you ghosted him last night.”
Tristan smirked. “I’ll get back to him.”
“You’d better,” Mendes muttered, but there was still laughter in his voice.
The line clicked dead.
Tristan slipped the phone away.
Barbara’s eyes were already on him, lips twitching. “That was Mendes, wasn’t it?”
“Yup.”
“Is he vibrating through the phone again?”
“Pretty much.”
She laughed, looping her arm tighter around his. “One day, he’s going to explode and we’ll find little Jorge bits all over Portugal.”
They kept walking, Biscuit trotting happily between them. A breeze swept the street, carrying faint laughter and music from somewhere ahead. Tristan looked around at the town that had raised him. The city he’d carried.
The city he would have to leave soon.
Back at home, his phone buzzed again.
Vardy: lads. anyone know where my left shoe is??
Mahrez: check Jamie's head. it might be up there. Drinkwater: found a baby asleep in a booth at the club. is that one of ours??
Ben: so... quadruple now?
Tristan smiled.
Tristan: Yes sir, I better see none of you guys drunk when we get back to training. That’s on the fifth for those who who forget. See you all
.
. -> [ Jamie Vardy ]
Vardy’s Home – Afternoon
The curtains were still half drawn. A mug of cold coffee sat forgotten on the counter. Empty crisp packets and takeaway boxes littered the coffee table, little relics of celebration and exhaustion.
Jamie Vardy lay sprawled across the sofa like a man recovering from battle. He looked less like the striker who had fired Leicester into immortality and more like a bloke who’d just survived a stag do.
From somewhere deeper in the house, Becky’s voice rang out, sharp, teasing.
“Jamie, your phone’s vibrating like mad again! If it’s the lads, tell ’em to bugger off. You’re still half dead.”
Jamie groaned into the cushion. “It’s not the lads.” He rubbed at his eyes, squinting at the buzzing screen. “It’s Steve.”
Becky appeared in the doorway, arms folded, eyebrow arched. “Steve Steve? Transfer-window Steve?”
“Yep.”
“Well, don’t keep him waiting, superstar.”
Jamie sighed like a condemned man, rolled onto his side, and hit accept.
“Go on then.”
“Jamie! Finally.” Steve’s voice exploded down the line, fizzing with energy. “Mate, listen, I won’t waste time. Every bloody club in Europe wants you. Spain, Italy, but especially England. Arsenal are dead serious. They want you. Now.”
Jamie blinked at the ceiling. “Mate… it’s barely noon.”
“I’m serious! Champions League football, London lifestyle, bigger wages, brand deals, exposure — the lot. They’re ready to trigger your release clause today.”
Jamie sat up, scratching his hair, his tone flat. “I’m not going.”
“Jamie—”
“No.”
“I’m telling you, this is once in a lifetime money!” Steve pushed. “Do you realise what they’re offering? You’d double your wages overnight. London, Arsenal, Champions League. You’ll be playing at the Emirates, not the bloody King Power!”
Jamie snorted. “What’s wrong with the King Power?”
“Nothing—” Steve backtracked, “but come on, Jamie. This is Arsenal. Think about the money.”
“Mate,” Jamie cut him off, voice firmer now, “I’ve played non-league. I’ve been skint. I’ve been running around factory shifts before matches. Leicester took me in when nobody else would. We just won the bloody Premier League. You think I’m gonna walk away now?”
Silence lingered on the line. Steve’s voice returned, softer. “Jamie, look. I respect that. But you and I both know this isn’t going to be the same team next year. I’ve heard things. Mahrez, Kante, Albrighton… they’re already being tapped up every hour. And Tristan—” his voice dropped, “Tristan’s gone. He hasn’t said it, but it’s happening. When that’s official, this whole project collapses.”
Jamie froze. He’d known, of course. They all had. It was the unspoken truth hanging in the dressing room. Tristan, the miracle worker, the kid who had dragged them into history, was leaving. He hadn’t admitted it because he didn’t want to ruin the dream but everyone felt it. That was why Jamie had quietly moved his wedding from May to July, after the Euros. That was why Tristan had hugged the badge a little tighter after Southampton.
Steve pressed harder. “Clubs are circling like sharks. You might not get another season like this. This is your chance, Jamie. Big payday. Champions League football. Arsenal want to build around you.”
Becky, who’d been listening from the doorway, finally stepped in, arms crossed. She tilted her head at Jamie. “What do you think?”
Jamie met her gaze. “I think London’s overrated.”
She smirked. “Exactly. And I think you already know the answer. You’ve got to decide what you want, not what Steve wants.”
Jamie chewed his lip. Did he believe Leicester could win the Champions League? Not really. Did he know the ceiling had been hit? Of course. But Leicester had given him everything. And when the supermarket opened and stars left one by one, someone had to stay. Someone had to give the fans hope. Someone had to keep the miracle alive just a little longer.
