Sinbad
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Chapter 256: Night
🕑 Added 2025-08-16 00:48:08 +0000 UTCJanuary 17, 2016 | Zurich, Switzerland 12:52 PM
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss. The faint hum of the motor vibrated beneath their feet as they began their ascent to the top floor.
They’d just left their families one floor down, after a long day they didn’t feel like going back to their lodge.
Barbara leaned against the mirrored wall, barefoot, her heels dangling from one finger. Her navy gown shimmered with leftover glamour, hair looser than before, makeup softened but still glowing. She looked a little undone but to Tristan she was still the most beautiful lady in the world.
Tristan had his jacket unbuttoned, bow tie hanging loose around his collar, the World XI trophy tucked under one arm like he'd grabbed it from the gift shop. He looked exhausted in the best way.
“You were weirdly quiet on the way up,” Barbara murmured, eyes narrowing playfully. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
Tristan tilted his head, pretending to think. “Mostly? That I should’ve packed different socks. These ones are too tight.”
Barbara rolled her eyes. “Try again.”
He grinned. “I don’t know. It’s all just... hitting me now. Messi, Ronaldo, and me. Top three. Feels like I glitched into someone else’s life.” Which he kind of did, taking over his own body from the future, what would you even call that?
Barbara stepped closer, looping her free hand into the front of his open jacket. “Well, if you did... I’m keeping this version.”
He kissed her before she could say anything else. Her mouth met his without hesitation, one hand finding the back of his neck. The kiss stretched out, unhurried, as the elevator hummed its way upward.
When they broke apart, Barbara's eyes were soft and amused. “You know that’s technically against elevator rules?”
“What, kissing?” he asked.
“Yes, what if someone walked in?.”
Ding.
The doors opened to a private penthouse landing. They stepped into the suite, Barbara slipping her heels back on loosely just to shuffle across the marble. Tristan set the trophy down on the desk. He had to recognize his trophy cabinet, he was gonna run out of space after this season.
“Third place,” he muttered aloud, as if speaking it would make it feel better. “Behind Messi and Ronaldo.”
Barbara wrapped her arms around him from behind, chin on his shoulder. “And in front of Neymar,” she added.
“Honestly thought he’d get third,” Tristan admitted. “His numbers were insane this year.”
Barbara shrugged. “Maybe. But tonight wasn’t just about stats. It was about who made the world stop and stare in awe. That was you.”
He turned in her arms, studying her face, then grinned. “You know your face hasn’t moved in like five hours. I think your ‘red carpet smile’ is frozen.”
Barbara groaned and rubbed her jaw. “Ow. I think it is.”
“Couch,” Tristan ordered.
She didn’t argue. She flopped onto the cushions, gown spilling around her like ink in water. Her legs were stretched out before he even reached her.
“My feet hate me,” she said.
“Allow me to mediate the conflict.”
He knelt, took one foot gently, and began massaging her arches. Her head rolled back instantly.
“Oh my god.”
“Tristan Hale: World XI midfielder, third place in the Ballon d’Or… licensed foot therapist.”
“Marry me.”
“Already planning it.”
The door suddenly flew open, and Anita burst in, wearing socks, a hoodie, and an expression of scandalized glee.
“Barbara!” she cried in rapid-fire Hungarian. “What witchcraft did you use to get a man like this?!”
Barbara groaned, not lifting her head. “Not now, Anita.”
“I walk in and he’s literally kneeling at your feet! Who does that?!”
Tristan didn’t miss a beat. “Want one too?”
Anita blinked. “Sometimes I just forget he learnt Hungarian just for you, lil sis?!”
Barbara peeked one eye open. “It’s upsetting how quickly he learnt it as well.”
Anita held up her phone, breathless. “Doesn’t matter. Look! You’re trending! Everywhere!”
She shoved the phone toward Tristan. On-screen: a stylized digital art of him standing on a stadium rooftop, glowing eyes, lightning behind him — captioned THE STORM IS HERE.
Barbara leaned over and whistled. “Okay… that’s kind of sick.”
Tristan just stared at it for a second than said, “Next year’s going to be different.”
Barbara sat up slowly, cupped his face, and kissed him again.
“I know,” she said. “And you will be number one.”
Anita made a face as Barbara cupped Tristan’s cheeks and kissed him again.
“Bleh!” she gagged in Hungarian, covering her eyes like a kid. “I’m too young for this!”
Barbara laughed against Tristan’s mouth and pulled back just long enough to wave her sister toward the door. “Then don’t watch,” she shot back.
Anita mumbled something under her breath before retreating, making a show of like she couldn’t escape fast enough. She closed the door behind her with a little thunk.
Barbara sighed, pressing her forehead to Tristan’s chest. “She’s never going to let me live this down.”
