Sinbad
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Chapter 261: Late Night
🕑 Added 2025-08-23 07:51:28 +0000 UTCFebruary 28, 2016
Leicester: Tristan’s House
11:47 PM
The front door clicked shut behind them.
Silence. No more flares. No more chants. No thunder of Wembley shaking the sky. Only the muted scuff of Tristan’s boots across the wooden floor as he stepped inside.
After the longest day of his life, ninety draining minutes and everything that came before and after he was finally home. Just him, Barbara, and some silence at last. Biscuit was with his parents for the night.
The team had gathered earlier, a modest dinner, no wild celebrations. They’d promised themselves the real party would come later when, if everything went right, they lifted every trophy together. That promise hung heavy, turning tonight’s victory into a reminder: there was still more work to do.
Barbara kicked off her heels the second they stepped inside. “Finally,” she muttered, stretching her toes against the wooden floor.
Tristan was already halfway down the hall, his bag slung over his shoulder. “Babe, go to the couch,” he called back. “I just gotta put away my medal.”
He passed Biscuit’s empty dog bed and stepped into the living room. The trophy cabinet stood in its usual corner — only now it looked more like a shelf under siege. The FA Cup. Young Player of the Year. Player of the Year. Golden Boy. The Puskás. FIFPro XI. Player of the Month awards stacked behind one another like old records.
Just about everything a player in England could dream of, except the ones he still chased: a European Golden Boot, the Premier League Golden Boot, the Ballon d’Or.
He unzipped his bag, pulled out the League Cup medal, and eyed the last sliver of space left at the top shelf. Opening the glass, he hung it carefully, then stepped back with folded arms. For a second, he thought of those photos of Messi and Ronaldo, surrounded by silver and gold. Maybe he should take one like that someday.
Barbara padded in behind him, one hand rubbing her neck, the other still holding her clutch. She stopped at his side, staring at the crowded cabinet with a raised brow.“We’re gonna need a bigger wall.”
Tristan folded his arms. “Wall? I’m thinking we turn the Liverpool guest room into a trophy vault.”
Barbara laughed, leaning lightly into him. “A vault? That sounds humble.”
“Well,” he murmured, eyes still on the medals, “I’ll need somewhere to put the Ballon d’Or.”
She bumped her hip against his. “Don’t jinx it.”
His hand hovered over the medal he’d just hung, lingering for a beat, before his gaze drifted toward the couch. His phone sat there, face down, still off.
Barbara followed his eyes and sighed. “Don’t turn it on.”
“I mean it, babe,” she said softer this time. “It’s not worth it. Not tonight. You know what it’s going to be like. The apps, the notifications, the messages, the press. Twitter’s probably set on fire.”
Tristan blinked, then looked at her. “You checked?”
Barbara raised two fingers. “Just Instagram. I couldn’t help it. Your name’s trending everywhere more than the norm.”
“You were brilliant. But you don’t have to go read it all to believe it.”
“But I kind of want to.”
Barbara shook her head gently, then turned toward the couch. She sank down onto the cushions, slipping off her clutch and rubbing at her ankle.
Tristan followed, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “Alright,” he said, kneeling down in front of her. “Foot massage time.”
Barbara blinked. “Tristan, no. You’ve just played a final..”
“Exactly why I need to sit down for a minute. Let me.” He took her foot gently into his hands before she could protest further. “Zurich, remember?”
That made her laugh, soft and warm. “Oh, I remember. A month ago.” She sank back into the cushions anyway. “Thank you. I didn’t want to bother you tonight… but you’re too good at this.”
Tristan worked his thumbs into her arch, steady and careful. “You’re not bothering me. Never.”
Barbara closed her eyes, a sigh slipping out. “Forget trophies. Forget medals, forget money. I could live without all of it. But not without these.”
Tristan smirked, glancing up at her. “Careful. The papers will say my greatest achievement is your feet.”
While Tristan and Barbara lived in their own world, the digital one was on fire.
Twitter. Instagram. Reddit. Group chats. Live streams. Every platform had detonated the moment the final whistle blew.
It started small.
A few celebration clips.
Then the first slow-motion replay of Tristan’s goal hit Twitter, cropped, filtered, soundtracked with music.
@Kenny: Tristan Hale vs Manchester City (League Cup Final):
– 1 Goal ⚽️
– 1 Assist 🅰️
– 92% Pass Accuracy
– 5 Chances Created
– 2 Key Dribbles
– 1 Kissed Boot
Big players. Big moments. He does it again.
@Im21: THIS GUY IS TWENTY. TWENTY. TWENTY. What am I doing with my life.
@Fuck_Dokkan: When Tristan scores a goal 😭👇
↩️@Lebron: still can’t believe y’all beat us three times in one season
↩️@DuncanBetterthanKobe: you believed you could beat us, that was your first mistake, lmao.
↩️@IneedDrugs: remind me again how much De Bruyne cost? 😭😭😭
@Hatescalper: BRO THAT KISSED SHOE CELEBRATION?!?! if that’s promo for the new Nike Regnants then I’m sold. Inject them into my veins.
