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Interlude Chapter 244: One Night, Two Worlds
🕑 Added 2025-07-30 07:50:10 +0000 UTC. -> [Kevin De Bruyne POV]
Somewhere in Manchester
He sat on the floor. Not the couch. Not a chair. Just the floor — spine pressed to the cold edge of the coffee table, knees drawn up, arms slung loosely around them like something was leaking out of him. A half-full glass of water rested beside his shin. Untouched. Hours old.
The television muttered in the background — some looped highlight package.
Leicester. Again.
Tristan Hale. Again.
Like a ghost that refused to stay buried.
He wasn’t watching anymore. Just… staring. Letting it all blur.
His phone buzzed again — seventh time in two minutes.
Mentions. Group chats.
One message from a Belgium teammate:
“Chin up, bro. You’ll bounce back.”
He didn’t answer.
What could he possibly say?
This wasn’t just a loss. This was a recalibration. This was what it felt like when the mirror cracked — and the reflection wasn’t who you thought you were.
He exhaled. Closed his eyes. And the match unspooled in his head — not as clean highlights, but as bruises.
Minute 8 — the pass to Sterling.
So clean. So perfect. That should’ve been the one. Could’ve rewritten the whole script.
(Felt like adding a Newjeans lyric here, lol)
Minute 25 — a heavy touch.
He blinked — and Tristan was already gone. Past him like vapor. Like the pass had been written in ink before Kevin even reached for the pen.
He groaned, folded forward, and buried his face in both hands.
He remembered what Tristan said after the match — voice low, almost embarrassed to admit it:
"That ball to Sterling? Scared the shit out of us."
He’d almost laughed. Great. He scared them for ten minutes. And then they dismantled the structure piece by piece.
He used to roll his eyes at English pundits. Always so dramatic, always the loudest ones in the room hyping up players that didn’t deserve the media coverage.But now?
He couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He’d played against Tristan in the Europa League. Thought he’d felt his rhythm. Thought he’d figured him out.
He hadn’t.
Because this version — this new version of Tristan Hale — wasn’t the same one he faced a few months ago.
Because this wasn’t the same Tristan Hale he faced months ago. This version was smarter, faster, stronger, better in every way possible. He was crueler. He gave you hope… just to tear it away. And then he dared you to try again.
He picked three moments. That’s all he needed.
Pellegrini had said it. "Three moments. That’s all he needed."
That line clung to his ribs like bruised bone.
Because Kevin had the ball for almost twice as long… And somehow, none of it mattered.
Possession didn’t beat presence.
He ran a hand through his curls, eyes blank.
It wasn’t humiliation. Wasn’t even bitterness.
It was clarity.
This is what the others must’ve felt like. The ones who thought they were close.
He remembered that clip — Martial laughing when someone said Tristan was the best in the world. Than later mocking Tristan in his own house and getting burnt for it.
Now Martial only trended because Tristan mocked him. Not because of anything he’d done since.
And that image…
De Gea.
That look — that haunted look — after Tristan ruined him at the King Power again.
Everyone made jokes. PTSD edits. Meme threads. Punchlines.
Now it was his turn.
And the worst part?
He hadn’t even played badly. He’d just… been outclassed.
He stared up at the ceiling.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice dry. “He’s only twenty.”
The number didn’t feel real. It felt like something out of a career mode glitch.
He reached for the water. Held it. Didn’t drink. Just needed something solid.
Is this what greatness really looks like?
Because if it was… He wasn’t there yet.
But maybe — just maybe — there was still time.
That’s what stuck with him most.
Not the nutmeg. Not the shot.Not even the scoreline.
It was what everyone said afterward.
Ranieri, in the press room — had spoken about him. Sounded proud.
“He suffered tonight. But he faced it. He didn’t run. And I was proud of Tristan for going to him. The beautiful game isn’t about hating each other.”
Even Pellegrini, quiet and cold and honest, had offered more grace than Kevin expected.
“He is not a child. He is a professional. One of the best. He will recover. He will respond.”
But the one that hit deepest?
The one that lodged in his chest like a stone?
That was Tristan.
