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Chapter 253: 2015 Ballon d'Or Ceremony Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-08-12 20:28:25 +0000 UTCJanuary 17 | Switzerland – Lakeside Lodge
Snow fell in a fine white curtain outside the tall windows, muffling the world beyond. Lake Zürich lay still beneath the early winter light, the far bank dissolving into a mist that blurred the horizon.
Tristan was already awake, standing at the glass with a mug of tea warming his hands. Behind him, his suit hung on the wardrobe door, its black fabric catching the faint glow of the fire. Today wasn’t just another match day.
Biscuit’s nails clicked lightly across the wooden floor as she trotted into the kitchen. Julia was there, robe tied tight, the kettle beginning to steam. She didn’t look up when she spoke. “You didn’t sleep much.”
“Didn’t feel like it,” Tristan said. He’d been the opposite of tired — wired, almost. Last year he’d been the new kid, mostly by himself. Now? Now he was walking in as one of the top names right up there with Messi and Ronaldo.
Barbara padded in next, robe swaying, hair pinned up loosely in curlers. “Morning.” She was halfway to the teapot when Anita emerged behind her, already cradling her own cup like it was an anchor.
“I can’t believe it’s today,” Anita said in Hungarian as she slid into a chair.
From the hall, István’s low voice carried before he appeared with Ágnes. She gave a polite smile to the table, though her eyes drifted straight to the garment bag hanging by the door. “It’s… a little overwhelming,” she admitted quietly in Hungarian.
Barbara caught the tone and reached for translation. “She says it feels like a lot.”
Julia, seated at the head of the table with a folded newspaper, grinned. “You’ll be fine. Remember, last year Tristan made it through without tripping over his own feet.”
Ling, by the window, gave a slow nod. “You won’t even notice the cameras once it starts. Just a blur of lights and applause.”
István smirked. “Until they point the camera right at you.”
That drew a chorus of groans — and a laugh from Barbara. “That’s why we’re sticking together. No one’s getting thrown in alone.”
Ágnes’s fingers kept fussing with the edge of her scarf, but her smile had softened.
A small buzz broke through the conversation — Tristan’s phone on the table. He glanced at the screen and unlocked it.
Vardy: We made it. Landed an hour ago. Me, Riyad, and Kante are in Zürich. No missed connections this time.
Tristan tapped a quick reply. “Good. See you there.” before looking up. “They’re here. All three of them.”
Barbara perked up immediately. “Then we’ll have the full Leicester table.”
Julia’s smile turned sly. “You won’t be the only fox in the room.”
Ling raised his mug. “And if I had to guess… the loudest table too.”
.
Afternoon light spilled across Lake Zürich.
Inside the suite, the air was warm, heavy with the faint sweetness of hairspray and the sharper smell of fresh perfume. Somewhere, a low playlist drifted slow piano chords that seemed to clam the room.
Barbara sat tall in the makeup chair near the window, her black silk robe tied loosely at the waist. Her artist leaned in close, brush poised with almost surgical precision, dabbing at her cheekbone the way a painter might touch up a masterpiece.
Anita stood just to the side, already dressed in her midnight-blue Chanel gown. The dress clung in all the right places, its fabric shimmering when she shifted. Her fingers were laced neatly in front of her, but the faint tension in her shoulders betrayed her nerves. Ágnes hovered protectively, smoothing the hem for the third time in two minutes, murmuring quiet reassurances in Hungarian that sounded like little spells to ward off wrinkles.
On the couch, Julia was curled into the corner with a cup of tea, her long emerald dress pooling around her legs. She was mid-story, eyes bright as she recounted last year’s ceremony to István and Ling.
“Flashing cameras everywhere,” she said, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “It’s chaos in the lobby. But you blink and it’s over.”
István, in a crisp charcoal suit, raised an eyebrow. “And your trick?”
Julia’s smile deepened. “Pretend you’ve done it a hundred times.”
From the adjoining room came the muted shuffle of leather soles and the faint click of cufflinks. Tristan stood before the mirror in a black Armani suit. The one Barbara had picked within seconds of it arriving. The jacket hugged his shoulders perfectly as it was a trailer made just for him.
A sharp knock at the door. John stepped in, coat buttoned, the scent of cold air trailing behind him. His phone was in one hand, his tone clipped and businesslike.
“Cars are confirmed. First one leaves at thirty five. Security drop off at 18:50. Straight to the entrance, no long walks in the snow.”
“Good,” Tristan replied, sliding his watch onto his wrist with a satisfying click. “Not starting my night with frozen toes.”
When he stepped back into the main room, Barbara’s makeup was finished. She caught his reflection in the mirror — and smiled.
