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Chapter 254: 2015 Ballon d'Or Ceremony Part 2
🕑 Added 2025-08-13 08:03:23 +0000 UTCInside the Venue
The revolving doors closed behind them with a soft whump, sealing out the sting of winter. Warmth rose up instantly from the plush carpet underfoot, brass trim catching the overhead lights in soft gold flashes.
Ushers in white gloves moved with quiet precision. One leaned forward, scanning Tristan’s lanyard, then Barbara’s.
“Family to Row F, left aisle. Mr. Hale, nominees will be seated near the stage,” the usher said with a rehearsed smile.
Barbara squeezed his hand once. “We’ll be right there,” she said, already clocking the ushers guiding Julia, Ling, Ágnes, and István away.
“Call me if you need anything,” Tristan told them. Julia’s smile was proud but calm. Go make us proud,” she replied.
They stepped into the slow moving current of arrivals, a river of black and midnight-blue tailoring, sequins glinting from the occasional gown, the faint fizz of champagne glasses being filled at a station swarmed by media crews.
Then…
“Tristan.”
The voice was short but impossible to miss over the hum of the lobby. Neymar. His black blazer caught the light with a faint satin sheen. He stepped in, hand extended. “Oi,” he said, the tone flat but the eye contact direct. “How are you doing?” He asked in Spanish.
Tristan took the hand, grip firm, letting a smile rise. “Hey, mate. I’m doing well. Couldn’t ask for a better night.”
Neymar’s mouth curved just slightly. “Yeah… big night for you.”
“You too,” Tristan replied, leaning in half a step. “Haven’t seen you since last year here.”
That earned a small huff of laughter, but it didn’t linger. Neymar’s eyes flicked briefly past
Tristan’s shoulder, toward a group of Brazilian teammates gathering near the champagne bar. “Good times,” he said. “Busy year.”
“Yeah,” Tristan said. “Been watching your form you’ve been flying.”
Neymar gave a quick shrug. “Doing my best. We’ve got a lot going on at the club.” His tone stayed neutral, like he was talking about weather forecasts rather than another Championship chase.
Tristan tilted his head slightly, studying him. “We should catch up later. Be good to grab a drink after the ceremony.”
“Maybe,” Neymar said, already glancing sideways toward the other group. “Lot of people to see tonight.”
Tristan nodded slowly. “Right. Well, good luck in there.”
Neymar’s handshake was brief this time, almost perfunctory. “Thanks. You too.”
And then he was gone, slipping into the knot of Brazilians without looking back.
Tristan let out a quiet breath, smile still fixed in place. Outwardly, nothing was wrong. Inwardly, he could feel that something between them had shifted, and Neymar wasn’t hiding it. Wondered what he even did, hell they barely met for them to have any beef.
Tristan shook off the cold edge of the Neymar exchange and moved with the flow of arrivals. Two steps later, Lionel Messi emerged from the crowd smaller than most around him, but somehow every person seemed to part without a word, as if pulled aside by gravity.
“Felicitaciones,” Messi said, clasping Tristan’s hand with a surprising firmness for someone of his frame.
Tristan replied in Spanish without hesitation. “Gracias. Y tú también,” he said, the ease of his accent making Messi’s smile deepen.
Messi gave a quiet chuckle. “You’re making us run too much to keep up with your numbers. Slow down a little, eh?”
Tristan grinned. “I’m just trying to keep the bar high for you two.”
Messi shook his head like a man humoring a cheeky younger brother. “Careful you’ll make the old guard nervous.”
The old guard, as if summoned by the comment, arrived like a change in the weather. Cristiano Ronaldo’s presence filled the space before he even reached them.
“Good to see you here again,” Ronaldo said, shaking Tristan’s hand, then Messi’s.
“You too,” Tristan replied in English, leaning in slightly. “Hopefully we both get good seats tonight.”
Ronaldo’s mouth curved into a half-smirk. “We always do. But if you keep this up…” He glanced between Tristan and Messi before adding, “…I might have to come back to the Premier League just to stop you from breaking all my records.”
