Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 263: The Graham Norton Show
🕑 Added 2025-08-28 00:13:05 +0000 UTCFebruary 29, 2016
The Morning After Final
Sunlight dripped through the blinds. It caught the edge of the marble counter and the curve of the silver kettle. The kitchen smelled like eggs and browned butter.
Tristan stood shirtless at the stove, one hand on the frying pan, the other massaging the back of his neck. His hair was still damp from a quick shower. Faint red lines marked his shoulder where Barbara had fallen asleep on him.
‘Hey, system me my current stats and draw for winning the final, since they won the EFL Cup, it meant another template or other prices for him since he never won it before.”
A beep echoed in the back of his head as his stats appeared in front of him.
[Name] – Tristan Hale
[Age] – 20
[Team] – Leicester City
[SHO] – A
[PAS] – A
[DRI] – B+++
[PAC] – B++
[DEF] – B
[PHY] – B+++
[Auxiliary] –
• Anti-Injury Cards (x1)
• Minor Injury Prevention (x3)
• Stamina Recovery Cards (x3)
• Training XP Boosters (0)
[Templates] –
• Kevin De Bruyne
• Federico Valverde
• Fernando Torres
• Alisson Becker
• Jadon Sancho
So only his defense went up and here he was, hoping for a stat increase in dribbling or maybe something in his physicals.
But oh well, he’d take the defense boost.
He already felt like he was hitting a ceiling with how much further he could realistically progress. It’s not like he was living in a cultivation world where power scaling just goes up and up forever. He was a human playing a sport, after all.
And like the system had told him before, getting to A tier or improving from there would take years. No template was going to help much at this point, not when he was already better than 99% of players in history.
[SYSTEM ALERT]
“You have one ticket to draw. Please open the draw panel to spin when you are ready.”
“Alright,” Tristan muttered. “Let’s spin the wheel, System. Give me something good.”
[DRAW PANEL: ACTIVATED]
🎁 Spinning…
🎁 Spinning…
🎁 Spinning…
✅ You have received: SILVER CARD — ‘Super First Touch’ (Situational Boost)
Description: Slight increase in ball control for your first touch only when being watched by scouts, pundits, or when the match is televised globally.
Status: [ACTIVE]
Duration: Passive, but highly situational.
Bonus: Your traps and first touches will be 10% silkier… if someone important is watching.
Tristan stared at the projection.
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
“…What the hell is this?”
If Barbara wasn’t sleeping, he would’ve howled.
“Statistical data indicates your first touch quality spikes when under pressure or visible scrutiny. This is not a coincidence. This card amplifies that behavior. You are essentially a showoff.”
Tristan flipped the eggs harder than necessary.
“Brilliant. Next draw I’ll get a passing boost but only if my mum's in the front row waving a banner.”
He sighed and grabbed the plate, setting it on the counter.
“By the way,” he muttered, “how many templates can I still unlock? Am I anywhere near a cap?”
“You are limited to seven total templates.”
“You currently have six.”
“One remaining slot.”
Tristan exhaled slowly. “Alright. That’s fine. One more.”
He stirred his eggs with a fork. “Not like I’m missing anything. I’ve got Torres for killer instinct, KDB for vision, Valverde for stamina, Alisson in case I feel like growing a beard and playing keeper, and Sancho... who’s fine, I guess.”
He took a bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. “Also, why didn’t you ever mention there was a limit?”
[SYSTEM RESPONSE]
“You never asked.”
“That’s fair,” he admitted. “Honestly? For my own sanity.”
Truth was, he liked pretending the system didn’t exist during the day. If he thought about it too much, he’d spiral. Fast.
He poured himself some orange juice.
“I swear I’m giving Felix too many days off,” he muttered. “But honestly…” He grabbed his fork again. After last night, he rather no one else be in the house anyway.
Barbara appeared in the doorway barefoot, hair still wild from sleep, wearing one of his shirts like it had been tailored to her. She blinked slowly, like her brain was still buffering.
Tristan looked up from his toast. “Morning, love.”
Barbara sniffed. “Smells like you’re cheating on Felix.”
“I’d never,” he said, holding up the plate like a bribe. “He earned a day off. Also be honest, do you want strangers seeing this house right now?”
She padded over, dropped into the chair across from him, and stole a slice of toast without asking. “Fair. The whole house is a mess.”
“Anything on the schedule today?”
“Nothing official,” he said. “Couple interviews got canceled. Sofia asked if I wanted to do something live. I told her I’d rather eat glass.”
Barbara tilted her head. “So we’re free?”
“Pretty much.”
She stretched, her shoulders popping. “Let’s go to a park. Haven’t done that in a while. We can pick up Biscuit on the way.”
He nodded. Yeah, that actually sounded nice, so long as they didn’t get mobbed. He pulled out his phone.
[To: John]
Park trip. Big crowds.
Barbara raised an eyebrow. “You calling in security for a walk?”
