Sinbad
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Chapter 234: In The Background
🕑 Added 2025-07-18 06:31:05 +0000 UTCDecember 23, 2015 – Evening
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The doorbell rang just past eight. A soft double chime that barely rose above the gentle hum of rain tapping on the windows.
Tristan looked up from the couch, where he'd been sitting for the past hour without the TV on. The living room glowed faintly from a single lamp in the corner, the air warm but still. He didn’t move right away — not until he heard Biscuit’s telltale snort on the other side of the door.
He smiled, just a little, and finally stood.
When he opened the door, Barbara was there — damp curls tucked beneath a knit scarf, cheeks pink from the cold, holding Biscuit under one arm like a misbehaving bag of flour. The dog’s fur was wet and matted, and Barbara looked about two minutes away from telling the weather to fight her.
She exhaled hard. “We are never walking in this fog again. Your dog is a sponge.”
Tristan laughed, stepping aside to let them in. “She’s your dog when she’s wet. Noted.”
Barbara kicked off her boots, set Biscuit down, and unwrapped her scarf. “Smells like toast in here. Did you eat?”
“No.”
“Tea?”
“Mm.”
“That’s not an answer.”
She moved toward the kitchen while Biscuit galloped clumsily toward the couch and shook a tsunami of rainwater onto the rug.
Tristan stayed by the door a moment longer, just watching. The way she moved, how her presence seemed to warm the room before the kettle even boiled. But his smile faded as quickly as it had come.
Barbara noticed.
She paused in the kitchen, turned slowly, and narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s your ‘everything is definitely something’ voice,” she said, walking back toward him. She placed a hand on his chest.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m literally just breathing.”
Tristan hesitated before answering. They had no secrets between each other.
Then exhaled. “They want to raise the clause.”
Barbara blinked. “What?”
“One twenty,” he said. “Retroactive. Mendes is handling it. They agreed on everything else.”
She didn’t react right away. Just took a step back and searched his expression, like trying to figure out where he’d gone.
“And… you’re okay with that?” she asked, softer now. They already talked about this before and Tristan and Mendes were fine with the 60.
“I wasn’t.” He moved to the couch, sat on the edge. “I thought the release clause was supposed to protect me. Give me control. But now…” He looked down at his hands. “Now it feels like it should protect them. The club. The fans. The people who backed me before I was anything.”
Barbara sat beside him, slowly. “So you’re saying… you want to leave right.”
“Exactly.” He looked at her now. “If I walk for sixty, even if we win everything — it’ll always feel cheap. Like I ran off in the middle of the night.”
Barbara leaned into him gently, resting her head against his. “It’s your choice, love. It’s your career, no one can tell you what to do. We can only give you advice.”
“I told Mendes about your makeup line,” Tristan said suddenly.
Her head snapped up. “You what?”
“I want in. Not as a sponsor. As an owner. You can decide how public or private I am. But it’s yours. And I’m behind it. Start to finish.”
Barbara blinked. “What if it tanks? What if I mess it up and cost you millions?”
Tristan grinned, soft and crooked. “Then we have a really glamorous failure. That we can sell the movie rights to.”
She laughed through her nose. “Don’t be stupid.”
“I’m serious,” he said. “We build things. That’s all I want. Something that’s ours.”
She reached for his hand and held it tightly.
“You know,” she murmured, “my parents are learning English.”
He raised a brow. “What?”
“They’ve been doing lessons. With Anita. Even my dad.” She smiled at the thought. “He said he wants to be able to understand your post-match interviews.”
Tristan blinked, then smiled wider than he had all day.
“They feel it too,” Barbara said softly. “That this… might be forever.”
Before he could respond, Biscuit launched herself up onto the couch, plopped half on Tristan’s lap, half on Barbara’s, and gave a wet snort of approval. Her tail thumped once. Then again.
Tristan kissed Barbara’s temple.
“Wherever I go,” he said, “you’re with me.”
Barbara turned, kissed him back — this time on the mouth, slow and certain.
“And wherever you go,” she whispered, “I’m already there.”
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Later That Night – Leicester City Centre
The restaurant was one of those places you didn’t find unless someone trusted enough whispered it to you. Tucked behind the cathedral, down a narrow lane with uneven stones and no signage, its windows were fogged with warmth, glowing from the inside like an ember in the night.