That drew a low laugh from Tristan. “You’d have to run a lot more if you did.”
This time, Ronaldo actually laughed and turned his head toward Messi, switching to Spanish. “¿Ves? Los jóvenes creen que ya estamos bajando el ritmo.” (See? The young ones think we’re slowing down already.)
Messi’s reply was instant, dry as ever. “Estamos bajando el ritmo… solo que lo hacemos mejor que todos los demás.” (We are slowing down… we just do it better than everyone else.)
Tristan, catching it, smirked. “Alright, alright but remember, Messi I’m the best. “
Messi laughed and gave a small shake of his head, while Ronaldo clapped Tristan on the shoulder. “Enjoy tonight. And keep running… just maybe not too much.”
The three of them stood there for a few moments, speaking in a mix of English and Spanish, the ease between them making the photographers surge forward. A wall of camera shutters clicked like rain on a tin roof, flashes strobing across their faces.
From across the room, Neymar lingered near a cluster of Brazilian players, watching the trio with a neutral expression that didn’t quite hide the tightness in his face. He didn’t move closer either as if feeling like the football world was moving away from him.
On the mezzanine above, Nasser Al-Khelaifi the man behind PSG’s empire leaned slightly on the rail, his gaze flicking from Neymar’s expression to the warm exchange below. His lips didn’t move, but the slight narrowing of his eyes made it clear: a seed of an idea had just been planted.
More bodies rolled through the lobby, more arrivals, more tuxedos, more shoulder-claps and cheek kisses. Tristan caught a flash of familiar blonde hair breaking through the tide.
“Excuse me for a sec,” he said to Messi and Ronaldo, already veering toward the familiar grin that came with it.
“Tristan bloody Hale!” Eden Hazard beamed, arms wide like a man welcoming home a prodigal brother. “How have you been?”
Tristan laughed as they pulled into a firm hug. “Been good can’t complain.”
Hazard stepped back, already grinning. “You owe me dinner, by the way.”
“Way too long. I know.”
Before they could continue, Kevin De Bruyne stepped in like a schoolteacher arriving mid-chaos, eyebrows raised in mock judgment.
“I’ve been waiting,” KDB said, arms crossed. “You said you wanted to train with me. That was what two weeks ago?”
Tristan groaned. “You were booked all summer. And let’s be honest, after that City game I figured you'd rather throw a boot at me than do cone drills.”
Kevin snorted. “I did throw a boot. Ask Jack. Nearly took his ear off.”
Hazard raised a hand. “He cried. Big tears.”
Kevin pointed at Tristan. “So. After the Euros.”
“Done,” Tristan said. “But don’t start bragging when I meg you first.”
They shared a laugh.
Nearby, Pogba’s laughter carried over from a group already mid-anecdote, Mahrez, Kanté, and a few others gathered around him. But the moment Tristan broke toward them, the energy shifted like a dropped note in a song.
Paul turned. His smile flattened.
“Tristan.” Pogba said, extending a hand like it weighed a bit more than it should. “Finally.”
“Good to meet you, man,” Tristan replied, voice steady, expression neutral.
Their handshake was firm, maybe too firm where the pressure was just a degree past friendly.
Hazard reappeared behind him with a flute of champagne in each hand. “Alright. No more rival club bonding. Someone’s going to accuse us of tampering.”
“I’m not signing for anyone,” Tristan said, grabbing one of the flutes of course not drinking.
“Yet,” Kevin muttered under his breath.
The group laughed again, but Tristan could still feel Pogba’s eyes trailing him as he turned away. It made sense now. The distance. The tension. The jabs that weren’t quite jokes.
Another player watching the same future unfold from the wrong seat.
And the night hadn’t even started yet.
The slow tide of tuxedos and tailored ambition pulled Tristan closer to the front of the ballroom a soft current of power, prestige, and polished shoes moving toward the stage. Crystal glasses clinked. Laughter echoed off marble. And just as Tristan dipped his head to thank a passing server, a hand tapped his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hale?” A suited man with a silver lapel pin nodded politely, then gestured toward a roped-off section where a few legendary figures stood in easy conversation. “You’re wanted near the federation table.”