“I love the fans,” he said, “but I also love not getting suffocated by them as well.”
She smiled and pulled out her phone, scrolling lazily. Then her thumb froze.“Oh my God,” she muttered. “Look at this.”
She held up the screen: a blurry zoomed-in shot of Tristan mid-celebration, kissing his boot. The tweet read:
@Sin_Hates: Bro kissed his boot like it was the ring in Lord of the Rings. Frodo Hale, king of Middle Earth.
Tristan snorted. “People have way too much time. And what kind of username is ‘Sin_Hates’?”
Barbara kept laughing, scrolling again. “Wait, listen to this one.”
@Mark: ‘If Leicester win the quadruple, we need a statue of Tristan Hale in the town square doing the kiss pose. Bronze boot. Tongue optional.’”
“Tongue optional?” Tristan choked on his juice.
Barbara wiped her eyes. “Babe, please. Never let your tongue out during a celebration again.”
“I didn’t!”
“There was tongue.”
“Photoshop,” he said, pointing at her like it was a legal defense.
They both cracked up.
Barbara leaned back, still holding her phone. “There’s literally a fan page editing you into Roman armor. I think they’re shipping you with Julius Caesar now.”
“…Did Caesar win a League Cup?”
She smirked. “Did Caesar kiss his sandals?”
Tristan scraped the last of his eggs off the plate. “You sure you wanna go out? We could stay in. Couch. Blankets. Minimal eye contact with the general population.”
Barbara smiled, then shook her head.
“No. I want to be out there. The city’s buzzing. Kids in jerseys, flags on balconies, it’s not just your win, you know. It’s theirs too.”
“God, I love you.”
She stole another slice of toast. “Yeah, I know.”
11:42 AM - Somewhere on the Edge of Leicester
.
The Porsche glided down the narrow road, its engine humming softly, with John’s car trailing close behind.
If they’d taken one of his Aston Martins, they would’ve drawn attention instantly, his car collection was basically public domain by now.
Tristan had one hand on the wheel, the other draped casually across the center console, fingers absentmindedly brushing against Barbara’s. She sat beside him, sunglasses slipping low on her nose as she scrolled through Spotify.
Biscuit was sprawled across the backseat just enough room for her and absolutely no one else poking her head between them every few seconds like she had strong opinions about the playlist.
Remind me to drive this more,” Tristan said, easing into the turn. “It’s weirdly peaceful not being gawked at.”
Barbara smirked. “That’s because no one expects to see you in my car. Not nearly enough ego in the paint job.”
He glanced at her. “Right. Sorry it’s not chrome with flames and my face on the hood.”
“You do that to those beautiful cars and I’m breaking up with yoy.”
“Joking, babe.”
They turned down a narrow lane lined with trees. An iron gate stood at the end, discreet, unmanned, but coded. Barbara reached up and punched in the digits. The gate creaked open.
It was a private park.
Barbara had found it last year through a Hungarian model friend whose husband sat on the board of something Tristan had already forgotten.
They parked under a tree. Biscuit shot out the door like a cream-colored bullet, leash clipped loosely as Barbara let her dart ahead.
Barbara stretched her arms overhead, hoodie riding up slightly. “My back’s killing me.”
Tristan leaned against the car, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Wonder how that happened.”
She didn’t look at him. “Don’t start.”
He shrugged, smiling. “Wasn’t going to.”
They started walking.
Barbara adjusted her ponytail. “Next time, you’re the one getting folded in half.”
“Promises, promises.”
Barbara laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
Tristan glanced at her sideways. “You know, when you were stretching earlier, I had a brief moment where I thought maybe I’ve matured like, maybe I wouldn’t make a comment.”
“And?”
He looked ahead. “Yeah, turns out growth isn’t for me.”
Barbara smirked. “Shocking revelation.”
“I’m self-aware,” he said. “Just not self correcting.”
She bumped his shoulder. “Remind me to report you for harassment.”
“Please do,” he said dryly. “I’d love to hear someone explain ‘assault by charisma’ to the authorities.”
Barbara snorted. “You really think you’re that charming?”
He shrugged. “Yeah it worked on you, didn’t it?.”
Barbara had nothing to say to that.
Biscuit zig zagged in front of them, pausing occasionally to bark at invisible threats or paw at leaves like they’d offended her.
“Do you think she knows she’s rich?” Tristan asked.
Barbara didn’t even pause to answer. “She eats wild-caught salmon and has a heated blanket. Yes. I’m pretty sure I saw a few comments on my IG posts about her, Biscuit lives a life better than 99% of the population.”
They walked in silence for a while. The wind was soft. Sunlight filtered through bare branches. Gravel crunched under their steps.
Tristan pulled out his phone and took a photo of Barbara from behind, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, Biscuit leading the way. He saved it. Didn’t post it. Didn’t need to.
Barbara stopped near a low stone wall overlooking a slope of trees. She sat on it, legs swinging a little, and nodded for him to join her.
He did.