Inside, the air was low-lit and slow-moving. Glass clinked faintly. The hum of soft jazz wrapped around the room like smoke. Most of the tables were empty, the staff moving quietly, respectfully — not because they recognized Mahrez and Kanté, but because the place was built for privacy.
They sat in a red leather booth at the back, where the light dimmed further and the walls felt close enough to keep secrets.
Between them, a steaming tagine took centre stage — chicken and apricots, with warm steam curling up in lazy spirals. The air smelled like cinnamon, cumin, and roasted almonds. Mahrez scooped couscous onto a side plate, then passed the spoon without speaking.
It was a few minutes before either of them said anything.
Mahrez poured water into two cloudy glasses, his tone casual, but his eyes steady as he asked in french, “Did you hear?”
Kanté looked up, chewing slowly. “About Mendes?”
Mahrez nodded once. “He was at the training ground today. Meeting with the board. Sofia too.”
Kanté didn’t blink. Just set his fork down carefully beside his plate. “About Tristan.”
“Obviously.”
The silence between them thickened, but not uncomfortably. They both knew what was coming.
“They offered him a new deal,” Mahrez said. “Better wages. Bigger clause. You know the drill.”
Kanté didn’t react much. Just let out a quiet exhale and glanced toward the kitchen. “You think he stays?”
Mahrez’s hand hovered over the breadbasket for a beat before pulling back. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t.”
Kanté nodded, slow and resigned. He reached for his glass but didn’t drink from it.
“It feels like…” Mahrez trailed off, searching for the right word. “Like something’s closing. A chapter or something.”
“A book,” Kanté said softly. “Feels like the end of a book.”
Mahrez let out a quiet laugh, but it wasn’t really amused. “Yeah. A wild one.”
He picked at his food, not hungry anymore. “If Tristan leaves… it won’t just be him. It’ll start a chain. You know that. Me. You. Vardy. Ben. Marc. Maybe not right away but one by one.”
Kanté said nothing at first. Then, finally: “Do you want to leave?”
Mahrez paused.
“No,” he said. “Not yet. Not if it’s still this? If the project dies after Tristan leaves? I won’t stay just to be noble. Football doesn’t wait. And we’re not kids anymore.”
Kanté didn’t argue. He just nodded. Then, after a long pause, in that quiet, careful English of his, he added: “But I like play with Tristan.”
Mahrez looked over at him genuinely and smiled.
“Yeah,” he said. “We all do.”
Kanté finally picked up his glass and took a sip. His eyes stayed fixed on the table.
“My agent called me. Said many clubs asking. Big ones.”
“And?”
“I said… no answer. Not yet.”
Mahrez raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
Kanté looked up.
“I wait for him.”
Mahrez studied his face for a moment. Then slowly leaned back, wiping his hands on a napkin.
“Then let’s do it. One last run. For him. For us.”
Kanté raised his glass. “For Leicester.”
Mahrez clinked his against it gently, the sound soft but sure.
And neither of them said the thing they were both thinking.
If this is the end —
then let it be legendary.
.
Same Night
Sofia sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, the soft hum of her heater rising and falling behind her like a second breath. Three phones buzzed intermittently on the nightstand, each one assigned to a different function — business, backup, internal. Her MacBook balanced on her thighs, glowing faintly against the navy cotton of her dress.
A tablet sat beside her, running a live Excel Sheet. She hadn’t touched her herbal tea in over an hour. The mug had gone cold. She didn’t care.
Her hair, once sleek, had come undone at the nape, the bun collapsing under the weight of a day that hadn’t stopped once — not even for breath.
On her screen were four open tabs.
Tab one: Real Madrid — Long-Term Squad Planning
A technical dossier labeled “Tristan Hale – Strategic Fit: CAM/False 9,” complete with heat maps, press impact modeling, and jersey projection sales.
Tab two: Liverpool – Marketing Activation 2016-2018
Tristan’s name appeared seven times across different departments — media outreach, overseas fan tours, kit sponsor rebrand, youth training camps, and two charity extensions. The biggest pull since Suarez. Possibly ever.