Tristan blinked. “Uh… yeah. Okay.” He gave Hazard and Kevin a quick grin. “Save me a seat, yeah?”
“Only if you bring back gossip,” Eden called.
Tristan stepped through the velvet rope.
The first figure to greet him was Arsène Wenger composed as ever, long frame elegant in a pale charcoal suit. His lined face softened when he saw Tristan.
“Tristan,” Wenger said, voice warm, precise. “Still standing tall, I see.”
Tristan grinned, shaking his hand. “Good to see you, sir.”
“I’d hoped to speak with you more formally. Perhaps when all this pageantry is done.” His expression twitched into a sly smile. “If you’re not too booked, of course.”
“I’ll make time,” Tristan replied easily. “It’s not every day Arsène Wenger asks for a sit-down.”
The Frenchman chuckled. “That’s exactly what I said to Ferguson last week. He didn’t laugh either.”
They exchanged a quick laugh before a subtle wave of movement signaled someone else stepping forward.
Luis Enrique.
“Tristan,” Enrique said, clasping his hand with a firm grip. “Good to finally meet you.”
“Same here,” Tristan said, honestly. “Congrats on the treble and your Coach of the Year.”
“Thank you” Enrique said. “I don’t plan on doing any heavy-handed pitches tonight. It’s not the time.” He nodded toward the swirling ballroom. “But Barcelona… isn’t just a club. You already know that. And you, mira, We’ve seen your matches. You already play like that. Barca will be like a second home to you.”
“That means a lot.”
“I won’t say more,” Enrique continued. “But when you’re ready whether it’s months or years know the Camp Nou never closes its doors to players with your talent.”
He touched his chest in a brief gesture of gratitude and stepped back, allowing space.
And into that space stepped another presence. One that made Tristan's breath catch.
Zinédine Zidane.
For a split second, Tristan was sixteen again sat cross-legged on a hotel carpet in England watching Zidane glide past defenders like a man dancing on water.
“Bonsoir, Tristan,” Zidane said in a deep, calm voice. “Zizou.”
He offered his hand.
Tristan stared for a half-second too long before recovering. “It’s an honour,” he said, shaking his hand and maybe holding on a fraction longer than was polite.
Zidane chuckled, noticing. “It’s alright. Happens more than you’d think.”
“Huge fan,” Tristan admitted, a little breathless. “I used to watch all of your games along with Beckhams.”
Zidane smiled modestly. “And now I watch you. Your my current favorite player to watch, don’t say that to Ronaldo.”
Tristan swallowed. “Coming from you, that’s…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Tha means a lot.”
Zidane lowered his voice slightly, glancing sideways, then back. “Madrid doesn’t give up on a player of your level. You belong in the world’s biggest stage…” he hesitated, then smiled again, more intimate now. “We like to speak face-to-face. Not just through your agent.”
Tristan blinked. He thought he made it pretty clear he wasn’t that interested in Madrid for now.
“If you have time next week,” Zidane continued, tone casual but deliberate, “Florentino would like to meet.”
“I’d be… honored.” Tristan replied making sure not give away anything on face. He really didn’t wanna go to all of those meetings but he also didn’t wanna disrespect them either much less Florentino.
Zidane offered a final nod. “We’ll be in touch. Enjoy tonight.”
And just like that, the legend moved away as smooth in his exit as he’d once been on a pitch.
For a beat, Tristan just stood there watching after him, the ghost of sixteen-year old awe still hanging on him like fog. He’d just shaken hands with Zizou. Was he overreacting compared to all the other players he met, yes but all of those players were his rivals in a sense but Zizou was different as the guy was already retired.
Behind him, Wenger and Enrique exchanged the faintest glances. The game was moving.
As the older legends drifted back toward the UEFA circle, a familiar voice cut through the noise.
“Tristan.”
It was Andrés Iniesta.
Tristan turned, instantly smiling. “Good to see you again,” he said in Spanish, shaking his hand warmly. “How are you?”