“You think it’ll always be like this?” she asked. “Even after you retirem do you think we’ll ever actually fade from the spotlight?”
Tristan didn’t answer right away. He needed a second to think.
“Maybe not,” he said finally. “At least not here. England doesn’t forget easily.”
Barbara leaned her head against his shoulder.
“When we have a family... I don’t want our kids dealing with all of this.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “I think about that too. Maybe one day we move somewhere with less attention on us, Hungary, maybe the US.”
Biscuit barked again loud and aimless. Probably at a breeze. Or a shadow. Or her own reflection.
Barbara laughed.
Tristan rested his cheek against her hair.
She tilted her head up.
“You’re thinking hard.”
He looked down at her. “I always do when I’m around you. It’s exhausting.”
She squinted up at him. “Was that meant to be romantic?”
He gave a faint smile. “Interpret it however helps your ego.”
Barbara reached for his hand, weaving her fingers through his.
A quiet moment passed.
“Let me take a picture,” she said.
“Sure.”
She was already pulling out her phone. “Look away.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“Because I like your jawline.”
He sighed, turned his head toward the trees.
Click. A few more pictures taken.
He glanced over. “Good one?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
They sat quietly a little longer, enjoying the view and peace.
A light breeze stirred the trees.
Then came the soft shuffle of gravel. Footsteps. Whispered voices.
Barbara glanced over her shoulder. Two girls probably college aged had paused a little way down the path. One held a phone. The other was clearly working up the courage to come closer.
Tristan followed her gaze, then sighed quietly.
Barbara nudged his knee. “Go on. Take pictures with your fan club. I’ll manage.”
He stood, brushing off his jeans. “Hey,” he called gently. “You alright?”
The girls startled. One blurted, “Sorry! We didn’t want to interrupt.”
“You’re fine,” he said, smiling. “Want a photo?”
Their relief was instant. They hurried closer, wide eyed, and Tristan posed with both of them, asked their names, even took the photos himself to make it easier.
But just as he handed the phone back, one of the girls hesitated, glancing at Barbara.
“Actually… could we get one with you too? You’re kind of a big deal to us.”
The other girl nodded quickly.
Barbara blinked, caught off guard. Then she smiled, genuine and warm. “Of course.”
They took photos with her too, separately and together, thanking her just as breathlessly as they had Tristan. When the girls finally left, they looked like they’d stumbled into the best story they’d ever tell.
But the attention had rippled.
A boy with a Leicester scarf lingered by a bench. An older couple slowed as they passed. A jogger looped back around, pretending it was a coincidence.
By the time Tristan returned ten minutes later, his cheeks were pink from wind and small talk.
Barbara looked up from where she sat. “Apparently, you’re taller in person.”
“That’s because I radiate height when I’m scoring hat tricks.”
She snorted. “And modesty. Just blinding levels of modesty.”
He dropped beside her again, a little quieter this time.
“I know it’s… a lot,” he said.
Barbara shrugged. “It’s the deal we made. Yours, mine, ours. Comes with the territory.”
He nodded slowly. “Next time we come here, I’m bringing a fake mustache and sunglasses.”
“Disguises now?”
“Matching ones. Like spies. I’ll grow a terrible beard, you wear a trench coat, we speak in fake Italian accents no one’ll suspect a thing.”
Barbara smiled. “You’re such an idiot.”
He looked sideways at her. “But a lovable one?”
She leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“The only one.”
.
The sun had dipped lower, spilling gold across the kitchen floor.
Barbara was curled on one end of the couch, blanket wrapped around her legs, Biscuit snoozing in the crook of her knees. Her phone balanced against her thigh, thumb hovering.
Tristan wandered in from the hallway, hair damp from a shower, sweats hanging loose. He paused when he saw her screen. “You’re gonna post it, aren’t you?”
Barbara didn’t look up. “I haven’t decided.”
“You saved it. You adjusted the light. You’ve absolutely decided.”
She accepted the mug of tea he handed her, lips twitching. “…Okay. I’m posting it.”
The caption was simple: Good day at the park.
The photo: Tristan on the stone wall, hoodie slouched around his shoulders, gaze tilted toward the trees like he hadn’t known she was looking.
She hit Share.
.
11 Minutes Later
@SkySportsNews: Barbara Palvin just posted the most perfect picture of Tristan Hale and now half the internet wants to marry both of them.
@Taslima/YouaBitch: why does tristan hale look like a woodland prince who plays CAM and breaks defensive lines with a glance 🥹
@Emily_YouSuck: if you listen closely you can hear me screaming in the back, lol
@Emma/Youcool: Tristan Hale & Barbara Palvin are the definition of power couple
@Mo,Canyoudothis/dothat: Lol, I love seeing pictures of Barbara and Tristan together, they do look perfect. Imagine Tristan cheating, the drama and chaos it would cause, would be fun to see, lol.
@FIFAOfficial liked the post.
