Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 258: League Cup Final Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-08-18 04:24:05 +0000 UTCThe door clicked shut behind him, his bag sliding from his shoulder and thudding to the floor. Heat wrapped around him straight away, the radiators humming, the air thick with the earthy aroma of the Chinese tea his dad had brought them.
Little claws tapped frantically across the hardwood — click, click — before Biscuit shot around the corner like a bullet. She launched herself at his shin, tail lashing like she’d been alone for years.
“Oi, steady on!” Tristan laughed, stumbling back as Biscuit bounced up again, paws scrabbling at his trousers. “You missed me that much?”
He crouched, scratching behind her ears until she practically melted into his hand. “I missed you too, girl.”
From the living room, Barbara’s voice carried over. “Tristan?”
He exhaled, shoulders dropping. “In here,” he called, nudging Biscuit aside to kick off his shoes.
Barbara was curled on the couch, hair in a loose knot, sweats draped over her frame. Netflix’s Making a Murderer froze on the screen. A mug of tea steamed on the coffee table.
“You’re late,” she said, eyes flicking to him.
“Car needed cooling off,” Tristan muttered, sliding onto the couch.
Barbara smirked. “More like you needed cooling off.” She swung her legs into his lap without much thought.
Tristan leaned back, hands sliding over her calves. “Fair.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “You look tired. Finals pressure?”
He squeezed her ankle gently. “Nah. Your man’s used to all the pressure.”
“Liar.” Barbara tugged his sleeve until he leaned down, and she kissed him quick, teasing. “You’re wound up. I can tell.”
He smiled against her mouth. “Maybe a little.”
“Good thing,” she said, eyes sparking, “I know what’ll fix it.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“Your new shoes.” She nodded toward the hallway. “Nike guy dropped them off earlier. I didn’t peek. Promise.”
That got him moving. Tristan was up in a second, retrieving the taped box like treasure. He carried it back, dropping it between them.
The lid came off, and Barbara leaned in close as if unwrapping it herself.
Nine Regnants: Midnight Frost.
Light grey uppers etched with subtle geometry. Black swoosh slicing across clean. Crowns stamped on the tongues, one gold, one black. Studs glinting icy blue under the lamp. On the side, a quiet embossed 84, his tally from 2015, sealed into history.
[Image > Here]
Barbara reached out, fingertips brushing the leather. “They look a lot different compared to the previous two.”
She smiled faintly. “And they feel really soft. Good job on selecting the right materials.”
Tristan lifted one boot, thumb grazing the crown. “Yeah, those ones were designed with that thought in mind.”
Barbara pinched the heel, then leaned her chin on his shoulder, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re going to break someone’s heart tomorrow in these.”
“Hopefully City’s,” he muttered, setting the boot back. He needed to get shoes for everyone else. Maybe he should get Kante to sign under his shoe line, would Nike even allow that. Details for later.
Barbara nudged his arm, handing him her tea. “Here. You need this more than me.”
Tristan took a sip, warmth flooding his chest. He licked his lips and glanced at her. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” She feigned offense. “That’s my special cup. Imported leaves. Family recipe.”
“Your family didn’t make it, babe. My dad bought it and taught you how to make it.”
She kicked his thigh with her heel, laughing. “Details.”
Just then, his phone buzzed. Group chat. He glanced down.
Vardy: I’m ending the streak against West Brom. March 1. No more goals.
Schmeichel: man got tired of scoring 😂
Mahrez: Inshallah you miss open net
Vardy: 15’s enough. Passing the torch to Tristan.
Tristan shook his head, laughing under his breath. Barbara’s brows lifted. “What?”
He handed her the phone. She read it, then snorted. “Jamie won’t last five minutes without shooting. He’ll combust if he doesn’t.”
“Oh for sure but who knows what he’s thinking, The pressure to continue scoring is huge. I don’t blame him for wanting him to stop although I don’t see West brom being able to stop Vardy in his current form.”
Tristan leaned back, slipping an arm around her shoulders. Biscuit curled against his leg. Barbara kissed his jaw softly, then rested against him.
For a beat, everything was perfect.
Tomorrow was Wembley. Tonight was theirs.
.
Next Morning
The light came too early. Tristan blinked at the ceiling, the room still dim, curtains drawn just enough to let a soft line of grey cut across the wall. Sleep wasn’t coming back. Not today.