“Watching you two is always fun,” Tristan said smiling, brushing a hand down her hair. “Never had to experience siblings fighting.”
Barbara swatted at him, but her smile lingered.
He reached for the remote and flicked on the TV.
The screen flickered to life, the Canal+ logo fading into a sleek, gold-trimmed studio. Warm studio lights glinted off glass desks and polished camera tracks.
At the anchor desk sat Hervé Mathoux, crisp as always, posture ramrod straight, cue cards fanned neatly in front of him. Beside him lounged Pierre Ménès, sleeves rolled, tie crooked, already waving one hand in the air as slow-motion Ballon d’Or highlights played silently behind them.
“…and so, Lionel Messi claims his fifth Ballon d’Or,” Hervé began smoothly. “69 goals, 34 assists, in 64 games. A treble with Barcelona. Once again, he makes the impossible feel… inevitable.”
Pierre sighed, dramatic. “Deserved, no question. And then you’ve got Ronaldo — 63 goals, 20 assists — machine numbers. Cyborg behavior. We’re used to it. Doesn’t mean it’s not absurd.”
“But…” He jabbed a finger toward the screen as a Leicester clip began to roll.
Tristan Hale.
“That,” Pierre said, voice sharp now, “is the real story tonight.”
.
On the couch, Tristan continued his messages whilst Barbara nudged Tristan gently with her foot.
“You’re on,” she murmured. Even now with Messi winning his what fifth Ballon d’Or? People couldn’t stop talking about her boyfriend.
Tristan barely reacted already zoned out.
“Third in the world,” Pierre’s voice echoed from the TV. “Tristan Hale. Twenty years old. Leicester City. The kid’s rewriting football’s reality.”
Hervé tapped his cue cards. “And the final vote breakdown confirms it:”
1st – Lionel Messi: 41.3%
2nd – Cristiano Ronaldo: 27.7%
3rd – Tristan Hale: 18.1%
4th – Neymar: 9.9%
5th – Luis Suárez: 3.2%
Pierre raised both eyebrows. “There’s your first real shock. Neymar, with a treble, 53 goals, 27 assists, left off the podium. A lot of people thought it was his year.”
“Instead,” Hervé said, “it’s a 20-year-old who didn’t even play Champions League football. No European trophy. Just… magic.”
Pierre chuckled. “And remember — he finished ninth last year. Now, third. If you don’t believe in fairy tales, maybe don’t watch football.”
A brief pause. Then, the studio rolled another clip — Messi’s speech, subtitled:
“When people ask, what happens when we retire? I think the answer is simple."
"You keep watching. Because football doesn't stop. It gets better."
Pierre whistled. “You get that praise from Messi on stage, while Ronaldo’s clapping next to him? That’s heavyweight respect.”
Barbara grinned. “Play that one again.”
Tristan dropped his head on the couch and groaned. “I thought by now you would get tired of people always talking about me.”
Barbara leaned closer, whispering, “That will never happen.”
.
Pierre leaned forward. “Now, I have to say this, Paul Pogba, left out of the World XI? It’s criminal. Serie A title, Coppa Italia, Supercoppa, Champions League finalist and who gets picked instead? Luka Modrić. Come on.”
“Trending across French Twitter,” Hervé said. “#JusticeForPogba is already at 70K tweets.”
“And Tristan made it into the XI at just 20. Second straight year. Back-to-back. Let me say that again for those in the back. He is twenty. He has 159 total goal contributions in two seasons. That’s not potential that’s production at a level we have only seen from Messi and Ronaldo.
The background screen now played Leicester highlights: cutbacks, volleys, no-look assists.
Tristan celebrating in the snow. A banner waved by fans behind him:
WE BELIEVE IN MIRACLES.
Pierre shook his head. “And he’s doing it at Leicester. Not Real. Not Barça. Not Bayern. Leicester.
Hervé faced the camera directly. “And so, the question now and it will dominate the headlines does Tristan Hale stay? Or does Leicester’s miracle end when Madrid, Barça, or Bayern come calling?”
Pierre added, “Or is it true what some are already saying? That he’s already chosen Liverpool? All I’ll say is… no one, no one, is giving up on this chase.”
.
The next chapter which hopefully is posted in 3-7 hours will be the timeskip, I got an idea down on how to continue it but it’s gonna take a while to write down all the stats since I will be skipping two months.
Comments
noname
All I did was add like 10 goals to their numbers Messi already had something stupid like 55 goals
Clutch R6
I think the numbers are a little bit much. The most Messi has had in a 64 game stretch is 77 total goal contributions and ronaldo playing in Saudi Arabia had 80 total goal contributions. Maybe lower the number a little bit?
mud104
The whole Anita Barbara scene makes me wish Tristan had a sister, that would’ve been an interesting dynamic!