Tristan scrolled through the replies, lips twitching. “Someone said Tristan is who I imagine anytime I think about a perfect man, lmao.
Barbara sipped her tea. “Accurate.”
He kept scrolling. “Here’s another: ‘This should be illegal being that good at football and looking like that.’”
She raised a brow. “Pretty sure at least half the female population agrees.”
Tristan smirked, holding up his phone. “Okay, this one wins: ‘When I said I wanted a man with vision, I meant a playmaker… but also this.’”
Barbara leaned over, read it, then snorted. “That’s on me. You’re welcome.”
His phone buzzed just then. Sofia. He groaned but answered. “What’s on fire?”
“Nothing yet,” Sofia said briskly. “But BBC is harassing me again. They want you on Graham Norton for the fourth. You cancelled last time, but I checked you’re actually free.”
Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sof…”
“Before you say no,” she cut in, “they sweetened the guest list. Beckham’s doing it. Along with John Boyega, Camie Fisher, Kylie Minogue. It’s stacked. They really want you.”
Tristan paused, glancing at Barbara. She raised her brows, clearly amused.
“Alright,” he muttered. “Who sits on the couch next to me? Beckham or Kylie?”
“Don’t push it,” Sofia said dryly. “Just say yes before I lose my sanity.”
He sighed. “Fine. But I’m blaming you if Norton makes me tell an embarrassing story.”
Barbara grinned, sipping her tea. “Oh, you have plenty to choose from.”
Tristan gave her a look. “Starting to regret saying yes already.”
March 3, 2016
Belvoir Drive Training Ground
A light drizzle fell over the training ground, the grey sky hanging low and heavy. The damp air clung to the pitch, turning the grass slick underfoot.
Tristan’s boots squelched against the turf as he received a zippy pass from Mahrez, let it roll under his foot, and carved it across the pitch with the outside of his left boot. The ball zipped to the other side like it had been summoned there by magic.
“AGAIN!”
Ranieri’s voice cracked like a whip.
Vardy muttered something under his breath but jogged back into shape. “He’s got that ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ look again.”
“Which means we’re running until the boss man is satisfied," Tristan said.
Behind them, Kanté jogged silently through the cones.
“You good?” Tristan asked, falling into step beside him.
Kanté gave a small nod. “Oui. Tired legs. But I’m okay.” He glanced over. “We must be better..”
“That West Brom game’s still haunting you, huh?”
Kanté didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled, a cloud of breath in the cold. “They parked a bus. We didn’t blow it up.”
Vardy laughed nearby. “That’s Kante-speak for ‘We bottled it.’ Which, fair.”
Tristan nodded. “We’ll fix it Saturday.”
“Oi,” Vardy jogged closer, flicking a soaked sleeve. “No more charity points. We’re trying to win a bloody league here undefeated.
“We are like 50 points clear,” Tristan said.
“Yeah, and that’s how people get comfortable,” Vardy shot back. “Don’t care if we’re twenty clear. Every point matters now.”
Tristan nodded as that’s how most teams at the top lose their spot like Arsenal or injuries.
They returned to position. Behind them, Ben jogged up, cheeks pink from cold, hair stuck to his forehead. “Do we ever stop? Or is this one of those punishment kind of sessions?”
“Welcome to title chasing football,” Tristan said.
“Feels more like medieval conditioning,” Ben muttered, then paused. “Oh by the way, have you seen Twitter?”
Tristan groaned. “Is it more memes about me?”
“Nope,” Ben said, smirking. “You’re trending. Again. Someone leaked you’re gonna be on Graham Norton next week.”
Vardy barked a laugh. “Oi! Don’t forget us when you’re out there with bloody Kylie Minogue!”
“Shut up,” Tristan muttered, but he pulled out his phone during the water break.
Sure enough, one tweet near the top read:
@StevenGetOFFmyDick: Leicester’s Tristan Hale is set to appear on Graham Norton tomorrow alongside David Beckham, John Boyega, and Kylie Minogue. 👀⚽🔥 #TristanHale #GrahamNortonShow
Vardy grinned. “Mate, just make sure you don’t say something that ends up on mugs at the club store.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Liar.”
“Yeah,” Tristan admitted, pulling his bib over his head. “But at least I’ll look good doing it.”
From behind them, Ranieri clapped sharply.
“GET BACK ON THE FIELD!”
.
March 4, 2016 - 6:15 PM
BBC Television Centre, White City, London
The car slowed, turning into the grand, sweeping entrance of the Television Centre in White City.The iconic BBC building, a modernist doughnut of glass and concrete, loomed over them.
“Let’s do this,” Sofia murmured, turning off her phone.
From the front seat, John glanced back. “We’re clear.”
Tristan adjusted the cuff of his navy jacket, more out of habit than need. He checked his reflection once in the window, took a steady breath.
Sofia opened the door. “Let’s go.”
They stepped out together, the quiet of the evening broken only by the hum of traffic down the street.