↩️@NikeSucks: heard they’re dropping next week 👀
↩️@PumaSucks: most hyped football boots since CR7 Safari, this might be bigger tbh, they look clean, like the extra details from the pictures I seen
@Teh_Storm: why didn’t Tristan do his usual celebration??? 🧐
↩️@GoonValley: cause y’all kept making fun of it smh, lol. Tristan probably saw all the jokes, Tristan is pretty active online from what we knew of him and what his teammates like Vardy say during interviews. I bet you he saw all the images of the Anteaters doing his celebration, lmao. God, I hope he doesn't stop doing it, it fits him so well.
↩️KEVIn: man just wanted to celebrate with his team, let the guy be, btw we do need to name his celebration, we can’t just keep calling Tristan’s celebration or the T-Pose, it needs a proper name.
↩️@LeciesterRules_69: nah I think it was marketing… that boot kiss looked planned and I respect it
@ArsenalMourner: flashbacks to 2014 FA Cup when he sat on the ball like Messi and cooked us
↩️@LeicesterGOAT: Anytime he does anything similar to Messi, best believe your team is getting humiliated and embarrassed like never before, lmao.
↩️@GOATarchives: We gotta see Tristan playing against either United or Real Madrid in a final just to see if he has the same hate boner as Messi, lol.
@BallKnowledge: Leicester are now
✅ League Cup Winners
✅ Undefeated in the FA Cup
✅ Undefeated in the Europa League
✅ 17 points clear in the Premier League
CAN. THEY. DO. IT?
@LoveBiscuit: I don’t care who you support, Leicester winning a quadruple would be the most beautiful thing this sport has seen
↩️@tactical_lad: they’re not just winning, they’re DOMINATING
↩️@seriousfootballonly: They’ve conceded less than 10 goals since Christmas. This team’s no fluke.
↩️@Ronaldosburner: imagine doubting Tristan Hale in 2026 when we’re all using his face on the 10 pound note 💀, if England win the Euro by some miracle, I better see Tristan getting knighted
@ISuck_TristanD: reminder that Messi did this celebration first but Tristan’s version was cleaner
↩️@BBBB: both are iconic tbh, btw your name is insane, lmao.
↩️@AAAA: it’s poetic how both are lefties, humble, and let their football do the talking
↩️@Sins: except Tristan uses his right foot more, lol. Although Tristan has no weakness, he just uses one leg more and Tristan per say isn’t humble but more like he doesn’t talk much so we don’t hear much from him besides his activities, you know what I mean?
.
Gary Lineker looked like he might float straight out of his chair. His grin was unstoppable.
“Alright. I’m supposed to be neutral here,” he began, waving a hand, “but come on. Leicester City… have beaten Manchester City for the third time this season. They’ve lifted the League Cup. They’re seventeen points clear at the top of the league. Unbeaten in the FA Cup. Unbeaten in Europe. And Tristan Hale—” Gary let out a laugh, shaking his head, “he just kissed his boot like he was signing a contract with destiny.”
Jamie Carragher threw his pen down onto the desk with a clatter.
“You’re acting like we didn’t all watch the same thing!” he barked, eyes blazing. “That performance? That midfield? That link-up? If I’m Liverpool, I’m sending faxes, carrier pigeons, smoke signals—whatever it takes. Because there’s nobody like him. Not here. Not anywhere.”
Thierry Henry sat straighter, calm on the outside but with a gleam in his eyes.
“You know what I saw?” he said slowly. “A young man playing with complete emotional control. Wembley final, and he treated it like a training session. No panic. Just rhythm.”
Carragher leaned forward. “And he’s twenty! Twenty! We’ve got seasoned internationals, two hundred caps, and they still freeze on nights like this.”
Henry nodded, his voice dipping into reverence. “He reminded me of Messi. Not the same skillset, no. But the temperament. The way he carries himself in the biggest moments. They know what’s expected of them. And they deliver. Every time. And I’ll admit—” he hesitated, almost protective, “—I was scared for him tonight. Because no matter how good he is, he’s still a kid. Just twenty.”
Roy Keane, arms folded, gave a sharp nod. “Aye, but let’s not forget—this is the same lad who, at nineteen, said out loud he was the best player in the league. Before playing United. At Old Trafford.”
The whole desk burst out laughing, even Thierry. Gary wiped his eyes, but quickly turned serious again.
“Alright, alright. Let’s talk the actual football. Thierry, what did Leicester do right today?”
Henry leaned in, voice precise now. “Positionally, they were brave. Kanté and Drinkwater pressed in waves. Mahrez and Vardy didn’t give City’s defenders a single second. And Tristan? He adjusted. Dropped deeper. Played between the lines. Didn’t dribble as much. He passed. He controlled tempo. That’s maturity.”
Carragher jabbed a finger toward the highlights rolling behind them. “That assist, my god. He drags Otamendi out, gives Mahrez the channel—perfect. That’s not luck, that’s IQ.”
Roy cut in, blunt. “City looked rattled. From the twentieth minute they stopped playing through midfield. They didn’t want to risk giving it away to him. That tells you everything.”
Gary leaned back, his grin softening into awe. “So… are we witnessing a miracle?”
Carragher shook his head. “If they win the league, sure, that’s a miracle. But if they win all four? I don’t even know what to call that. What’s beyond a miracle?”
Roy’s eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t matter unless they finish the job. They bottle it, it’ll mean nothing.”
Carragher jabbed a finger again. “They won’t. Not with Tristan. He’s not just world-class. He’s got that bite. That ‘give me the ball and watch’ edge.”
Gary chuckled, unable to hold it back. “Alright. Forget the miracle. We are officially living in the Hale Era.”