He had to be the person. He was the oldest and he already hit his potential compared to his teammates. He didn’t want to leave and go another to club and city and restart his all over again.
He exhaled. “I’m staying.”
Steve groaned down the line. “Of course you are. Bloody romantic.”
“Damn right,” Jamie said.
“Fine, fine. But I’m warning you if Arsenal call again, I’m still obligated to answer.”
“Then tell ’em thanks,” Jamie replied, grabbing another handful of crisps, “but Jamie Vardy’s having a party in Leicester. And he ain’t moving.”
Becky smirked, shaking her head. “Good. London doesn’t deserve you anyway.”
Jamie chuckled, crumbs falling onto his lap. Arsenal could keep their money, their history, their Emirates.
He had Leicester.
He had the dream.
And for Jamie Vardy, that was enough. What more could a man ask for?
.
While Jamie Vardy clung to Leicester with both hands, determined to see the miracle last as long as it could, not everyone felt the same certainty.
Across town, in a quieter flat where the echoes of fireworks had already faded into silence, another hero of the night sat with his thoughts.
Riyad Mahrez was cross-legged on the edge of his couch, remote in hand, volume low. The glow of the TV painted his face in flickers — blue, green, gold — highlights looping over and over like some surreal fever dream.
Tristan’s thunderbolt. Vardy’s smash. Then Mahrez himself, drifting in from the right, curling one into the far corner. The roar. The eruption. And Peter Drury’s voice cracking with disbelief, rising to something like song.
He blinked, then rewound it. Again. Just to hear the way Peter said it. This guy just knew. Always poetic. Always timeless. He could see why Tristan loved him so much.
On the coffee table, his brother Nabil’s face bobbed up on FaceTime, propped against a mug. The camera was pointed at half his forehead and a ceiling fan.
“You still watching it?” Nabil asked, grinning.
Riyad didn’t look up. “It doesn’t feel real.”
“It is real,” Nabil said firmly. “You lived it. You’ve been magic all season. Every touch. Every flick. Ballon d’Or shortlist magic.”
Riyad smiled faintly, but it didn’t stick. “Yeah. I know.”
The silence that followed lingered a second too long. Nabil frowned. “You alright?”
Before Riyad could answer, another buzz rattled the table. Another call. His agent.
He sighed and picked it up. “Youssef.”
“Riyad,” Youssef’s voice was brisk, heavy with purpose. “I’ll be direct. Manchester City have called. They want you. They’re serious. Bigger than PSG’s offer. Bigger than Barcelona’s interest.”
Riyad leaned back into the couch, pressing his lips together.
“That’s not all,” Youssef continued. “Atletico Madrid want a meeting. Arsenal are circling, though they’re slower. PSG will call again tomorrow. But City… City are ready to move. They see you as the centerpiece of their next dynasty.”
On screen, Tristan darted past two red shirts and split the defence with a flick. Riyad couldn’t look away.
“And Leicester?” he asked quietly.
Youssef hesitated. “Leicester gave you everything. But you know this can’t last. Tristan’s leaving. It’s already done, even if he hasn’t said it. Liverpool or Madrid, maybe even Barcelona. I’ve heard it from three different sources.”
Nabil’s smile dimmed on the screen.
“You take Tristan out of this team,” Youssef pressed, “and the miracle fades. Leicester can’t keep this up. But City? They’ll surround you with De Bruyne, Silva, Aguero. You won’t just be carrying players, you’ll be standing among equals. Titles, Champions League nights, Ballon d’Or votes. It’s all waiting.”
Riyad closed his eyes. Of course he knew. Everyone did. You could feel it in the air. In the way Tristan clapped the fans, slower than usual. In the way the staff stared at him like they were trying to memorize him.
“You deserve it, Riyad,” Youssef said softly now. “You’ve carried them. But you can’t play Robin forever. You’re Batman too.”
The flat went quiet. On screen, Tristan wheeled away after scoring, face lit with fire. The boy who had made everyone around him believe they were more than they were. The one who had turned Leicester into more than a club. A movement.
Riyad’s thumb hovered over his phone screen. A blank message. Tristan’s name glowing at the top.
Are you really leaving?
He stared at it. Thought about sending it. Thought about forcing Tristan to answer the question hanging over all of them.
Then, slowly, he deleted the message.
He raised the phone back to his ear. “Tell them yes.”
Youssef inhaled sharply. “Yes?”
“Start the conversations,” Riyad said flatly, eyes never leaving the TV. “Let’s see what the world really thinks I’m worth.”
Nabil’s face was unreadable now, but his silence said enough.
On the screen, Leicester still flew. Goals. Cheers. Glory. But here, in his living room, Mahrez already felt it — the shift, the weight.
The miracle was ending.
And he was ready to see what came next.
.