A cheerful woman with a clipboard and an earpiece greeted them as they entered the building. "Tristan, welcome! So glad you could make it. I'm Chloe, I'll be looking after you."
They were swept along a series of bright, curving corridors, the air buzzing with the quiet efficiency of a hundred people doing their jobs.
The walls were adorned with posters of BBC legends, ghosts of broadcasts past.
Chloe led them to a spacious green room, a study in tasteful neutrality with plush sofas, a fully stocked drinks fridge, and a large television screen showing a live feed of the empty studio. Studio TC1. The famous red sofa sat waiting under a blaze of lights:
"Can I get you anything? Water, coffee, something stronger?" Chloe asked.
"Water's fine, thanks," Tristan said.
Sophia took charge. "We're good for now, Chloe. We'll let you know."
As Chloe left, a makeup artist with bright red hair slipped in, kit in hand. “Just a little powder to take the shine off,” she said, brushing something cool across his forehead. “Won’t take long.”
Tristan stayed still, resisting the urge to flinch. “You sure this isn’t war paint?”
She grinned. “If it is, you’ll be the best looking soldier on the field. Honestly, you’ve got great skin, barely need anything.”
“Thanks,” he muttered. “Barbara will be thrilled to hear that. She treats me like her personal skincare project.”
The makeup artist laughed, dusting lightly along his nose. “Well, whatever she’s doing, it’s working. Don’t tell me she’s got you doing sheet masks.”
Tristan smirked. “Every Sunday. Don’t spread that around the dressing room.”
“I promise I won’t leak it to Sky Sports.”
He let out a breath, catching his reflection in the mirror. The man staring back wasn’t the one who spent his days in boots and sweat-soaked kits. This version wore a suit worth more than his first car, shoulders squared, hair set perfectly in place.
The footballer was gone. In his place sat the star. He had a weird way of thinking whenever he had to do interviews like this one.
.
Five Minutes Later
He was still fiddling with his cufflinks when the door opened again.
A globally recognized face stepped inside.
David Beckham.
Beckham broke into a smile as Tristan stood, pulling him into a brotherly hug. “Tristan, good to see ya again, mate.”
“Always good to see you, David,” Tristan replied, grinning. “How’ve you been?”
“Good. But not as good as you,” Beckham said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “What you lads are pulling off at Leicester, it’s incredible. And congratulations on the EFL Cup, by the way. Big win.”
“Appreciate that,” Tristan said.
Beckham smirked. “And thank you for keeping City off the board. If they’d won, United fans would’ve had no face left. We’d still be hiding.”
Tristan laughed. “If Anthony hadn’t copied my celebration in my own stadium, maybe I’d have gone easier on you guys. But, you know… choices were made.”
Beckham shook his head, chuckling. “Cheeky little bastard.”
“Comes with the job description,” Tristan shot back.
Beckham leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “So when are you coming to United, then? Don’t think I’ve stopped asking. Sir Alex is still waiting for you, by the wayyou still haven’t set up that meeting.”
Tristan gave a half smile. “I’ve been busy. You know, Ballon d’Or ceremony, cups, matches… minor distractions.
Beckham narrowed his eyes, amused. “Busy with what club, then? Who’s in your ear?”
Tristan shrugged. “It’s a secret.”
Beckham raised a brow. “Secret, is it? Don’t tell me it’s Liverpool, lad. Come on I might be retired, but I’m not stupid.”
Tristan grinned, noncommittal. “Guess you’ll find out when everyone else does.”
Beckham groaned. “You’re killing me.”
Before they could say more, the door swung open revealing John Boyega and Carrie Fisher.
Trailing behind Carrie, panting with his tongue lolling out, was her French bulldog, Gary.
“Well, look at this,” Carrie drawled, her voice the same husky, sardonic timbre Tristan had grown up hearing. “Tristan and Beckham. I feel distinctly underdressed.”
She was in a glittering dark jacket.
“Beckam!” John Boyega was practically vibrating as he bounded forward. “And Tristan Hale! Mate, that goal against City was crazy. Absolute filth.” He shook both their hands with unfiltered enthusiasm, his grin wide enough to split his face.
Tristan managed a polite smile, but when his eyes landed on Carrie, his composure slipped.
“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “But… I’m a massive fan. Star Wars. Leia. All of it.”
Carrie tilted her head, amused. “Well, thank you. I’ve always had a thing for athletes who can actually admit they watch sci-fi.”
Tristan gave a nervous laugh, reaching into his inside pocket for a program and a pen. “This is a bit silly of me but… would you mind?”
Her brow arched. “The great Tristan Hale, asking me for an autograph? I thought it was supposed to work the other way around.”
“Trust me,” Tristan said earnestly. “You’re the legend here.”
That earned a smile. She took the pen, scrawled quickly with practiced flair, then handed it back.
“To Tristan,” she read aloud, “try not to let the Dark Side or the tabloids win. Love, Leia.”
Tristan stared at it like it was treasure. “This is going straight in a frame.”
