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Interlude Chapter 232: The Sideman
🕑 Added 2025-07-16 01:10:11 +0000 UTCNot gonna lie, probably the hardest chapter I had to write. I really don’t know anything about the Sideman so I had to watch a few videos to get some type of understanding about their personalities and stuff so hopefully I at least got one of them right. If not, I apologize for that.
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December 21, 2015
East London — Private indoor sports facility
The blue Rover rolled into the car park, tyres crackling over loose gravel. A dull overcast hung above the city. A deep grey that London did better than anyone. Chilly enough to see your breath. Damp enough to regret not wearing a second layer.The car engine clicked off. Doors opened.
John got out first, like always scanning the area.
Tristan followed.
A plain grey tee, navy joggers, and clean white trainers — casual, comfortable, nothing loud. His hair was still a bit unruly from the morning, curls drying into shape from the wind outside. Nike duffel hung off one shoulder with extra clothes.
Behind him
Sofia emerged last, tugging her coat tighter with one hand, takeaway coffee steaming in the other. Her coat was long, tan, and heavy — faux-fur lining brushing against her neck. Leggings, black turtleneck. Enough polish to look put-together. Enough comfort to get through a long shoot day.
She exhaled into the steam. “So… what’s the plan for this Sidemen thing, anyway?”
Tristan adjusted his bag. “No clue. JJ just said it’d be chill. Fun.”
Sofia arched an eyebrow. “You said the same thing about that Nike shoot in the snow — then nearly got pneumonia. Mendes would’ve had me drawn and quartered if you got frostbite over one moody photo.”
Tristan laughed under his breath. “Come on. It wasn’t that cold.”
“It was below freezing.”
“At least this one’s indoors.”
He looked over at her, slowing a step. “Also… you’re not getting fired. Not by Mendes. You’re one of my best friends. And Barbara’s too.”
Sofia blinked.
The words hit her a beat late. Not because they were dramatic — they weren’t. But because of how simply he’d said it. Her expression softened. Lips parting just slightly. Eyes flicking down, like she was trying to play it off even though a small warmth bloomed behind her ribs.
“…Well,” she said, brushing her thumb across the coffee lid, “don’t tell Mendes that.”
Tristan gave a half-smile.
“You excited?” she asked, looking back up at him.
He shrugged, easy. “Yeah. Should be a laugh.”
“I had to push three meetings, cancel a Dior shoot, and move your sit-down with one of the Talk Shows to keep this day clean.”
“Worth it.”
She gave him a look. “You better enjoy yourself.”
“I will,” he muttered, not quite selling it.
Sofia narrowed her eyes. “That sounded like a hostage promise.”
They reached the main entrance. John, already two steps ahead, pulled the door open like he’d been standing there for minutes.
.
Inside, the facility buzzed like a hornet’s nest.
Rows of LED panels hung from steel beams, casting a sterile, bright-white glow over the turf below. Half a pitch long, enclosed, and echoing faintly with the thump of boots and soft camera chatter — the place looked like a training ground wearing a film set’s skin.
Camera rigs framed the field like guard towers. Cables snaked underfoot, taped down in aggressive neon. A fold-out table sagged under the weight of snacks, Red Bulls, water bottles, and about seven different flavors of anxiety. Somewhere off-screen, a boom mic was already failing its job.
This wasn’t just a shoot. It was a moment. And they all felt it.
The Sidemen had gone all in.
The first YouTubers — hell, the first anyones — to get a full day with Tristan Hale. No sponsor middlemen. No media outlet filter. No choreographed promo shoot or sit-down segment. Just football. Just vibes. Just them.
And everyone knew what it meant.
KSI stood dead center on the pitch, hoodie halfway zipped, gold chain resting just below his collarbone. His posture was loose — but his eyes weren’t. They tracked every light cue, every lens switch, every clipboard tick. He wasn’t the clown today. He was the director.
“Make sure his mic’s clean,” he barked to the nearest sound guy. “If it buzzes again, I swear—”
“Cam 3’s still lagging,” someone muttered behind the table.
JJ turned. “Switch it. I want clean focus when he walks in — and that means no motion blur on the goddamn entrance.”
Ethan appeared, crunching on a protein bar. “You good?”
JJ shot him a look. “This is the most watched man in football right now. Man humiliated United, turned down Sky, said no to Graham bloody Norton. And now he’s here — with us.”