Tab three: Barbara Cosmetic Holdings (Provisional)
A spreadsheet detailing cosmetic labs in Paris, Milan, Seoul, Budapest. Sample budgets. Soft launch sequencing. Distribution models. Early-stage founder advisory board. Sofia had built the deck herself the moment Tristan brought it up — not because Mendes told her to, but because she knew it mattered. To him. And to Barbara.
Tab four: Internal Workflow Chart – Team Hale (Master)
A flowchart that would make a Silicon Valley firm blush.
One hundred and four people.
Marketing. Lawyers. Sponsorships. Finance. Digital. Merchandising. Licensing. Foundation staff. Investment consultants. A four-person social media strategy unit. An entire analytics firm on retainer. Event liaisons. Crisis comms.
And then there was his personal core:John (Security + Logistics)
Felix (Chef)
Soma (Nutrition + Recovery)
Sofia herself
Not to mention Barbara’s rising team — three full-time already, with six projected by spring. Sofia managed them, too. But Sophia took care of the majority.
She closed her eyes for just a moment, pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose, and breathed.
Another buzz.
Her middle phone. The encrypted one.
Mendes: Just prep Madrid and Liverpool decks. Quietly. No need to wake the volcano.
She typed back, quick and clean.
Sofia: Understood.
She stared at the message for a moment longer than necessary. Then, without looking, minimized the Real Madrid tab and leaned back onto her elbows, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.
She thought about Mendes. And Tristan. About the quiet shift she'd felt tonight.
There was a time — even just a month ago — when she’d been sure the two would go their separate ways by spring. Mendes had spent a decade shaping Cristiano into a brand larger than football. He tried the same template with Tristan — tight control, public omnipresence, carefully wielded power.
But Tristan wasn’t built like that. He didn’t move in straight lines. He spiraled, daydreamed, scribbled grand ideas at 3 a.m., then turned them into companies. Or documentaries. Or social projects. He didn’t dominate the system. He danced with it.
Sofia had figured Mendes would eventually lose patience. That Tristan would pull away. Start from scratch with someone else. Maybe her.
But after tonight…
She wasn’t so sure anymore.
And she didn’t mind.
She didn’t want to be Mendes.
She didn’t want to own Tristan.
There was no ego in it. She didn’t need a title like “lead agent” or “primary representative.” She wasn’t Sophia.
Sofia preferred to live off-camera.
She coordinated. She scaffolded. She listened. She made sure the wheels didn’t fall off while the others steered the ship into uncharted waters.
Her payment was excellent. Her hours were inhuman. Her loyalty was real.
She loved this. She loved them.
Barbara, with her warmth and wit. Tristan, with his impossible vision and even more impossible standards. And the strange orbit they all lived in — part business and part best best friends.
Sofia adjusted the volume on her screen. A voice note had just come in from Soma — something about sleep pattern drift and cortisol levels. She opened a new draft email and began typing a reply.
All of it ordinary.
All of it essential.
And Sofia — steady, invisible, indispensable — got back to work.
.
The morning didn’t rise — it arrived, carried in on a wave of headlines that crashed across phones, TVs, and tablets before most people had finished their tea.
“TRISTAN’S EXIT CLAUSE SOARS TO £120M – FOOTBALL’S NEXT RECORD BREAKER?”
The Leicester Mercury had it first. Then The Guardian. Sky Sports. BBC. By 9:40 a.m., the word “Tristan” alone was trending across five countries. By 10:00 a.m., #TristanClause was the top global hashtag.
Reddit froze.
Twitter fractured.
Group chats combusted.
“£120M?? That’s not a footballer, that’s an oil field.”
“Bro’s gonna cost more than most national budgets.”
“Still saw him at Nando’s last week like it was a corner shop.”
“If he leaves Leicester for 60M, I’m rioting. If it’s 120M, I’ll drive him there myself — in a Rolls.”
“Tristan Hale is football.”
Sky Sports launched an emergency panel.
Jamie Carragher looked visibly winded.
“It’s mad. This number’s not just a figure anymore — it’s history. He’ll break the market. And if you’re a big club who’s been sniffing around quietly? Yeah, time to start shouting.”
‘LIVERPOOL COME ON DO SOMETHING PLEASE!”
Behind the buzz, phones rang in war rooms across Europe.
In London, Mendes’ assistant had fielded twelve calls in two hours, including a very irritated one from Bayern.
In Madrid, Florentino Pérez rang Mendes personally. Twice.