Carrie gestured toward him with her pen. “Frame it next to your trophies. Might give them some character.”
The small talk spun in every direction. Boyega and Fisher traded stories about the chaos of The Force Awakens press tour, bouncing off each other like old friends. Beckham spoke warmly about his charity work and life after football, slipping in anecdotes about his kids with the ease of a proud dad.
Tristan, meanwhile, found himself fielding questions about Barbara, about Leicester, about what it was like to suddenly feel like the center of the footballing world.
Carrie Fisher lounged on the sofa, absently stroking Gary, and dropped dry one liners into the mix like well aimed darts. When Beckham mentioned his children, she didn’t miss a beat:
“Procreation. It’s a messy business. The results are cute until they learn to talk back.”
The whole room cracked up, Tristan included. The tension he’d carried in the car seemed to loosen.
Here he was, laughing with some of the most famous people on the planet forgetting, if only for a moment, that he was one of them. His name now spoken in the same breath as Messi and Ronaldo.
Just then, Kylie Minogue glided in smiling as she greeted everyone. With her arrival, the surreal celebrity cocktail finally felt complete.
A few minutes later, Chloe reappeared at the door. “Five minutes, everyone.”
The energy shifted instantly. The chatter softened into a low hum of focus as they were led from the green room into the wings of the studio. On the other side of the wall, the muffled roar of a live audience pulsed through the air.
“…and now please for our first guest,” Graham Norton’s voice boomed over the speakers, “is a pop princess who needs no introduction the one and only Kylie Minogue!”
The applause was deafening. Tristan caught sight of her on a monitor as Graham rose to greet her.
The host slid seamlessly into his opening monologue, tossing out a barrage of quick-fire jokes about the week’s headlines, celebrity gossip, and his own flamboyant life. The audience was eating from the palm of his hand.
“Now,” Graham said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “Our next two guests tonight are from a little independent film you might have heard of… please welcome the legendary Carrie Fisher and the brilliant John Boyega! And alongside them England’s former captain, David Beckham!”
The crowd erupted as Carrie and John strode out, Beckham slipping in alongside them to join the sofa. The stage lights hit them in waves as the conversation started immediately, laughter rolling from the audience like surf.
Tristan stood in the wings, waiting for his turn. His palms buzzed with that familiar cocktail of nerves and adrenaline.
“And he’s the man making football magic,” Graham continued, his voice rising. “The football and fashion superstar, playing for the Premier League leaders Leicester City fresh off their League Cup victory! Please give a huge welcome… to Tristan Hale!”
Tristan took a deep breath and stepped into the light.
The heat from the studio lamps hit first. Then the crowd, the loudest welcome out of anyone. He smiled, waved, shook Graham Norton’s hand, and made his way to the sofa. David Beckham was already seated and John Boyega gave him a playful salute as Tristan sank into the open spot between them.
The couch was softer than it looked. Or maybe his legs were just dead from training.
“Tristan, welcome!” Graham grinned. “Now, I’ve got to say we’re all a little obsessed with Leicester right now. First place, a cup already in the bag, top of your Europa group and looking dominant in the FA Cup… is this the quietest quadruple push in football history?”
The audience laughed and whooped.
Tristan exhaled lightly. “Quiet’s not the word I’d use. But yeah, we’re trying to make a little noise.”
Graham turned to the crowd. “I mean, no one expected this. At the start of the season, the bookmakers gave better odds for Bigfoot winning Strictly Come Dancing than Leicester doing what you lot are doing right now.”
More laughter.
Tristan shrugged with a faint smile. “If we go on and win four trophies, someone better check if Bigfoot’s in our midfield.”
John Boyega leaned in. “Nah, mate. You are Bigfoot. No one human should be that good in the final third.”
David Beckham laughed. “I was gonna say your right foot’s been doing things I thought were illegal.”
Tristan just smiled again, sitting back. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Graham clapped his hands in delight. "I love it! But seriously, what is happening there? What has Ranieri put in the water?"
"He's just brought a sense of hunger and calm," Tristan said, relaxing into the rhythm of the conversation. "And pasta. Lots of pasta.” The audience chuckled.
Tristan genuinely smiled “He's a great man, he tells us to play with freedom, to enjoy it. And we are."
Graham turned his attention to the group. "Now, we have two sporting legends here." He gestured between Tristan and David. "Tristan, I'm told you were a bit of a fan of this man growing up?"
All eyes turned to him. Tristan felt a faint blush creep up his neck. "Uh, yeah, you could say that. I had the ’99 Man United kit with his name on the back. Drove my dad mad practicing free kicks in the garden."
"Did you have a particular haircut?" Graham pressed, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Beckham laughed, covering his face with his hands.
"I tried the mohawk," Tristan admitted, to a fresh wave of laughter. "My mum nearly grounded me for a month. It didn't look quite the same on a thirteen year old."
Graham Norton pulled up a picture of a thirteen year old Tristan smiling at the camera with a crazy botched Mohawk Hairstyle making the audience erupt into laughter.