Live. On camera.
Still sweating. Still glowing from a 3–1 win… and he said this:
“Kevin will be one of the best midfielders the Premier League will ever see when he calls it a day…
Don’t get it twisted. He’ll be back. Stronger. Smarter. That’s what Kevin does.”
Kevin swallowed. How do you process that?
How do you wrap your head around getting carved open by someone… who then turns around and calls you great?
He wasn’t trying to humiliate him.
He meant it. Genuinely.
And somehow, that hurt more than the game itself.
Because Tristan didn’t say it as a flex.
He said it like a kid meeting his idol.
Which meant, somewhere along the way… the roles had flipped.
Kevin had gone from blueprint…to benchmark…to memory.
He stayed on the floor a while longer. Then, finally, he picked up his phone — not for the group chat. Not for the pundits.
Instagram.
New request.
@Tristan_22: “Let’s train sometime. Or hang out when you’re free.”
Kevin stared at it. Just looking at the difference between his followers and Tristan’s crushed him even more. 47 million followers.
Then tapped Accept.
And under his breath, he whispered:
“Alright then.”
A pause.
“Let’s see what it takes. Let’s see how far I really am. Learn from the best — that’s what they always said.”
And while Kevin sat in silence, staring down the weight of his worst night… across the country in Leicester, Tristan Hale was under siege.
On the living room rug, sprawled in a half-wrestle, half-surrender pose, Tristan grunted as a blur of caramel fur and pure menace launched herself at his arm.
“Grrf! Rrf! RRF-RRF-RRF!”
“Jesus, Biscuit—” Tristan wheezed, laughter breaking through the words, “—I gave you the squeaky toy. That doesn’t mean you also get my hand.”
She latched onto the limp plush fox in his grip and gave a guttural grrrr, her whole body vibrating like a furry washing machine on spin cycle.
From the kitchen, Barbara’s voice drifted in, light and teasing. “She’s gonna take your hand off, you know.”
“She already took my pride,” Tristan said, pulling back gently, trying to pry the toy free without losing a finger. “I think she’s coming for my soul next.”
“YAP-YAP!” Biscuit barked, triumphant, as she snatched the fox with a final tug and skittered across the hardwood like a gremlin on roller skates. The little squeaker inside the toy gave a tortured SKWEEEAK! as she darted under the coffee table.
Tristan lay back, arms sprawled, chest heaving in mock exhaustion.
“She’s possessed,” he muttered up at the ceiling. “Why is she still going? How is she still going?”
Barbara poked her head around the kitchen doorway, drying her hands with a tea towel. “She took a nap at, like… four. Total recharge. Now she thinks it’s the Puppy Super Bowl.”
“Unbelievable,” Tristan sighed, sitting up and rubbing his arm. “ wish I had her stamina, would save me a great deal of trouble you know.”
Biscuit chose that moment to emerge again, tiny paws pattering as she stomped right up to Tristan and dropped the fox by his knee with a proud little huff.
Then, tail wagging at warp speed, she boofed once — a tiny, authoritative “RUFF!”
“Oh, we’re not done?” Tristan asked, laughing.
Tristan leaned down and scooped Biscuit into his arms like she was made of something delicate. The little Maltipoo let out a delighted snort-snuff as he kissed the soft fur between her ears.
“I missed you too, you tiny menace,” he murmured.
Biscuit licked his chin in response, tail thumping against his chest like a heartbeat made of joy.
On the TV, Making a Murderer murmured through its latest plot twist — grainy police footage, a suspect blinking under bad lighting, cello music creeping like fog across the audio. But Tristan wasn’t paying attention.
Netflix hit an all-time high today.
He smirked to himself, scratching behind Biscuit’s ear.
Guess throwing three mil into it last summer wasn’t such a dumb move after all.
Take that, Sofia. Take that, Mendes.
Sure, he may have casually bragged to his agents about the investment — might’ve dropped a few lines about “vision” and “instinct” like he was some financial wizard. But it was mostly in fun.
They always roasted him when he played with stocks anyway. Called it “panic spending” or “bored genius syndrome.”
And okay — maybe they were half-right.
