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Chapter 225: Prep Part 2 (End)
🕑 Added 2025-07-01 19:22:16 +0000 UTCNovember 27, 2015 Belvoir Drive – Early Morning
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The strategy room was quiet. The fluorescent lights buzzed gently overhead. Marker pens clicked open and closed. Chairs creaked as coaches leaned in or sat back, each man studying the whiteboard at the front of the room like it might blink or bite.
Claudio Ranieri stood in front of it, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His tie was loosened. His reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose. In his right hand, a laser pointer, which now hovered over a small blue magnet labeled 22.
Tristan Hale.
To his left, Vardy’s magnet sat at the edge of the top third. Mahrez drifted in slightly from the right. Albrighton hugged the touchline on the left. And behind them, Kanté and Inler like bookends around the central channels.
Ranieri tapped the board.
“Alright, gentlemen,” he began, his voice low but certain, “United are coming to our house. And after last season, best believe they are going to throw everything they have at us.”
“We had a tough week, our players are tired, exhausted — but that doesn’t matter now. We still have to perform our miracle. That’s what is expected of us. A draw or loss at our own ground would be an embarrassment. And to United of all clubs.”
A team they had humiliated last season. If they were to lose under him, the English media would have a field day.
Paolo Benetti, his most trusted lieutenant, nodded from across the table, jotting something into his spiral notebook. Steve Walsh leaned forward. Craig Shakespeare shifted his weight, hands clasped in front of him.
“We play this our way,” Ranieri continued. “Fast. Vertical. Brave. But smart.”
A younger analyst raised a hand from the back.
“What if we press early and hard? Try to catch them cold?”
Walsh gave a skeptical grunt. “That’s how you get picked off. Hale isn’t just smart — he’s cruel. He doesn’t punish mistakes. He humiliates them.”
Ranieri gestured calmly. “Let him finish.”
The analyst flushed but nodded. “I just think… if we seize initiative, they’ll panic.”
“Perhaps,” Ranieri said. “That’s what training is for. Ideas. Then we see what survives contact.”
Another staffer gestured to Hale’s magnet.
“False nine again?”
Ranieri nodded. “We hold the option. We don’t commit.”
He moved the Tristan magnet back ten yards.
“If they press high, we use space. If they sit, he pushes the line. But if they man-mark—” he turned and gave the room a look, “—then we punish their gaps. That’s where Vardy and Mahrez feast.”
Benetti chimed in, pointing with his pen. “Carrick’s intelligent. He doesn’t have much weakness we can exploit. But Jones and Smalling? If they get pulled wide, they panic. You overload between them and suddenly there’s five yards of green.”
Shakespeare added, “And Herrera’s temper is still a factor. He bites when provoked. We press him on second balls.”
Ranieri allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
“We’ve trained it all week,” he said. “The third-man runs. The midfield squeeze. But none of it works if we don’t move and run. That’s my biggest fear. And I don’t wanna overwork the starting eleven and our ace. But according to the medical staff, for now they are okay. Tristan is healthy with no issues or tear.”
“Those two are our biggest hope against United. Most of their attention will be on Tristan and Vardy.”
He motioned toward Mahrez and Albrighton.
“Mahrez starts right, but as soon as Tristan shifts, he’s free to drift. Albrighton keeps discipline — he’s our width anchor. But he must deliver early. The window closes fast.”
“What about Drinkwater?” Walsh asked.
Ranieri looked thoughtful.
“He starts if we want verticality. If we want control, it’s Inler. We’ll decide tonight. But either way, it’s the same job — keep the rhythm until we slice.”
Then Shakespeare asked the question everyone had been waiting for.
“And Tristan?”
The room went still.
Ranieri turned slowly. He reached for the magnet — 22 — and held it between his fingers for a moment.
“We show the lineup with him starting. Let the world believe he’s going the full 90.”
He placed the magnet down. Firmly.
“But we don’t decide until the whistle. Maybe he plays thirty. Maybe seventy. Maybe not at all.”
Murmurs circled the table. The assistant coach in charge of press releases raised an eyebrow.
“You want to bait them?”
Ranieri didn’t blink.
“We want them uncertain. If they plan around him — we’ve already won half the battle. Their midfield will drop deeper. Their defenders won’t commit. They’ll be thinking about Tristan’s ability before he even steps onto the pitch.”
Benetti leaned back, impressed. “He’s not even on the pitch, and they change shape.”
Shakespeare exhaled. “They always do.”