He gestured wide, as if still struggling to believe it.
“If we mess this up…” He shook his head. “I’m retiring.”
“From YouTube?” Ethan asked.
Simon walked past, arms folded, watching a field monitor like a producer on take six. “He means FIFA.”
“I mean everything,” JJ said.
A beat passed. None of them laughed. Even Tobi, usually calm as anything, kept tapping his foot by the sideline.
Harry had gone silent for once, standing near a stack of cones, rehearsing some intro gag that now felt stupid in his head. Vik kept pacing by the snacks, peeling the label off a water bottle with surgeon-level focus. Behz kept rotating his shoulders like he was warming up for a fight. Even Simon was unusually serious — less banter, more logistics.
They all felt it.
Tristan Hale wasn’t just famous. He was untouchable. And today, for reasons still unclear to most of them, he’d chosen to step into their world.
“He’d texted JJ. Sent tickets after United. But none of them had actually met him. Not properly. Not face to face. And now he was here.
If they nailed this, it could blow their channels into a different orbit
Then — the door clicked.
JJ’s head turned first.
John stepped in — built like a bodyguard and walking like one too, gaze sweeping the room.
Then came Sofia. Coffee in one hand, phone in the other, somehow balancing both with unbothered elegance. JJ vaguely recognized her from interviews. Well he for sure recognized John, Tristan’s only bodyguard considering he was always with either Tristan or Barbara everywhere.
And then—
Tristan.
Plain grey tee. Navy joggers. White trainers. Hair still wet from the London air. Duffel on one shoulder.
JJ straightened, heart thudding.
His voice cracked, just slightly.
“Alright, boys…” he called out. “Game on. He’s here.”
.
Introductions had that slightly clumsy charm of people meeting who sort of knew each other — just not in real life.
A blur of handshakes, dap-ups, shoulder bumps. Some laughs that came a touch too loud. Nobody wanted to fanboy. But nobody could really hide it either.
“Yo, Tristan,” JJ called out first, that signature grin already in place. “Mad to finally meet you.”
Tristan nodded, calm. “You too, man.”
Simon followed right behind, offering a quick nod toward Sofia and John. “Brought the proper crew with you.”
“They make sure I turn up to things,” Tristan said, then glanced sideways. “And don’t disappear halfway through.”
“Not for lack of trying,” Sofia muttered into her coffee.
Tobi stepped in next — always the level-headed one — and shook Tristan’s hand properly. “Appreciate you showing up, honestly. Didn’t think you’d have time for this.”
“I’ve seen a few of your videos,” Tristan said, casually. “Thought it’d be something different.”
That landed like a dropped pin.
“For real?” Vik asked. “Which ones?”
“The matches,” Tristan said. “The FIFA ones sometimes. One of the hotel videos where you lot almost got kicked out.”
“That narrows it down to all of them,” Ethan muttered.
Harry pointed. “Wait—were you the one who said I shouldn’t be allowed to cook again?”
Tristan smirked. “Nah. But you probably shouldn’t.”
Harry sighed. “Fair.”
Ethan gave him a once-over. “So you’ve watched us enough to know what’s coming, yeah?”
Tristan nodded. “A bit. Doesn’t mean I’m ready.”
“Bro talks like we’re Navy SEALs,” Simon said.
“Have you seen Harry shoot?” Vik added. “It’s not far off.”
JJ clapped his hands together. “Alright — quick rundown of today before we start kicking balls into lights.”
He pulled out a folded paper, waving it like a game plan.
“Warm-up drills to start. Then the Sidemen match — classic red vs. white. After that, penalty shootout. Twist is…” He glanced at Tristan. “You’re in goal.”
That got a few reactions.
Vik squinted. “Wait, what?”
Tristan just shrugged. “Yeah, alright.”
Harry leaned over to Ethan. “Is he joking?”
“Man’s calm. That’s scary,” Ethan whispered.
JJ rolled on. “Then we’ve got the GOAT goal challenge — you lot trying to recreate the iconic stuff. R9, Henry, maybe even some Beckham.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “You lot actually pulling off R9 goals?”
“We’re pulling hamstrings,” Simon said. “That’s what we’re pulling.”
“And last up — sit-down interview. Chill chat. Just football, careers, and whatever else we come up with.”