For a moment, the air seemed to thin.
Tristan froze in the doorway, eyes locked on her. The black robe was gone, replaced by a floor-length gown that caught the light like liquid bronze. Her hair fell in perfect waves over one bare shoulder, the diamond clasp at her ear catching fire from the lamps.
“Did my heart just skip a beat?” he thought, his grin pulling slow and genuine.
“Well?” she asked, turning slightly toward him.
He leaned against the doorframe, letting his gaze linger. “Perfect. And I’m not just talking about me.”
Anita smirked, slipping into Hungarian without looking away from the scene. “Úgy viselkedsz, mint egy szerelmes filmben.” (You’re acting like you’re in a romance movie.)
Barbara laughed softly, shaking her head. “We’re not that dramatic.”
Tristan’s grin widened. “Eh… you can be, when you want to be.”
The pillow came flying before he even finished the sentence. He ducked, laughing, the faint sparkle of the moment still lingering between them.
Tristan’s phone buzzed on the arm of the sofa, Mendes.
He stepped toward the window, the snow-muted skyline of Zürich reflecting faintly in the glass as he swiped to answer.
“You set?” Mendes asked sounding like he was in a rush which he most likely was.
“Almost,” Tristan said, glancing at the clock. “Half an hour.”
“Good. Listen quick one. Tonight you’re in the heaviest spotlight you’ve ever been in. Messi. Ronaldo. Neymar. Suárez. You’ll be standing right there with them. Cameras will be hunting for those shots . Don’t shy away from it. And don’t spend the night welded to your table. Move. Talk. Make some friends and connections. I’ll be there, but in the background. This night is for you.”
For a second, Tristan didn’t answer. He just looked out at the lake, he wouldn’t mind living here once he retired. “I’ll mingle,” he said finally, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. “Make some new friends. Promise.”
By the time coats were coming on, Biscuit had been coaxed into staying with the concierge one biscuit already between her teeth, another stashed like a bribe. The hallway smelled faintly of the wood polish they’d used that morning.
Outside, two black cars waited at the curb, their roofs frosted in a fresh dusting of snow. The air bit instantly at their cheeks. Across the road, the lake was a dark sheet of glass under the falling white, the far lights blurred into a soft halo.
Tristan turned, offering Barbara his hand down the short icy step. Her gown shimmered faintly even in the dim streetlight. “Ready?” he asked.
Her smile was bright as she answered. “More than ready.”
They slid into the back seat together, doors closing with a muted thud that sealed out the cold. Heat began to seep through the leather seats as the driver eased away from the curb.
Through the frosted glass, Zürich unfolded a slow sweep of light and shadow, bridges glowing over black water, shopfronts spilling golden light onto snow. Ahead lay the hotel ballroom, the stage, the flashbulbs. The night where every eye would find them, and where, for a few hours, the whole football world would feel like it was in one room.
The black Mercedes rolled forward at a crawl, tyres crunching over a thin crust of ice on the cobbled driveway. Ahead, the cordoned off entrance glowed under towering floodlights, every drifting snowflake caught in their beams. Camera flashes pulsed like lightning beyond the glass, bright enough to make the air itself seem to flicker.
It wasn’t just the noise. The air throbbed with it: the clatter of shutters, the bark of event staff corralling arrivals, reporters shouting over each other, and underneath it all, the raw voices of football fans who’d been standing in the cold for hours just for this.
To the left, the press pen was a wall of heavy coats and camera rigs the size of small cannons. Sky Sports, BBC Sport, RMC, ESPN, ITV, their logos gleamed from the mic flags bobbing over the crowd.
To the right, it was all supporters. Hundreds of them, packed tight behind barriers, their breath rising in clouds. Leicester flags rippled in the wind. Some held cardboard signs while others just had their phones raised, screens glowing in the night.
As the car neared, the shouts became sharp and urgent:
“Tristan! Tristan!”
“Hale! Over here!”
“Stay at Leicester, Tristan!”
“Don’t go Madrid!”
“We love you, mate!”
Two security staff in black coats moved in on either side. The driver glanced back once; John was already stepping out, collar turned up against the cold. One quick sweep of the crowd, a nod to the driver.
“All clear.”
The rear door swung open and the cold hit Tristan’s cheeks instantly. The cheer that followed was deep and immediate.
“Here we go,” he murmured to Barbara, offering his hand.
She stepped out and the flashes detonated. Her gown, liquid bronze under the floodlights caught the light and threw it back in molten ripples.
“Barbara! Over here!”
“Barbara, Vogue! This way!”
“Tristan! Big smile, mate!”
Barbara moved like she’d been doing this her whole life, one hand still looped through Tristan’s arm as they turned toward the carpet. He gave a small grin for the cameras calm, but aware of every eye on him.