He turned his head. Barbara was bundled against the pillow, hair messy in a way the world never got to see. Biscuit was sprawled at the foot of the bed, tiny paws twitching as if chasing something in her dreams.
Tristan lay there a moment, letting the quiet settle. Wembley day. A cup final. He should’ve been nervous, but there was no weight on his chest. Only certainty. Why would there be fear? Every time they’d faced City this season, Leicester had run through them. Once, twice, three times. Different stadiums, same result.
He slipped out of bed carefully, tugging the duvet back over Barbara’s shoulder. She stirred but didn’t wake.
The kitchen light buzzed faintly when he flicked it on. He filled the kettle, let the hum of boiling water keep him company.
He thought of City’s midfield, Silva, Fernandinho, Yaya. Names that used to feel untouchable but not anymore.
Of course most likely Kevin wouldn’t be starting looking at the last two games. He would just bully him again.
The front door creaked open softly. Tristan looked up. Felix stepped in, coat still buttoned, eyebrows lifting.
“You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Tristan said, sipping the tea.
Felix dropped his keys in the bowl, hung his coat. “Big day.”
“Yeah.” Tristan swirled the cup, steam fogging his face. “Feels like any other, though. That’s the weird part.”
Felix smiled faintly. “Mate, I don’t a League Cup final is going to put any pressure on you.”
Tristan didn’t answer but Felix did have a point.
His phone buzzed against the counter. He thumbed it awake.
John: I’ll pick up your parents and Barbara later, drive them straight to Wembley since you be with the team.
Tristan locked the screen, finishing his tea.
Barbara stirred first, Biscuit curled tight against her legs like a second blanket. Both yawned in chorus, Barbara stretching long, Biscuit flopping onto her back with a soft whine, paws in the air.
From the doorway, Tristan leaned with a mug of tea, steam curling into the warm air.
“Mama and daughter, same routine every morning,” he said, grinning. “Stretch, yawn, pretend I don’t exist.”
Barbara buried her face deeper in the pillow, laughing. “You’re lucky she can’t talk back. One of us has to keep the peace.”
He set the mug down and crossed to the bed, brushing a kiss across her forehead. “Morning.”
She caught his collar and pulled him into a slower kiss, murmuring against his lips. “Morning to you too.”
“Breakfast’s waiting,” he said. “Felix’s got the kitchen going.”
Barbara groaned, pushing herself upright. Biscuit wriggled free, launching down to the floor with a click of nails. “Give me ten minutes.”
Tristan laughed as she padded off toward the bathroom, hair wild, muttering something about toothpaste. Biscuit trotted after her, tail wagging.
By the time they came down, the kitchen smelled of toast and eggs. Sunlight spilled through the blinds in pale stripes across the counter. Felix’s prep from the night before cut fruit, wrapped bread sat neatly on the side, while his fresh scramble hissed in the pan.
Barbara’s hair was damp at the edges, tied into a loose knot, her skin fresh, her shirt swallowing her frame. She hopped onto the counter with her tea, legs swinging, Biscuit stationed below like a soldier awaiting orders.
They settled at the table, plates already waiting. Felix had even set out a small ceramic bowl on the floor, filled with delicate flakes of salmon and steamed vegetables, Biscuit’s breakfast. She bounded straight to it, crunching happily before circling back under their chairs in search of more.
Barbara reached for a slice of apple, pointing at Biscuit with it. “She’s already had fresh fish and still thinks she’s getting toast.”
“She’s an optimist,” Tristan said, breaking his toast in half and popping a piece into his mouth.
Barbara smirked. “Wonder where she gets that from.”
He slid the other half of the toast toward her plate without a word. She stole it with a grin, taking a bite before he could change his mind.
They ate in an easy rhythm. Biscuit weaved between their legs, pausing every so often to nudge Tristan’s shin or rest her chin against Barbara’s knee, eyes bright with hope.
When the fruit bowl was finally empty, Barbara nudged it toward Tristan with a little shake of her head. “That’s all you.”
“You’re missing out,” he said, spearing the last piece.
“Mm.” She sipped her tea, smiling faintly. “I’ll survive.”
.
When he finally pushed his chair back, Tristan grabbed his bag by the door. The suit hung over his arm, dark fabric wrapped in plastic, since this was a final, everyone decided to dress up a little.
Barbara slid off the counter and caught him in the hall, arms winding around his waist. This hug was tighter than usual, lingering.
“Go win,” she said softly into his chest.