“Sounds good,” Tristan said, adjusting his bag strap.
Simon tilted his head. “You actually any good at pens?”
“I get by.”
That answer hung for a moment — not cocky, not shy. Just vague enough to make them all curious.
JJ smirked. “Alright, mystery man. Let’s find out.”
He spun on his heel and waved them all forward. “Everyone on the pitch. Warm-ups first. Get loose before someone tears an ACL for the content.”
There was a brief shuffle — bags dropped, coats peeled off, mic packs adjusted. John found a quiet corner to station himself. Sofia hovered near the snack table, phone already out, thumb scrolling through emails but one eye still on Tristan.
JJ was already waving at the camera crew. “Right! Cam one on the main pitch. Cam two get side shots. We’re starting with warm-up drills — keep it light, lads, but not too light. Remember, Tristan’s here, not Halesy from the pub league.”
Tristan stepped onto the turf, the thud of boots against rubber echoing faintly under the roof.
He glanced up at the overhead lights, then back at the pitch — half-sized, surrounded by gear, but familiar enough to feel like home.
He bounced once on his toes, rolled his shoulders, and finally, quietly, said:
“Let’s play.”
.
The whistle hadn’t even blown, and Ethan was already bouncing like a toddler on energy drinks.
“Stretch lines, boys,” Simon called out, jogging backwards toward the cones. “Let’s try not to snap hamstrings today.”
“No promises,” Harry muttered, cracking his neck like he was prepping for a heavyweight title fight.
Tristan dropped his bag off near the edge of the turf, giving the setup a once-over — light rigs hanging in the corners, two camera guys stalking around like snipers, and a drone buzzing gently above the rafters.
“This is warm-up?” he asked, raising a brow. “Feels like I’m under government surveillance.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sofia called from the sideline, lifting her coffee. “They do this even when you’re not here.”
He chuckled, pulling at the collar of his tee. “Tragic.”
That got a few laughs.
The warm-up kicked off simple: passing drills. JJ called them out in pairs.
Tobi zipped a ball a bit off-center. Tristan met it with one touch, popped it forward with the outside of his boot, and returned it on a line so clean it might’ve been drawn with a ruler.
Tobi blinked. “You didn’t even look.”
Tristan shrugged. “I trust you.”
“You shouldn’t,” Tobi muttered.
“Man plays like his controller's got aim assist,” Ethan added, jogging past.
Next up: rondo. Four inside, two pressers.
“Don’t go easy on him,” JJ called. “He might have quick feet, but he’s got slow shame.”
Tristan cracked a grin. “You’d know.”
JJ froze. “Wait. You talk trash?”
“Depends who’s listening.”
Inside the circle, Tristan didn’t do anything wild — he didn’t need to. Every touch had intent. Every turn had tempo. The ball just… stuck to him. Passed, moved, received. Never rushed. Never wasted.
“Is there anything he can’t do?” Simon asked after chasing the ball like a terrier three rounds straight.
“What did you expect?” Vik replied, crouching to fix his shin pad. “He probably not even trying at all.”
“Bet he’s crap in goal though,” Harry offered.
Tristan glanced over, a little smirk on his lips. “Wanna bet on that?”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “Oh, he’s hiding something. I feel it.”
Then came shooting drills.
JJ went full power. Tobi curved one top right. Vik barely made contact. Harry... launched one into the ceiling rig.
“It was curving,” Harry insisted.
“Yeah, into the atmosphere,” Simon said.
Then came Tristan.
He approached casual — borderline sleepy. And then curled a left-footed shot off the far post and in. No flair. No backlift. Just clean.
Ethan blinked. “You didn’t even plant properly.”
Tristan shrugged. “Didn’t want to ruin the turf.”
“Bro,” JJ said, “you curl one more like that and I’m calling the FA. You’ve got secrets.”
“Everyone needs hobbies.”
They rotated again. More drills. More banter. A few nutmegs, mostly accidental — Harry kept getting caught in the Bermuda Triangle of Tristan, Tobi, and Simon.
And slowly, the vibe shifted.
Whatever nerves were floating earlier? Gone.
Tristan wasn’t some brooding prodigy with an ego that size of Mars. He was just here to have some fun.
As the final whistle of warm-up blew, Simon clapped twice and pointed toward midfield. “Enough of the flirtation. Let’s play.”