On the far side of the car, Anita emerged with Ágnes and István, Julia and Ling close behind. Even wrapped in winter coats, the parents had that wide-eyed mix of pride and disbelief.
From the front row behind the barrier came another volley of calls:
“Tristan, don’t leave Leicester!”
“TRISTAN GO TO BARCAELONA!!”
“COME TO MADRID! “
It made him laugh under his breath. Spotting a cluster of fans waving Leicester shirts, he steered Barbara toward them. Two young girls in fox-ear headbands were leaning so far over the barrier a steward had a hand on their coats.
“Barbara! Can you sign?” one called out.
Barbara’s eyes lit instantly. “Of course.” She passed Tristan her clutch without looking and stepped forward, careful on the icy path. He stayed close, hand resting lightly at her back.
She signed both autograph books, bending so the girls could see her face. One whispered shyly, “You’re so pretty.”
Barbara’s face softened into a real smile, not the fake one. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, giving a quick wink before handing the book back.
“Tristan! Will you sign my shirt?” came a voice from further along.
He took the marker, leaned over, and scrawled his name across the Leicester crest. A young lad in a beanie thrust his phone forward. “Selfie?”
Tristan grinned. “Go on then.” He leaned in, the click of the shot lost under another wave of his name rolling up from the crowd:
“Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!”
He passed the marker back, clapped the lad on the shoulder, and returned to Barbara’s side.
Together they began the slow walk toward the entrance lights, shouts, and flashes swirling around them. Somewhere in the press pen, a reporter was already calling out about Leicester’s season, but for now, the fans’ voices carried above everything.
The carpet stretched ahead of them like a runway a deep strip of red beneath a canopy of pure white light. Every inch of its edge was claimed by lenses, tripods, and camera rigs, the gleam of metal and glass reflecting back into the night.
A staffer in a black coat and headset stepped forward, a clipboard in hand. “Couple shots first,” she said briskly. “Then we’ll bring the family in.”
Tristan shifted his stance so Barbara was on his right, his arm anchored at her waist. The second they moved into position, the first barrage of flashes detonated a wall of strobes so fierce he could still see their afterglow in his vision.
“Barbara! Look right!”
“Tristan, over the shoulder!
“Barbara, Vogue shot! Chin up!”
They held their poses. A small half-turn, a brief smile, then another pivot feeding the photographers the angles they needed before the staffer waved the next group forward.
The rest of the family joined them, and suddenly all six stood together under the floodlights. Anita between Ágnes and Julia, István beside Ling, the soft cloud of their breath rising in the crisp air.
“You all good?” Tristan asked over the clicking, leaning slightly toward Julia.
She smoothed the skirt of her dress with one hand, a calm smile tugging her lips. “Not my first rodeo, remember?”
Ling gave a small nod, voice low. “We’ll survive.”
Barbara glanced sideways to Anita, who stood tall in her Chanel dress, chin tilted just enough to project confidence. “You okay?” she asked in Hungarian.
Anita’s gaze flicked toward the solid wall of camera lenses before she replied. “Fine. Just… bright.”
Barbara laughed softly, her voice just for her sister. “That’s the idea.”
Calls from the photographers kept coming, “Family shot! Everyone together!” and they shuffled closer, arms brushing, coats draped casually over forearms. They leaned into each other for warmth, steam curling faintly in the cold.
Once the family shots were done, staff began guiding the parents toward the warm side entrance. John was already at their shoulder, steering them toward a roped-off path away from the crush.
Barbara adjusted the sweep of her gown as she and Tristan were ushered toward the media line. “They’re in good hands,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” Tristan agreed, glancing back just long enough to see them disappear into the glow of the side lobby. “They’ll be fine.”
The first media pit loomed a bank of microphones bristling with network flags, the BBC Sport logo front and center. A reporter stepped forward, smiling warmly despite the cold.
“Tristan, Barbara — welcome. Big night for you both. How does it feel stepping onto this carpet together?”
Tristan glanced briefly toward Barbara before answering. “Honestly? It’s surreal. We’ve both had big moments before, but this… this is different for me, for all footballers. And it feels good to be here again.”
Barbara smiled right into the cameras she answered. “It’s even better having everyone here. Makes it feel less like a formal thing and more like… a celebration.”
Before the reporter could wrap, another question fired in from a Sky Sports mic, and Tristan subtly shifted his stance so Barbara could field it. The crowd’s noise still swelled and broke like a restless tide behind them, but here in this narrow lane of cameras and questions the spotlight burned brighter, and the long line of interviews was just beginning.