He threaded his hand through her hair, pressing a slow kiss to her mouth. “See you at Wembley.”
At the door, Biscuit darted forward, nails skittering on the floor, tail beating wildly. Tristan laughed and tried to nudge her back with his shoe, but Barbara scooped her up before she could slip out.
“Not this time,” she murmured in Hungarian, pressing her face into Biscuit’s fur.
Tristan looked back one last time, Barbara framed in the doorway, hair in its messy knot, Biscuit wriggling in her arms before stepping into the day.
.
Thirty Minutes Later
Tristan finally arrived at Belvoir Drive parking his Aston Martin.
The lounge was already alive when Tristan walked in. Mahrez was flicking a ball up and down, Schmeichel had his feet on the table, and the muted TV showed Sky Sports re-running the build-up.
“Look who’s here,” Ulloa called. “Ask him if he’s ready to take Jamie’s crown.”
Tristan raised a brow, dropping his bag. “Already?”
Simpson grinned. “You saw the text. Man’s retiring from goals after West Brom. Fifteen and done.”
“Yeah,” Drinkwater added, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d live to see Vardy swear off shooting.”
That set the room laughing.
Vardy leaned back in his chair, arms spread. “Oi, don’t twist it. Fifteen’s legendary. Better to end on top than drag it out, yeah?”
“More like you’re scared,” Mahrez said, deadpan. “Pressure too heavy.”
Even Morgan cracked a grin. “Jamie Vardy refusing to shoot. That’ll be the day.”
Tristan chuckled, settling across from him. “I’ll tell you what I told you last night—don’t even think about throwing it away on purpose. Leave it to fate. If the chance comes, take it. If you miss, fine. If you score, even better. But don’t play games with destiny.”
Vardy stared at him, then broke into a laugh. “Destiny, eh? What are you, Shakespeare? Relax, lad. I’ll keep pulling the trigger. You think I’d miss on purpose? Who do you think I am?”
“Jamie Vardy, apparently,” Schmeichel muttered, and the room cracked up again.
From the back, Ben piped up, eyes bright. “Forget the streak, Tristan, where are your new cleats, after all the secrecy.”
Tristan leaned back in his chair. “Relax. Midnight Frost makes its debut at Wembley. And before you ask, yeah, I’ve ordered pairs for everyone. Same as last time. Custom sizes, names etched in. Nike’s already got it.”
“Even the subs?” Simpson grinned.
“Even you lot,” Tristan deadpanned.
The room erupted again, Mahrez lifting the ball like a toast. “To Tristan, our personal Nike dealer.”
Maguire strolled over, tugging his jacket straight. “Told you, mate. First call I’d make if anything happened. Feels right being here.”
He nudged his bag forward with a boot, unzipping it. A ripple of curiosity went through the room.
“Alright, since everyone’s nosy..” He pulled one boot free, grey leather catching the overhead light.
“Bloody hell,” Drinkwater muttered, leaning closer.
Morgan whistled low. “They look nice.”
Mahrez reached out, fingertip brushing the emboss. “Feels softer than the last ones.”
“Different material,” Tristan said. “Better touch, lighter frame. Won’t slip on wet pitches, either.”
Ben was practically on his toes. “And we’re all getting pairs?”
“Every last one of you. Home delivery. Try not to flog them on eBay.”
Laughter rolled again, Simpson clapping his hands. “Man’s spoiling us.”
Before anyone could say something, the door opened. Ranieri stepped in, coat folded neatly over one arm.
Ranieri’s calm smile swept the room. “Alright, boys. Meeting. One last time before we go so everyone in the meeting in twenty minutes.
.
Twenty Minutes Later
The tactics board squeaked as Benetti drew two neat lines.
“4-4-2 to start,” he said, marker tapping. “You all know it. But Claudio wants you ready for the shift. If we’re ahead, or if City overload midfield, we move into 4-2-3-1.”
He circled Tristan’s name behind Vardy. “This is the hinge. Tristan pulls the strings, Mahrez and Albrighton wide, Kante and Danny locking it down.”
Ranieri nodded “They will push Silva between the lines. Yaya will try to bully. But we are faster. Smarter. Compact. Agüero cannot score if he doesn’t have space.”
Morgan folded his arms. “So the same as last time then.”
That drew chuckles around the room.
“Exactly,” Ranieri said with a smile. “Nothing changes. I don’t believe they will start Kevin either.”