JJ turned. “Red bibs or white?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tristan said, rolling his neck.
“Red,” Harry declared. “It’s more intimidating.”
“I think that’s bulls,” Ethan muttered.
Tristan pulled the red bib over his head, tugging the hem into place.
“Alright,” Simon clapped, jogging toward center pitch. “Red team over here. White team — sorry in advance.”
Vik raised a hand. “I want to be on Tristan’s team.”
“Of course you do,” Ethan muttered. “We all do.”
JJ pointed between the lot of them like a PE teacher stuck with too many loud kids. “Okay, we’ll draft. Proper old-school.”
Simon called it. “Rock-paper-scissors for first pick?”
“I’m not twelve,” JJ said — then threw rock.
Simon, without hesitation, threw scissors. “Bollocks.”
JJ grinned. “First pick — Tristan. Obviously.”
Tristan raised both hands. “Wow. First overall. Pressure.”
“You’re playing striker,” JJ said.
“I thought I was in goal?”
“That’s later. Right now you’re running channels.”
“Cool. Just let me know what a channel is.”
They all laughed, even Harry, who was currently trying to balance a bib on his head like a hat.
Simon picked Tobi next. “Because he’s the only one who won’t forget which side he’s on.”
“Mad that you just insulted five people at once,” Vik muttered.
Picks continued: Ethan, Vik, Harry, even John got a nod from someone before Harry yelled “Oi! He’s not playing, he’s a UNIT!” and immediately retracted the offer.
Eventually it was five-a-side:
Red team — Tristan, JJ, Vik, Tobi, and Harry.
White team — Simon, Ethan, Behz, and a rotating keeper spot.
“Alright,” JJ said, jogging in place. “Let’s make this official. Red team — chaos and vibes. White team — disappointment and tax evasion.”
“Can we be the White-collar crimes?” Ethan asked. “Feels on brand.”
Simon pointed at Tristan. “You good to start? Need a minute? A massage? Pep talk?”
Tristan grinned, already tightening his bib. “I’ll survive.”
“You say that now,” Harry muttered. “Wait till I foul you ‘by accident’.”
“Just don’t dislocate anything,” Sofia called from the sideline. “Preferably his market value.”
They spread out. JJ dropped the ball in the middle like he was blessing it. Cameras rolled. The drone buzzed to life again, angling in overhead. Lights flared.
“Kickoff in three,” someone called.
Tristan looked around at the setup — the pitch, the lights, the guys grinning like they were ten years old again.
He leaned toward JJ and whispered, just loud enough for Simon to hear:
“Don’t worry. I’ll carry you.”
JJ grinned. “Say less.”
The whistle blew.
Tristan took the first touch, and just like that, the game was on.
From kickoff, the plan — if there ever was one — disintegrated instantly.
JJ tried to dribble past Simon and tripped over his own laces. Vik shouted something tactical that was either “switch it!” or “sandwich!” No one knew. And Tobi, bless him, was actually trying to play properly — until Harry cannoned the ball out of bounds in the first 18 seconds.
“Restart!” someone yelled.
“No!” JJ groaned from the floor. “Play the advantage, I had that!”
“You had gravel burn,” Ethan said. “That’s what you had.”
Tristan stayed quiet. Watching. Reading. Floating between positions like he wasn’t entirely tied to one. JJ passed him the ball, and with one touch, he lobbed it to the far post where Tobi nearly volleyed it into Vik’s head.
“Bro!” Vik shouted. “I’m not a rebound net!”
“Sorry,” Tobi winced. “Good ball though.”
“It was,” Tristan said, smiling just a little.
The white team countered — or tried to. Behz hoofed the ball across the pitch, only for it to bounce clean off a light rig and drop straight to Harry.
“See? Tactical lighting,” Harry said proudly.
“You hit the ceiling,” Simon said flatly.
“Exactly.”
JJ found himself in possession again, dribbling forward with far too much confidence. He squared up against Ethan, pumped his shoulders, and whispered, “watch the feet.”
Ethan just body checked him gently and took the ball.
“You watched your feet?” he said.
“You’re built like a fridge,” JJ muttered.
Meanwhile, Tristan was pulling strings without saying a word. Drop pass here, dummy run there. The kind of simple football that made everyone else look like they were playing underwater.
Simon finally noticed.