Iniesta’s grip was firm, his tone light. “Still trying to age gracefully.”
Tristan laughed. “You make it look easy.”
“You were everywhere in that last match against City” Iniesta said, stepping aside to let Luis Suárez move in. “Hard to keep up from the stands.”
“Wasn’t the same without you on the pitch,” Tristan replied, then turned to Suárez. “First time meeting an honor.”
Suárez smiled with a nod. “Honor is all mine.”
From behind them, Neymar lingered hands in pockets, shoulders squared but his posture oddly detached. After a beat, he finally stepped forward.
Tristan watched him for a second, face unreadable, then simply nodded to Iniesta once more. “We’ll talk soon.”
“Of course,” Iniesta said. “Enjoy tonight.”
Tristan moved to step away only to hear another voice, this one smoother and practiced.
“I’ve been meaning to shake your hand all year.”
Pep Guardiola.
Tristan pivoted, extending his arm.
“Never coached against you,” Pep said, gripping it firmly. “But I’ve studied you.”
Tristan smiled. “That means a lot. Especially coming from you.”
Pep’s smile stayed. “Just don’t let them mold you into something lesser. Keep raising the ceiling or someone will try to cap it for you.”
“I’m used to pushing through ceilings,” Tristan said.
“I believe that.” Pep nodded. “I’m sure you have a busy night, just send me a text through Mendes when you are free.”
The current pulled him toward more managers. Deschamps. Allegri. Van Gaal. Each offering short, pointed remarks in regards to his future.
By the time Tristan reached his own row near the front, he could feel the weight of it all the eyes, the words, the motives behind every handshake.
Everyone in the room saw something different in him.
A rival.
A record breaker.
A future transfer.
A legend in the makings.
On the far side, he watched as Barbara was fielding a few soft questions from a TV crew before slipping away to check on the parents. Anita sent Tristan a selfie from Row F with one word: Alive
A floor manager’s voice cut through the buzz. “Nominees, this way please.”
The Leicester contingent, Tristan, Vardy, Mahrez, Kanté — bunched up automatically, posing for a quick group shot. Then they were funneled down a short corridor, the production assistant at the front rattling off stage cues, camera red-light warnings, and timing.
Gold lettering on black card stock marked each place. Tristan found his near the front, bracketed by two names in bold: Messi on his left, Ronaldo on his right.
He blinked once, then smirked. Of course.
“Front three,” Vardy muttered as he clocked it. “Behave yourself, yeah?”
“I know how to behave unlike you, buddy,” Tristan shot back.
Tristan slid into his seat.
To his left, Messi gave a polite nod. To his right, Ronaldo adjusted his cufflinks with just a bit more focus than necessary.
It wasn’t tense. But it wasn’t not tense.
This was new.
For over half a decade, these two had sat side by side at every Ballon d'Or, every UEFA gala, every ceremonial nod to greatness. It was practically tradition — the GOATs, flanking the throne.
And now…
Now the throne had a blond kid in a tailored tux sitting in it.
Tristan glanced between them, sensing it.
“I hope you two don’t mind,” he said under his breath, “but I promise not to spill any wine on the legacy.”
Messi huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. “Just don’t elbow me when the camera pans.”
Ronaldo finally cracked a grin. “You take up more space than you look. Must be the ego.”
“I’m just trying to balance it out,” Tristan quipped, tapping each of their name cards with two fingers. “GOAT to my left, GOAT to my right… I figure I’m the farm in the middle.”
Messi chuckled.
Ronaldo raised a brow. “Did you rehearse that?”
“Absolutely not,” Tristan whispered. “I’m winging it, just like I do in the box.”
Another pause.
Then Messi murmured, “I forget what having a third person here felt like.”
Ronaldo didn’t answer at first. Just looked out toward the stage. But when he did speak, it was quiet, almost amused.
“Let’s see if he can keep it.”
The lights dimmed. Music swelled. The ceremony began.
And in the front row, between history and legacy, sat something the game hadn’t quite named yet but everyone could feel it forming.
A miracle in motion.