A French reporter leaned forward into the barricade, the mic’s red foam tip catching the light. His voice cut through the icy air, carrying the rounded vowels of a Paris newsroom.
“Tristan your second year here. Last time, you were the youngest in the top ten. This time, some say you could win. Do you let yourself think about that?”
Tristan’s breath clouded faintly as he gave a small shrug, the corners of his mouth curving into a polite, measured smile. The cameras tightened their focus, zoom lenses tracking every flicker of expression.
“It’s hard not to hear it,” he said, his voice even, practiced. “But tonight’s about celebrating everyone here. If my name gets called great. If not, I’m still in a room with the best players in the world. That’s already something most twenty years old don’t get much less two times in a row.”
Barbara’s head tilted slightly toward him, eyes filled with pride.
A reporter to her left pounced.
“Barbara we’ve seen plenty of photos of you in the stands this season. Do you get more nervous watching Tristan play, or seeing him on nights like this?”
She let out a soft, warm laugh, breath misting in the cold.
“Matches, always. Here, I can relax. I don’t have to worry about someone sliding into him or trying to take him out.”
That got a ripple of chuckles from the press pen, a few photographers lowering their cameras just to grin. But before anyone could linger, a sharper voice rose from the back of the scrum:
“Tristan will we still see you in Leicester blue next season?”
The question hung in the cold for a beat too long. Tristan’s gaze flicked, just once, toward the fans behind the barrier. A few of them had already started chanting in short bursts —
“Stay at Leicester! Stay at Leicester!”
The security guards tried to calm the crowd, but it only made the shouts rise. Finally, Tristan spoke, measured but firm.
“Right now, my focus is on this season on finishing it the right way with trophies. Everything else is just noise and rumours.”
Before another microphone could be shoved toward him, the crowd’s noise shifted, rolling down the carpet like a wave. A nearby staffer leaned in with a smile.
“Your teammates just arrived.”
Tristan turned his head and there they were. Vardy, striding down the carpet in a sharp navy suit, Rebekah’s hand hooked through his arm. Mahrez gliding in a perfectly cut charcoal number, his wife’s gown a deep sapphire that caught every flash. And behind them, Kanté black tux, crisp bow tie, walking beside his mother with a shy smile on face.
“About time,” Tristan muttered under his breath chuckling.
Vardy spotted him instantly, breaking from his path to slap a firm hand on Tristan’s shoulder.
“We’re making this a Leicester takeover, mate.”
“Looks like it,” Tristan replied, grinning.
The press didn’t need to be told twice. Microphones angled in, cameras reset, and the quiet rhythm of a couple’s interview exploded into a wall of questions aimed at the Leicester four.
“How does it feel to have four players from the same club here tonight?”
Vardy grinned like a man who was genuinely enjoying himself.
“Unreal, innit? Leicester City at the Ballon d’Or four of us. If you told me that two years ago, I’d have laughed you out the pub. Shows what happens when you’ve got a proper team all pulling the same way. And it’s not just the four of us, it’s the whole squad that got us here.”
The fans roared approval, a chant starting up: “JAMIE VARDY’S HAVING A PARTY! 🎵”
Mahrez waited for the noise to dip, speaking in his calm, deliberate tone.
“It’s very special. We have worked so hard, all of us. To be here with my teammates the same players I fight with every week — it feels… good. It’s for Leicester, and for our fans.”
“Riyad what’s it like sharing this with Tristan after the season you’ve both had?”
Mahrez’s eyes flicked to Tristan. “We understand each other on the pitch. We know how the other plays. He pushes me, I push him. And… we make each other better. It’s not just goals and assists. It’s trust.”
Vardy, grinning, leaned toward the mic.
“Yeah, and they’ve both made me look like I can score from anywhere. Which, by the way, I can now.”
That got a laugh from the reporters. “Kanté did you ever imagine you’d be walking this carpet a year ago?”
Kanté hesitated, his hands clasped in front of him, the shy smile never leaving his face.
“Ah… no, no… never. Last year… I only think… work hard… help team. I not think… this.” He gave a small laugh, shaking his head. “To be here… with friends… is very… how you say… special. Very happy.”
The fans nearest the barrier shouted his name, and he dipped his head in a bashful half-bow before glancing at Mahrez like he was glad that question was over.
A staffer stepped forward, raising a discreet hand in the universal “wrap it up” signal. Slowly, the Leicester group peeled away from the press pen, drifting together toward the grand glass entrance.The moment they crossed the threshold, the air changed. The muffled thump of music carried from deeper inside.
Somewhere beyond the double doors ahead, the stage was waiting.
Tonight, Leicester arrived at the world’s biggest football award ceremony.
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I have another two chapters posted later tonight.