Tristan, seeing the photo, was shocked to say the least before inwardly cursing and rubbing his face with his hands in embarrassment. How the fuck did that get leaked? Oh his mum and her facebook group, fuck him.
“Well I’m sure David appreciates the effort?”
David smirked at the picture before turning to Graham “Can you send me this photo after the show?”,
Tristan looked mortified turning to David “Don’t you da-“
David interrupted with cheeky smirk “I’m sending that to everyone. Payback for United” The Audience guffawed.
Graham clapped his hands laughing as if it was all part of his master plan. Once the audience calmed down, Graham skill fully moved on.
“Speaking of paybacks," Graham pivoted seamlessly, turning to Carrie. "Carrie, what was it like coming back to Leia after all these years?"
"Mostly, it was a relief they didn't put me back in the metal bikini," she said dryly, and the studio erupted. "Though my dog would have looked fabulous in it." She gestured to Gary, who was now snoozing on her lap.
The show moved at a blistering pace. Graham was the perfect host, drawing out stories, creating connections, and never letting the energy dip. He had a way of asking a question that felt both intimate and hilarious.
John Boyega told a story about accidentally leaving his Force Awakens script under his bed, terrified it would leak online.
David Beckham spoke about the embarrassment of his son, Brooklyn, asking to be dropped off around the corner from school.
Graham Norton pulled up a selfie of Brooklyn Beckam in a jumper on instagram.
“Nice little photo of your son here David, and look at all the nice comments and compliments. Scroll, Srolll, Scroll, oh look what we have here,”
@davidbeckham - Thats my jumper
Everyone burst into laughter. David chuckled but defended himself “It was my jumper though “ His defence of the matter seemed to make the situation funnier and people clapped along.
Then came the infamous 'Red Chair' segment, where audience members told embarrassing stories before one of the guests or Graham pulled the handle, sending the audience member flying back. It was followed by Graham's even more infamous bit: reading funny, and often slightly dirty, tweets about his guests.
He pulled out his cue cards. "Alright, let's see what the internet has to say. Tristan, this is for you." He cleared his throat dramatically. "'If reincarnation is real, I'd like to come back as the seam on the inner thigh of Tristan Hale's football shorts.'
Graham looked at the audience “Surprisingly poetic” Tristan laughed along shaking his head. "I'll take it."
"David," Graham continued, "someone here says, 'I'd let David Beckham bend a free kick into my back garden, if you know what I mean.' I think we do know what they mean."
Beckham, ever the good sport, chuckled along with the audience.
The conversation flowed back to Tristan's childhood. "So, the free kicks," Graham said, circling back. "Any major disasters?"
"One," Tristan grinned. "My dad had just built this little greenhouse. He was so proud of it. He told me, 'Whatever you do, don't kick the ball towards the glass.' So, naturally, the first thing I do?”
“Curl one 'Beckham-style' into the top corner shattering half the glass” The audience laughed at the punch line finding it relatable.
“I tried to hide it with a bin bag and some tape, but I think everyone knows, I’m not known for defence." Graham giggled and clapped his speech cards together in delight. The showed continued with a genuine warmth.
Then, Graham’s eyes lit up. "John, I'm told you brought some props."
"I might have," Boyega said, his grin widening. He reached under the sofa and pulled out two lightsabers. The audience gasped and cheered.
He handed one to Graham. Then he pulled out a third one. He looked down the sofa, past Beckham, directly at Tristan.
"Oh, you're the new generation," Boyega said, pointing the lightsaber at him. "The new hope! You've gotta have one."
He tossed the third lightsaber to Tristan, who caught it reflexively. It was surprisingly heavy. He pressed the button on the hilt, and a brilliant blue blade of light shot out with a deafening vwwwwoooom.
"David, you're a knight of the realm, practically!" Graham declared. "You need to defend your honour!" He handed his lightsaber, a red one, to Beckham.
What happened next was pure, unscripted joy.
For a full minute, the three of them—a football icon, a rising star of the Premier League, and a newly-minted hero of the Star Wars galaxy were on their feet, dueling in the middle of the studio. It was clumsy, hilarious, and utterly magical.
Tristan found himself laughing parrying a playful strike from Beckham as Boyega provided his own sound effects.
The audience was on its feet, a sea of cheering faces and phone screens.
As they sat back down, breathless and laughing, Graham wiped a tear from his eye. "That," he announced, "is the best thing I have ever seen."
The show concluded with a performance by Kylie Minogue. She sang a sparkly, festive song, and the energy in the room became one of pure celebration.
As the final credits rolled, Graham stood and thanked all his guests, the applause washing over them once more.
.
Backstage, the air still hummed with the aftershock of applause.
“Tristan, that was brilliant,” Graham said, catching him before he reached the green room.
He placed a hand on Tristan’s shoulder, the showman sparkle gone, replaced by a genuine warmth. “Absolutely brilliant. You were fantastic. Thanks so much for coming.”