April 5th, 2016
Melwood Training Centre – Afternoon
Rain tapped the glass like a relentless metronome. Each drop against the office window was another reminder of time, of urgency, of how little margin Liverpool had left.
Outside, the players ran short drills in tight squares, their breaths turning to steam in the damp spring air. Firmino and Coutinho were laughing after a rondo nutmeg, Milner’s voice carried across the pitch like a sergeant’s whistle, and Origi moved with a sharpness Klopp hadn’t seen in weeks.
There was hunger. But woven inside it pressure. The kind of pressure Klopp had learned to measure like a pulse.
Hands deep in his coat pockets, cap pulled low, Klopp studied them. Not just their movement, but their body language. Shoulders, glances, the weight in their steps.
The door behind him creaked.
“Jürgen,” a voice said, smooth, deliberate.
Ian Ayre stepped in, Liverpool’s CEO. A tablet was tucked under his arm, and his expression carried that strange blend Klopp had learned to recognize, cautious worry dressed up with corporate optimism.
Klopp turned his head just enough to acknowledge him. “For you? Always. Come in.”
Ian crossed the office, stopped beside Klopp at the window. Together they watched the rain-slick training ground for a long moment before Werner spoke.
“We’re in fifth.”
“I know.” Klopp’s voice was low, flat.
“West Ham slipped. We’re a point clear now. Spurs, City, Arsenal are still scrapping above. But…” Ian tilted his head, “…it’s close. Very close.”
Klopp exhaled through his nose. “A single mistake and we’re out of Europe. A single good week, and we’re top four. I don’t need the table to tell me that.”
Ian tapped his tablet awake. Numbers glowed on the screen. “Which brings me to something interesting.”
Klopp raised an eyebrow, still watching Firmino’s grin out on the pitch. “Go on.”
“I spoke with UEFA this morning. If Leicester win the Europa League and the Premier League which they already have, that extra Champions League place doesn’t go to the cup runner up.”
Klopp finally turned, eyes narrowing. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” Werner said with a thin smile, “if we finish fifth and Leicester win Europa, we’re in the Champions League anyway.”
The words hung in the room like the rain on the glass. Klopp blinked once, then let out a small laugh, more a huff of disbelief than amusement.
“That…” Klopp said slowly, “…changes things.”
“It does,” Ian agreed. His tone sharpened. “We don’t need to kill ourselves chasing third or fourth. Not if we secure fifth. If we’re clever, we can do two things at once: qualify… and bring in Tristan.”
Klopp grunted, a sound half agreement, half awe. “He’s the reason we’re even in this spot. Beat United. Dismantled City. He’s already shaped Liverpool’s season without wearing the shirt.”
Ian tapped the tablet again, scrolling through offers and whispers. “He made it clear to to us. He wants Champions League football. That was the condition.”
“You know what else he did?”
Klopp arched an eyebrow. “Surprise me.”
“He told Kanté. Before the deal even happened.” Ian’s voice carried a weight, almost admiration. “Said to him: ‘I’m going to Liverpool. You don’t have to follow me. But if you do… we’ll win it all.’”
Klopp blinked, taken aback. “…And Kanté?”
“I spoke with his agent yesterday. It went well.”
The office fell quiet again. The rain pattered steady. Outside, Coutinho smacked the crossbar from distance, and the squad whooped like kids.
Klopp’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Tristan and Kanté. That’s not just a midfield.”
Ian nodded, eyes fixed out the window, voice gravelly with certainty. “That’s a midfield to dominate Europe.”
They stood in silence. Two men in a quiet office, watching the rain and the drills outside. Liverpool’s players pressed and passed, chasing the here and now.
But in that room, the future was already taking shape.
.
Belvoir Drive – Early Morning
The sun peeked through thin morning clouds, spilling pale gold across the damp grass. Boots crunched softly, steady rhythms cutting through the lighter chorus of laughter and shouts from the other side of the pitch.
Near the far touchline, away from the noise, Tristan and N’Golo Kanté worked quietly. Just the two of them, a ball bouncing back and forth in sharp little bursts. One-touch. Two-touch. A flick behind the leg. A quick slide to the outside.
It was less like training, more like two musicians in rehearsal — fluent, unspoken, a rhythm no one else could quite follow.
[All dialogue below is in French]
Kanté’s voice, soft but steady, floated between touches. “My agent met with Liverpool yesterday. They’re serious. I’ll see him soon to talk about it.”
Tristan killed the ball under his sole, pinning it flat. He glanced up, eyes calm, voice even. “You know I’d never force you. It’s your choice. Your career. Your future.”
Kanté gave the faintest nod, his face unreadable but his touch never faltering.
“I know. But I’d like to keep playing with you. Your my best friend.”
A small smile tugged at Tristan’s mouth. He flicked the ball back with the inside of his boot. “Then come. But come for you. Not for me.”