“Can someone get him off casual mode? He’s doing Cruyff turns like he’s checking his watch.”
Tristan spun past him, flicked a pass to Vik, and nodded. “Still five minutes left, right?”
Vik passed it back, immediately regretted it, and then Harry intercepted by mistake — by standing still.
“Unreal defending by gravity,” Ethan said.
Tobi shouted, “Push up!” just as Vik tripped over a cone that hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.
At some point, a drone flew too low and got nutmegged by a rogue pass from JJ, who insisted it was on purpose.
“It’s content,” he said. “It counts.”
The score? Irrelevant. It was 3-2. Or maybe 4-3. No one was sure. Harry claimed he scored twice. Everyone else insisted one of those was an own goal.
Sofia, still on the sidelines, yelled, “Tristan, you’re doing cardio today! You okay?”
He raised a hand in acknowledgement.
“Right!” Simon shouted, half out of breath. “Last goal wins. Let’s make it chaotic.”
“Because it’s been so tactical until now,” Ethan said.
The final play started — Behz launched a looping ball from the back line. It bounced once, twice, and JJ was somehow under it, trying to chest it down like Thierry Henry.
He misjudged it. Fell. The ball popped loose.
Tristan stepped in, tapped it forward with his knee, and flicked it with the outside of his boot into the corner of the goal.
Then Harry went, “Nah. Nahhh. You did not just do that.”
JJ sat up. “I literally fell over for the assist. I deserve partial credit.”
Ethan leaned on his knees. “This man is playing five-a-side like it’s La Liga.”
Simon threw his hands up. “Alright, break time before someone cries.”
Tristan finally smiled — wide this time. “So when do I get in goal?”
They all groaned at once.
Vik mumbled, “I already feel a comeback arc brewing.”
JJ pointed at the camera crew. “Cut. That’s warm-up. Get him gloves. And someone pray.”
JJ clapped once, loud and dramatic. “Alright boys, now comes the real humiliation. GOAT goal challenge.”
“Already feel like a goat,” Harry muttered. “As in… the animal. Not the acronym.”
Simon held up a clipboard with about eight names scrawled across it. “Here’s the lineup. Each of us attempts to recreate one legendary goal. One chance. No retries.”
“I don’t see your name on there,” Vik pointed out.
“That’s because I pulled my quad this morning,” Simon said.
JJ spun toward the camera. “And watching over us? Judging our every scuffed volley and mistimed toe-poke? The man who’s actually scored half of these in real life — Tristan Hale.”
Tristan, seated casually on a folded chair at midfield with a water bottle and a notepad he clearly wasn’t going to use, raised a hand like a chill headmaster.
“I promise to be kind,” he said.
“You’re not allowed to lie on YouTube,” Tobi replied.
.
First up: Ethan — Thierry Henry vs. United (2000)
Turn. Flick. Volley. Far post. One of the most iconic goals in Premier League history.
Ethan turned to face the makeshift “Arsenal box,” eyes narrowed in focus. JJ floated the ball in. Ethan chest-tapped it awkwardly, stumbled slightly, then swung like he was chopping a tree.
He missed.
Entirely.
Like, full air.
He spun halfway around and landed on his arse.
JJ fell to his knees laughing. “The ghost of Roy Keane just tackled him from another dimension.”
Tristan gave a diplomatic nod. “Great chest control. Just… not on a football.”
Ethan rolled over. “I’ve never hated this sport more.”
.
Next: Vik — Cristiano Ronaldo free kick vs. Portsmouth (2008)
The legendary knuckleball from 40 yards out.
Vik lined it up with a little stutter-step. He was dead serious. Licked his fingers like he was reading a menu. Stepped back five paces.
Then ran up and hit it…
...straight into the wall.
The wall being a foam mannequin, which promptly fell over like a drunk toddler.
“HE KILLED HIM,” Tobi shouted. “RONALDO WOULD NEVER.”
“Ronaldo has never,” Tristan said, eyes wide. “That was a hate crime against mannequins.”
Vik raised both hands. “Fuck you all.”
.
Tobi — Ronaldinho vs. Chelsea (2005)
That stupid toe-poke banger from the edge of the box.
Tobi actually got the rhythm right. A couple shoulder feints. Little shimmy. He stopped. Paused.
And then… toe-poked it wide by about 15 feet.