He never touched anything too big. Never went full oracle. The future wasn’t a toy — it was a tool. Just sharp enough to make life smoother, not suspicious.
As Mum always said: don’t get too greedy. Governments get curious. Curious people start asking the wrong questions. He didn’t wanna deal with all of that.
He scratched Biscuit’s chin again as she let out a sleepy little hrruff and snuggled into him.
This was already everything he wanted in life.
From the kitchen, the smell of sesame oil, garlic, and something buttery drifted into the living room.
Barbara’s voice floated back over the sizzle of boiling broth. “Are you feeding her scraps again?”
“She earned it,” Tristan called, sprawled on the floor, Biscuit nestled dramatically across his chest like a victorious general surveying conquered territory. “She took me out in under two minutes. Didn’t even break a sweat.”
Biscuit let out a smug little “hrrrf” as if in confirmation, then flopped onto her back, paws twitching as if she was reliving the glory in slow motion.
Barbara reappeared in the doorway, barefoot, wearing one of his massive white shirts — sleeves past her elbows, hem brushing her thighs and a pair of light grey shorts that clung to her hips in a way Tristan would absolutely be thinking about for hours.
Her hair was twisted up into a loose bun, a few curls clinging to her temples from the kitchen steam. She held a wooden spoon like a scepter.
Tristan blinked once. Slowly. Like his brain had tried to take a screenshot.
“Oh no,” Barbara said immediately, pointing the spoon at him. “Stop that. I know that face. That is not a ramen-safe face.”
He grinned. “What face?”
“The I would risk third-degree burns to kiss you right now face.”
“I would never risk third-degree burns,” he said solemnly, standing up and stretching his arms over his head. “Maybe like… second and a half.”
She rolled her eyes and turned back to the stove. “You’ve got one functioning hamstring and a career to protect, Romeo. Keep your distance.”
He followed her anyway, barefoot steps soft against the tile. “I didn’t hear a no.”
“Tomorrow,” she replied instantly, swaying her hips just enough to make it dangerous.“Tonight, you rest. Young man.”
Tristan stepped behind her and rested his chin on her shoulder dramatically. “Yes, mom.”
“If I’m the mom, then that makes this entire thing—” she gestured to his arms, his face, his everything “—a federal crime.”
Tristan wheezed out a laugh, nearly falling into her. “Okay! That’s too far. You win.”
Biscuit barked from the living room.
“See?” Barbara said. “Even she agrees.”
“I’ve lost the household,” Tristan sighed. “Revolution is complete.”
Barbara reached over, kissed his cheek, then pointed toward the table. “Now go sit down. Or so help me God, I will feed you through a straw.”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Better.”
He shuffled off to the table with exaggerated defeat. Behind him, Biscuit followed.
Barbara gave the ramen one last gentle stir, then flicked off the burner and turned toward him.
“By the way,” she said, like she was dropping casual gossip, “we need to start prepping for Ballon d’Or week. Did you forget again?”
Tristan blinked from where he was halfway cuddling Biscuit. “Oh. Right. Suit. Shoes. Sparkly socks. Got it.”
She spun on her heel and pointed a spoon at him like a schoolteacher. “You’re signed with eight luxury brands. You don’t buy anything.”
He held up both hands, faux-innocent. “Okay, okay. My bad. I keep forgetting I’m a walking fashion partnership.”
Barbara sighed as she reached for two ceramic bowls. “I already called Sofia. Dior’s sending their head tailor again for my fittings. Yours too, probably. Mendes has someone sorting the watch. You have, like, four stylists on standby and still act like you live under a motorway.”
“I just play football.”
“You also have a fifteen-million-dollar deal with Burberry, you overgrown golden retriever.”
Tristan grinned. “Just say I’m pretty and move on.”
Barbara gave him a flat look, then relented with a playful smirk. “You’re my pretty.”
He stepped forward to grab the bowls from her, nudging her gently with his shoulder. “See? Was that so hard?”
They made their way back to the couch, bowls in hand, and Biscuit trotted after them like she was guarding royalty. The little dog leapt up with surprising grace and curled into Barbara’s lap like she was trying to absorb her warmth.