In Turin, Juventus sent a written offer before lunch.
But in Leicester…
On a quiet street just off Clarendon Park, in a redbrick home where the curtains were always neat and the teacups always matched — the mood was slower. Gentler. Heavy in a different way.
Christmas Eve was usually quiet joy.
But this year, it came with goodbye folded into the wrapping.
Meanwhile at Julia’s House
Tristan sat at the family dining table, one elbow propped against his plate. He wore a soft grey crewneck with the sleeves bunched halfway up his forearms, his chain tucked mostly under the collar. He hadn’t touched much of his toast.
His mum, Julia, emerged from the kitchen, tea towel over her shoulder and a tray of fresh biscuits in her hands. His dad, Ling, sat at the other end of the table with a steaming mug, quietly observing his son.
“You alright, love?” Julia asked, glancing at him with practiced eyes — eyes that had read every mood of his since he was six.
“Yeah,” Tristan said. “Just thinking.”
She walked around, set the tray down, and gently touched his hand. “You’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
He smiled faintly. “Seems like everyone else is doing the talking for me today.”
Ling chuckled quietly. “£120 million’ll do that.”
Julia didn’t laugh. Not quite. She just looked at her son the way mothers do — like she was holding both pride and sorrow in her chest, afraid one might spill into the other.
“You’ve already given this city everything,” she said softly. “And if you leave, I hope people remember that. I hope you remember that.”
Tristan looked down at his fingers for a second. Then back at both of them.
“I will.”
He sat up straighter. “Barbara’s coming soon.”
“Oh, good,” Julia said. “We were hoping she’d be here before dinner.”
“She also wants to start a brand. Makeup line.”
Julia blinked. “A brand? Like a real company?”
“Yeah,” Tristan said. “She’s got ideas. And I want to help. Not just write a check — like, actually be part of it. I want it to be ours. Something she owns. Something I can build with her.”
Ling grinned, eyes crinkling. “You’re really in love, huh?”
Tristan didn’t rush the answer. He just nodded. “Yeah. I am.”
There was a pause — the kind that felt like a page turn.
And right then, the doorbell rang.
Biscuit’s bark echoed down the hallway — half excited, half indignant.
Tristan stood and walked over. He opened the door to find Barbara standing there, scarf half undone, curls escaping from under her beanie, cheeks pink from the cold. She held Biscuit's leash loosely in one hand and a shopping bag in the other.
She was busy with a morning shoot.
“Hope I’m not late,” she said, smiling at him like it still surprised her — that they got to have this.
“You’re just in time.”
She stepped in, kicked her boots off, and shook out her coat. Biscuit darted inside and immediately made a beeline for Julia, who greeted him like a second son.
Julia hugged Barbara tight. “Welcome home, love.”
Barbara’s eyes shimmered just a bit. “Thanks, auntie.”
Dinner was warm. Honest. Nothing fancy — just chicken roast, buttery potatoes, the same gravy Julia had been making for two decades. They laughed.
They told stories about Tristan’s first boots. Barbara teased him about falling asleep during Paddington. Ling tried (and failed) to teach Biscuit a new trick.
Later, as they lit a single white candle in the middle of the table, Julia raised her glass.
“To family. To the present. And to whatever comes next — we’ll be ready.”
Barbara touched Tristan’s hand under the table. He didn’t say anything. He just laced his fingers through hers.
After a beat, Julia looked over. “Your parents are coming tomorrow, right?”
Barbara nodded. “Yeah. Mum’s already packed enough food for a week. Anita’s driving down with them.”
Ling smiled. “Good. It’ll be a full house.”
Tristan leaned back, hand still clasped with Barbara’s.
It wasn’t goodbye yet.
But it was close enough to feel it.
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3k word count, shortest chapter I think in a long time. But it is 2:30 am here and I need some beauty sleep, I have work in the morning. But I did promise daily chapters so here it is.
Also included a few more Barbara/ Tristan moments that I know some readers have been missing.
I include more of them as the football slows down a little.
I hope you guys liked this chapter and have a good morning for most of my readers.
Comments
Сабит Копбаев
I think if Liverpool sign Tristan, they won't be interested in Sadio Mane.
Matias Arce
If Liverpool signs Tristan for 120 million next season, then they won't sign Sadio Mane.