“You were so close,” JJ lied.
Tristan nodded. “To scoring in the wrong sport, yeah.”
Tobi bowed. “Thank you. I’ve disgraced the Samba bloodline.”
.
JJ — Messi vs. Getafe (2007)
The solo run. Halfway line. Three defenders. Magic.
JJ set off with the ball from midfield, yelling, “I AM THE CHOSEN ONE!”
He beat one cone.
Then another.
Then ran into Harry, who was standing still.
They both collapsed.
Harry groaned. “Why was I the obstacle?!”
“I thought you were Getafe!” JJ yelled from the floor.
Tristan sipped his water. “Peak Messi didn’t run into people. Just saying.”
.
Final shot: Simon — Beckham vs. Wimbledon (1996)
Halfway line lob. Glory or embarrassment.
Simon squinted at the goal. “Alright, this is it. Cinematic moment. Legend vibes.”
He took two running steps and launched it with full commitment.
It soared.
Gracefully.
Beautiful arc.
Right into the ceiling rig. One of the lights flickered and died.
“…That was a warning shot,” Simon said, hands on hips.
“Bro tried to score against heaven,” Ethan said.
Tristan finally laughed out loud. “I’m giving that a 10. For ambition.”
..
At the end, they all wandered back toward midfield — sweaty, breathless, and pretending like they weren’t mildly winded.
Vik tugged his bib off and wiped his face. “I think the main takeaway is we’re not built for this.”
“Speak for yourself,” Ethan said, stretching his back. “I’m built different.”
“You’re built like a fridge with shin splints,” Harry muttered.
JJ pointed at Tristan. “And you. You just sat there judging all of us. Like a quiet Simon Cowell in joggers.”
Tristan tilted his head. “It was... educational.”
“Educational?!” Tobi laughed. “Bro said it like we’re a science project.”
Tristan smiled, finally. “Yeah. Like watching different ways to not hit a football.”
“I don’t think I’ve hit the ball cleanly once today,” Vik added.
“Yeah, but you hit the mannequin in the soul,” Ethan said. “That counts for something.”
Harry pointed at his shin. “I’ve got a bruise shaped like Gareth Bale.”
Sofia, from the sideline, called out without looking up from her phone, “That’s because you fell on your face.”
“I was improvising,” Harry shot back.
They made their way toward the chairs — joking, nudging, half-insulting each other the whole walk.
They made their way toward the chairs — joking, nudging, half-insulting each other the whole walk.
JJ flopped into one with a dramatic exhale. “I feel like I’ve aged a decade.”
“You already looked 38,” Ethan said.
“Bro, you’re built like retirement,” JJ muttered, grabbing a towel off the nearest bench.
.
Simon squinted dramatically at the card in his hand. “Alright — we’re starting easy. Who’s the best-dressed footballer right now? Besides you, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Tristan deadpanned, nodding solemnly like it was a burden.
He gave it a second of fake thought. “I’ll say Thierry Henry. Even retired, the man could walk into Vogue wearing a curtain and they’d ask him to headline fashion week.”
“That’s facts,” Ethan muttered. “Smoothest bald man alive.”
“As for me…” Tristan shrugged. “Honestly, it’s mostly Barbara dressing me. I just stand near the clothes until she tells me which ones won’t get me roasted.”
JJ cracked up. “Bro said he’s a mannequin with anxiety.”
“She’s undefeated,” Tristan said. “Once, I wore a hoodie to a gala. She didn’t speak to me for three days.”
Simon leaned in. “You wore a hoodie to a gala?”
“It was designer!” Tristan protested.
“Was it wrinkled?” Vik asked.
Tristan paused. “...no.”
Groans went around the group.
“Also,” Tristan added, “shoutout to Daniel Sturridge. Man dresses like he’s about to drop an R&B album and sue his own label in the same day. I respect it.”
Tobi laughed. “So that’s the vibe you’re into? Fashion-forward football?”
“I’m into not looking like a ‘create-a-pro’ glitch,” Tristan said. “You know the ones where the guy’s got pink boots, a monocle, and a mullet?”
Harry raised a hand. “That’s literally me.”
“You’re the reason I don’t play online,” Tristan replied.
They all burst out laughing. The vibe was already loosening — and the interview had barely started.
JJ flipped to the second card, his voice dipping into something closer to serious.