Vardy leaned back in his chair. “Alright lads, you heard the boss. Keep it tight, give it to Tristan, and I’ll do the rest.”
“Or sky it,” Schmeichel muttered.
“Oi!” Vardy shot back, but laughter rolled through the room.
.
The suits came out after the meeting. Sharp, tailored, all-black with the club crest stitched in silver. Shoes polished, ties knotted tight.
By the time they piled onto the coach, it looked like a wedding party rather than a football squad.
“Should’ve brought champagne,” Ulloa said, squeezing into his seat.
“Win first,” Morgan rumbled.
“Eh, formalities,” Vardy said, flicking his tie loose already.
Mahrez had a pack of cards, dealing quick hands across the aisle to Simpson and Albrighton. Schmeichel had his iPad out, headphones clamped on, watching clips of City’s last match. Ben Chilwell fiddled with his cufflinks, stealing glances at Tristan’s shoes until Tristan finally rolled his eyes.
The ride stretched long. Two and a half hours, traffic thick with banners and scarves poking out of windows.
By the time London signs started appearing, the mood had shifted. Less laughter now, more headphones, quiet staring out the windows.
The first chant hit them before they even turned into the approach road.
“LEI-CESTER! LEI-CESTER! LEI-CESTER!”
Blue and white flags blurred past the glass, hundreds, flares burning thick smoke into the air. Scarves swung over heads, drums pounded in time, the whole street boiling over.
Morgan leaned across the aisle, grinning wide. “Smells like déjà vu.”
“Arsenal,” Albrighton said. “Remember? FA Cup. Same road. Same noise.”
Only it wasn’t the same. This was louder. Wilder. A roar that felt like it could drag the bus straight into the sky.
Another chant rose, the crowd hammering their palms against the advertising boards.
“WE’RE TOP O’ THE LEAGUE AND YOU’RE NOT!
WE’RE TOP O’ THE LEAGUE AND YOU’RE NOT!”
Vardy laughed, shaking his head. “They’ve already handed us the bloody trophy.”
Mahrez pointed to a banner whipped across the pavement, painted in sloppy blue letters:
WEMBLEY TODAY - TREBLE TOMORROW.
That set off another song, rolling down the road like thunder:
“EUROPA, FA CUP, AND THE LEAGUE..
CITY CAN’T STOP THE FOXES’ SPEED!”
Schmeichel chuckled, tugging his tie straight. “Poets, every one of them.”
Outside, reporters jostled behind metal barriers, cameras raised high over heads. Sky Sports’ mic caught the edge of the roar:
“Yes, we can confirm Leicester’s bus has just arrived at Wembley! The atmosphere is absolutely electric here police lining the roads, thousands of fans chanting, flares going off. It’s like a carnival.”
The bus slowed, a wall of supporters flooding both sides, blue smoke rolling thick across the road. Police horses pushed the crowd back just enough to keep a lane clear. Still, fans surged close, slapping the side of the coach, waving their phones high.
Tristan pressed a hand against the glass, the arch of Wembley rising through the haze. Last time, he was a teenager with something to prove. Today, he was Golden Boy of England, top of the world, top of the league with 73 points and the treble still in reach.
The bus braked to a halt. Fans slammed their palms in unison, the sound rattling through the cabin.
“TRISTAN! TRISTAN!
“GOAT!”
Barbara’s voice flickered through his mind. Go win.
Ranieri rose at the front, coat draped neatly over his arm. His calm smile never wavered.
“Alright, boys. Time to walk in like champions.”
The doors hissed open.
One by one, the players stepped into the tunnel of noise. Black suits sharp, ties tight, shoes clicking the pavement. Flags waving, cameras flashing like lightning.
And Tristan, stepping down onto Wembley’s pavement, felt only calm.
.
This final will end next chapter, I have no plans to make another 3 chapter match about City. No need for that.
Comments
roysola
definitely. not sure about movies/series. but for himself, yea, investing, fashion shows.
Bryhan Natan
"I hope that when the season ends, Tristan gives more attention to his relationship with Bárbara and starts thinking about bigger things, like marriage and even looking for a house for the two of them. It would also be great to see him supporting her projects, especially her makeup brand, showing that he’s by her side in everything. At the same time, he could explore more of his own opportunities outside of football, investing in advertising, fashion shows, and even making an appearance in a movie or series. If Neymar has done it, then Tristan, with even more presence and charisma, could achieve something far greater."