Kanté exhaled, almost a sigh. He rolled the ball gently toward Tristan, as though handing him the weight of the decision itself. “I still need to talk with my family. And I need to be sure Liverpool respect me. Not just because you said my name… but as a player.”
Tristan stopped the ball again, pressing his boot to it, grounding it the way he wished he could ground this whole moment. His eyes softened.
“Take your time. But tell me before the Euros, alright?”
“Of course.”
For a moment, neither spoke. The ball sat still between them, damp grass clinging to its seams.
Then Tristan nudged it forward again, and the rhythm resumed. Tap, tap, flick. Silence filled the space between words, but it wasn’t awkward. It was trust.
Tristan’s thoughts lingered as they played on. He knew the truth that Kanté was more than just a teammate. He was the heartbeat of the miracle, the quiet balance to all the chaos. If he came to Liverpool, it wasn’t just about building a midfield. It was about building something unbreakable.
And if he didn’t? Tristan would still let him go. He won’t force anyone to come with him. It’s why he didn’t ask anyone like Mahrez and Vardy. But only Kante.
Everyone had to make their choices that would decide their futures.
The ball spun back to his feet, and Tristan smiled faintly. Whatever happened next, he would support all of his friends best as he could.
Team Meeting Room – 1:12 PM
The projector hummed. Click. A white screen glowed against the far wall, dates and fixtures cast in pale light. Sevilla. FA Cup semi-final. Final league fixtures.
Every chair was filled. Tracksuits zipped. Water bottles lined the tables. Boots tapped faintly against the tile, a nervous rhythm under the silence.
Claudio Ranieri stood at the front, glasses perched low on his nose, hands clasped behind his back. His expression was softer than usual, reflective, almost proud but there was still steel in his voice.
“Even if we lose every game left,” he began, his Italian lilt carrying calm authority, “it does not matter. We have already won. We are champions of England.”
A ripple of nods passed through the room. For some, that alone still felt impossible. For others, it already burned in their veins.
Ranieri let the pause stretch. Then he turned, gestured lightly at the screen. His eyes swept the room.
“But I ask you now… what do you want? Do you want to rest? To rotate? To take your medals and your memories and call this enough?”
Silence.
He leaned forward slightly, voice lower.
“Or… do you want to be immortal?”
The words hung heavy. No one moved. The hum of the projector filled the void.
Then Jamie Vardy broke the silence, sitting back with a grin that didn’t quite hide his fire.
“Unbeaten in the league. Unbeaten in the cups. Unbeaten in Europe.” He looked around, daring each man to meet his eye. “You know what that is? That’s not just a title. That’s a bloody legacy.”
Riyad Mahrez leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, his voice steady but brimming with quiet conviction. “We’ve come this far. Why stop now? History doesn’t wait.”
Wes Morgan cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the stillness.
“Let’s finish what we started.”
Danny Drinkwater raised a hand like a schoolboy, though his eyes were deadly serious.“So… we’re agreeing then? Strongest eleven. Full push. All the way?”
All eyes turned to Ranieri. But Ranieri didn’t speak. He simply shifted his gaze toward the end of the table.
Toward Tristan.
The room seemed to tilt toward him, every glance waiting, every breath held.
Tristan leaned forward slowly, resting his forearms on the table. He didn’t rush. He met each teammate’s eyes one by one, as if weighing them, as if binding them with something stronger than words.
Finally, he spoke in his best Captain voice he could muster.
“I’m in. Let’s make it the greatest season of all time.”
The room erupted. Claps. Whoops. Someone banged the table hard enough to rattle bottles. Mahrez laughed, Vardy shouted something unrepeatable, even Schmeichel cracked a grin.
Ranieri let the chaos build for a moment, then clapped once, sharp and final.
“Then we go,” he said simply. His eyes gleamed behind the glasses. “April 7th. Sevilla. Quarter-final. The miracle continues.”
Chairs scraped back. Boots tapped louder now, voices rising, excitement flooding the air. One by one they filed out, not as players, not even as champions but as a team chasing something bigger.
Not medals. Not headlines.
Immortality.
.
8k sorry couldn’t reach the 10k mark, lol.
Comments
MM
Banger, this Liverpool squad that is assembling about to be illegal if some of the irl signings still happen in later years.
Kylberg
loved you inserting yourself as a commentator in the twitter section. Love the story, much improved from when it was only a translation and Beckham was mentioned in every sentence.
noname
254 chapters on Webnovel is 961.79k words in total combined that with patreons chapter close to 1 million
Frannncii3467
Does anyone know how many words this entire story is, not the chapter but the story, just want to know
Amos
Great chapter. Kante and Tristan remain!!!
GodzofAxe
Ty ty
TehStorm
MAn, what a chapter!! Cant wait to see more!
BaldRhaegar
I loved this chapter they are very close to a legendary Season.. i can picture it now!