Barbara blew on her noodles and twirled them slowly. “Three days till the new year.”
“Already?” Tristan muttered, mid-slurp. “That’s mad.”
“You got any plans?”
“Not really,” he said with a shrug. “I mean, I’ve got training, media, sleep... Repeat. I can barely plan two days ahead.”
She gave him a look over her bowl. “I meant life plans, doofus.”
“Oh,” he said, noodle still dangling from his lip. He sucked it in, then set the bowl down. “Actually, yeah. I’ve been thinking… We should spend more time with family. Like, real time. Not just holidays. My mum’s been asking. Your parents left right after Christmas and I barely got to talk to them. And Anita? I owe her a rematch in Uno.”
Barbara blinked at him — surprised, then visibly touched. “You actually mean that?”
“I do.” He nudged her knee with his. “Let’s bring everyone to Zurich. I’ll sort the flights, book a villa. Maybe even the whole street.”
She laughed. “The whole street?”
“I’m just saying. If we’re gonna go full Hale-Palvin family reunion, we might as well go all out.”
Her smile softened, head tipping onto his shoulder. “It’d be so chaotic. Christmas was already a disaster with the different languages being thrown around. Thank god my parents are learning English.”
“Yeah,” he said, grin wide. “It be fun. Spending time with our families is always fun for me. Don’t tell Anita I said that.”
Barbara looked at him for a beat. Then: “I love you.”
He set his bowl down, cleaning his mouth with a tissue and kissed her temple. “Same. Always.”
They sat in the hush of the room with Biscuit knocked out and then Barbara nudged him softly.
“You know… you might actually win it.”
He looked at her, looking thoughtful.
“If it was about who’s actually the best stats or year? I’d have a case. Maybe even top one. But the Ballon d’Or is confusing in that sense every year…” he shrugged. “We’ll see.”
Barbara smiled. “You’re top one to me.”
Tristan glanced at her, something quiet and steady in his eyes. Then, softly:
“Yeah… I like it when it comes out of your mouth. You’re always number one.”
He leaned his head onto her shoulder, letting the silence stretch. Biscuit snored faintly in Barbara’s lap, legs twitching.
Tristan shifted carefully, lifting the little dog with both hands like she was made of glass. “Alright, sleepy gremlin,” he whispered, placing Biscuit gently onto her plush bed by the couch. She let out one tiny hrrf and curled tighter, snuggling deeper into the blankets.
Then, before Barbara could fully register the movement, Tristan turned and pushed her down into the cushions with a grin.
She yelped through a laugh. “Oi! At least let me clean my mouth!”
He raised an eyebrow. “You look perfect.”
“I smell like broth.”
“Still perfect.”
Barbara giggled, wiggling under him. “Tristan, I swear—”
I’m just getting comfortable,” he said innocently, leaning in until their foreheads touched. “Maybe a little kiss. Celebration purposes.”
Barbara arched a brow. “Celebrating what, exactly?”
“Family plans. Stunning girlfriend. How good life is right now.”
She snorted. “At least let me brush my teeth first. And you better brush yours too.”
He groaned like she’d just asked him to climb Everest. “Ugh. Fine. But I expect a full post-victory cuddle after.”
Barbara stood, grabbing her bowl with a grin. “I’m telling your mum you tried to kiss me with ramen breath.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” he called as she headed down the hall.
She glanced over her shoulder. “You’ll love me more once I stop smelling like miso.”
Tristan laughed, sinking deeper into the couch, arms behind his head.
Outside, winter hung heavy over Leicester. Inside, everything felt perfectly in place.
And in a city lit with silence, two very different hearts made peace with the night.
.
A/N: If a chapter has an interlude in the title, it just means something light like a slice of life chapter or nothing too serious in it. Just me having some fun before like a timeskip or a serious chapter.
And this is the second chapter as promised.
Comments
roysola
Is KDB's wife a celebrity or something? or you want him to introduce the girl who cheated on KDB? lol
Matias Arce
Tristan should help KDB meet his wife
Amiqze
Family Gathering in Zurich = Engagement?