“Alright. Favourite goal you’ve ever scored. The one that meant the most.”
Tristan’s smile faded slightly — not gone, just softened.
“Oh, man…” he leaned back a little. “That’s tough. But probably my debut goal. FA Cup. Against Stoke. It’s a night I can remember till the last details.”
Simon nodded. “I remember that game. Last ten minutes, right?”
“Eighty-seventh minute,” Tristan said, almost automatically. “ One bounce. Hit it first time. Top corner.”
“Respect,” Tobi murmured.
Tristan gave a small smile. “What people don’t see is that I nearly fell over trying to celebrate. Slipped on the way to the corner flag. Proper Sunday League vibes.”
That got a laugh.
“But yeah,” he added, a little more serious now, “that goal changed everything. I’d just been promoted to the bench. I still remember what Pearson said to me, what a night it was.”
He glanced up at the ceiling, like the memory was still playing out up there.
“And then — bang. Ball hits the net. Crowd froze for half a second. I just stood there. Didn’t move. It was weird. Felt like everything slowed down.”
“Like a film scene,” Ethan said.
“More like a loading screen,” Tristan replied. “My brain genuinely lagged. Then suddenly I was getting tackled by five of my teammates and someone’s elbow was in my mouth.”
“Beautiful,” JJ said.
“Thanks,” Tristan said. Then added, deadpan: “Also, Stoke fans since than have hated me.”
“Right. GOAT debate. One name. No essays. Just say it.”
“Messi,” Tristan said immediately.
“Not even yourself?” Tobi asked.
Tristan blinked, completely straight-faced. “Top three. Obviously. Behind Messi… and Sofia.”
From the sidelines, Sofia didn’t look up from her phone. “Correct.”
“Can confirm,” Tristan added. “She once nutmegged me with a clipboard.”
“That’s real,” JJ muttered.
Simon leaned in like he’d been waiting for this all day. “Alright. We've been arguing about this since breakfast. Your all-time XI. No bias. No club loyalty. Don’t lie.”
“I never lie,” Tristan said. Then he cracked his knuckles like he was prepping for a TED Talk.
“In goal — Buffon. Man’s basically a football cryptid. Ageless. Possibly immortal.”
“Facts,” Vik said.
“Right back — Cafu. The blueprint. Two centre backs: Maldini and Nesta. Pure class. Left back — Marcelo.”
Tobi nodded. “Respect. Real proper names.”
“Midfield three: Zidane, Xavi, Iniesta. Pure elegance.”
“Midfield built like a jazz trio,” Ethan said.
“And up front…” Tristan took a breath. “Messi on the right. Ronaldo on the left. Beckham through the middle.”
That broke the room for a second.
“Wait. Beckham at striker?” JJ asked.
“False nine Beckham?” Simon blinked.
“He’s not there for the goals,” Tristan said. “He’s there for the vibes. And the free kicks. And the hair.”
“Hair gel starting XI,” Vik said.
“I wore so much gel growing up I nearly set off airport security once,” Tristan said. “All because I wanted that one Beckham flick fringe.”
JJ laughed.
Ethan clapped like a game show host. “Alright — speed round time.”
“Best teammate ever?”
“Barbara,” Tristan said instantly. “No one else even brings snacks.”
“Worst?” Vik grinned.
Tristan tilted his head. “Still plays. Still owes me an assist. He knows who he is.”
“Would you beat any of us in FIFA?”
Tristan pointed straight at Harry without hesitation. “I’d beat him blindfolded. One hand. With the commentary in Korean.”
Harry sat up. “Bro, what?!”
“Two-nil. First half,” Tristan added.
Harry groaned. “I’ve never been insulted in four languages at once.”
Tobi laughed. “We’re barely halfway through and he’s already cooked you.”
And just like that, whatever nerves had been hanging in the air evaporated.
JJ leaned back in his chair. “You know what? This might actually break YouTube.”
Simon grinned. “Yeah. If we don’t get demonetised for emotional damage.”
They were no longer sitting across from Tristan Hale, global phenom.
They were just talking football — and laughing their heads off while doing it.
The cameras kept rolling.
.
if you haven't checked out the Naruto story yet, please do give it a read.
Comments
Kylberg
Beckham PTSD
Jaden
You doubled up the all time XI team and the GOAT questions near the end. Still a really good chapter