“Thanks for having me,” Tristan said, meaning it. There was a weight behind his words, gratitude mixed with relief. “And apologies for canceling before. It was never about you—I just… didn’t have the time, or the situation wasn’t right.”
“Of course,” Graham said softly, shaking his head. “I completely understand, especially with everything Leicester went through against Lazio. Timing is everything. But truly—come back anytime.”
He gave Tristan one last smile before a producer tugged him away toward the next cue.
Tristan stood for a moment, letting the hum of the studio fade, before finally heading toward the green room where Beckham was waiting for him.
David walked up to Tristan and pulled him into another quick hug. “Always a pleasure, Tristan. You need anything at all, you give me a call, alright?”
“Appreciate that, David.”
He waved it off. “No need for thanks. Just promise me when you’ve got a free evening, we’ll go grab a meal. My treat.”
Tristan grinned. “Sounds perfect. As long as you don’t spend the whole dinner trying to sign me for United.”
Beckham smirked. “Can’t promise that. Especially if you’ve got Liverpool or Stevie whispering in your ear. I’m not stupid, mate.”
Tristan laughed.
.
The journey back home mirrored the ride there, but the atmosphere in the car was entirely different. The nervous edge was gone, replaced by a happy man.
“You were great,” Sofia said at last, eyes still glued to her phone as it buzzed endlessly in her hand. “The reaction online is insane. They loved the greenhouse story. And the lightsabers… #MasterHale is trending.”
John leaned forward from the front seat, grinning. “People are posting pics of you with the haircut everywhere. Comments are saying, ‘How did this lad end up looking the current Tristan?’”
Tristan groaned, letting his head thump lightly against the cool glass of the window. “Brilliant. Just what I needed, twelve year old me haunting my career.”
“They love it,” Sofia said, smirking. “One reply literally reads: ‘Proof even dodgy trims can evolve into winners.’”
Tristan chuckled under his breath, the adrenaline of the evening finally fading into a mellow hum. He was proud of how it went, but grateful it was over. He’d never liked the tabloids, the talk show circuit, the endless PR machine. But Graham had made it feel easy, like the cameras had disappeared and it was just a bit of fun.
Still, all he wanted now was silence. All he wanted was home.
He let Sofia and John handle the post-show flood as the car rolled to a stop. In the quiet of the front garden, he stepped out, sliding his key into the lock and pushing the door open.
The house was lit, warm against the night. Through the big windows, the glow of the city spilled in, but the real brightness came from the living room.
Barbara was curled up on the sofa with Biscuit draped across her lap, a blanket tossed over both of them. The TV flickered with the glow of some half-watched movie. She looked up the moment Tristan stepped in, her smile blooming instantly.
The house was lit and warm when he stepped inside, the soft glow of the TV spilling from the living room. Barbara was curled on the sofa with a blanket around her legs, Biscuit stretched across her lap like a spoiled queen.
She looked up the moment he walked in, a smile tugging at her mouth “Szia, babám,” she said softly. Hey, babe. “How did it go?”
Tristan didn’t bother answering right away. He leaned down, kissed her, then kicked off his shoes and collapsed beside her, burying his head against her legs.
Her fingers slipped into his hair, stroking the back of his neck in slow, soothing circles. “You were good,” she murmured. “Really good. Even with the lightsaber.”
He groaned into the cushion. “I had fun, but did I look like an idiot during the show?”
“You didn’t,” she said firmly, affection in her voice. “It was cute. You and David Beckham on the same sofa? Honestly, adorable.”
Tristan rolled onto his back to look at her properly.
She opened her mouth to say more, but suddenly burst into laughter.
“Oh my God. Have you seen the photo going around? Baby Tristan. That haircut. You look like a medieval page boy sent to polish armor. I called Auntie Julia for even more pics.”
Tristan sat up, tugging at his tie with a groan. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Not even close.” Barbara grinned wickedly, scrolling her phone. “She’s sending me the albums tomorrow.”
“Traitor,” he muttered, flopping back onto the cushions and covering his face with both hands.
Biscuit seized the chance to climb onto his chest, pawing at his chin.
Barbara bent down and kissed the top of his head. “Don’t pout. Yes, the haircut was a crime against humanity but you were still adorable.”
He peeked at her through his fingers. “Adorable doesn’t win Ballons d’Or.”
“Maybe not,” she said, curling against him with a sly smile. “But it always makes me smile seeing how obsessed you were with football since you could walk.”
He groaned again, muffled into her shoulder. Barbara laughed, stroking his hair until his breathing began to slow, the tension draining from him piece by piece.
For the first time all day, he finally let the noise of the world fade.
.
Just saw United draw against Grimsby, lmao.
Anyway please I do hope you guys liked this 8k chapter. I did say this was going to be 9k but don’t worry about the 1k.
Comments
noname
Maybe around 15 chapters
Matias Arce
How long until the end of the season?