Ranieri’s expression didn’t change.
“We do not have Tristan to throw him at every wall,” he said. “We have him to break the right one. At the right time.”
He let that sink in.
Then he looked at each coach in turn.
“We do not play afraid. And we do not overplay our hand. If they come at us like wolves, we draw them in and pass through. If they wait like statues, we push until they break. The result is not guaranteed. But the intention is.”
Benetti nodded. “And if they try to man-mark Tristan?”
“Then we pull the strings,” Ranieri said. “We let Mahrez, Vardy, and Kanté play into chaos. Tristan is the sword. But even a sword in its sheath makes the enemy hesitate.”
That line hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ranieri clapped once, sharply.
“Alright. Training in thirty. Final adjustments. Same drills, tighter rotations.”
The staff stood slowly, chairs scraping. A few began folding laptops. Others picked up whiteboards or data sheets. Coffee mugs were gathered. Someone clicked off the projector.
Benetti lingered a moment longer.
“I’m worried for Tristan. People will expect another hat-trick. Another perfect game or close to it.” Benetti said softly.
Ranieri didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the board. On the magnet marked 22.
“Me too,” Ranieri said. “But Tristan isn’t a normal kid. He’s been handling the pressure fine. And if he cracks, that’s fine as well. Losing one game is fine. It’s not the end of the world.”
The hum of conversation returned — murmurs about spacing, about substitutions, about whether Fellaini would feature or not.
But Ranieri stayed still.
When the room emptied, he looked at the whiteboard again. Just him. And the magnets. The shape of a plan. A dream. A fear.
He stepped forward and touched 22 again.
He remembered his first week at Leicester.
Ranieri wondered — not for the first time — what’s going to happen once Tristan wasn’t part of this club anymore.
The boy had been a part of this club for more than 15 years.
He could imagine the chaos and disbelief once Tristan left. He was no fool; everyone in the club from top to bottom could see the writing on the wall.
No one brought it up out of respect for Tristan. For the Crown Prince of this club, of this very city and country.
He just tapped the magnet once more.
Then turned off the lights before getting one last glance at all of his players' names on the board.
.
Hours Later
The players’ lounge was alive.
Bluetooth speakers hummed softly with an old Dizzee Rascal track. Someone had swapped out the protein bars for mini doughnuts on the snack tray, and no one had confessed yet.
Mahrez lounged on the sofa, feet kicked up on the armrest, flicking a stress ball into the air like a kid who’d just finished his homework. Vardy stood near the espresso machine, shaking a sugar packet too aggressively while talking to Danny Drinkwater, who still had tape wrapped around his left wrist from training.
“You see the fan art someone made of Tristan yesterday?” Vardy said between sips. “Had him riding a lion. A real one. In full armor. Holding a ball like it was Excalibur.”
Drinkwater chuckled. “And you were probably the horse, yeah?”
“Oi, piss off.” Vardy grinned. “If anything, I’m the dragon.”
“Pretty sure the dragon died in that story.”
“Exactly. For the drama.”
Across the room, Kante sat on a low bench beside Ben Chilwell, quietly re-tying his boots even though they weren’t coming undone. His routine. His ritual. He didn’t talk much, but his presence always was a calm one knowing they had him in the background.
On the wall, the Sky Sports ticker replayed clips from the pundit show. Someone muted the sound, but the headlines were hard to miss:
“CAN UNITED REDEEM THEMSELVES?”
“TRISTAN HALE: THE SHADOW OVER OLD TRAFFORD”
“IS THIS LEICESTER’S TITLE TO LOSE?”
Tristan sat in the corner booth, hoodie up, thumb scrolling idly on his phone. Mahrez looked over.
“You good” he asked, worried. Everyone was counting on him to embarrass the Red Devils once more. He didn’t want the kind of pressure on Tristan but what could he do?
Tristan looked up.
“No worries, mate.” He said smiling before he went back to his phone getting a text from Ed.
Chilwell shook his head, smirking. “You lot are something else. If this were United’s camp, half of them would be in ice baths crying.”
“Because they know what’s coming,” said Vardy, tapping his cup twice against the counter. “They remember last season. That was trauma. We turned them into a joke.”
“But they’ll come different now,” Drinkwater warned. “They’ve been prepping all week. Van Gaal probably hasn’t blinked in four days.”
“Let them prep,” Mahrez said. “They can study 22 all day, they won’t stop him.”
“Don’t hype me,” Tristan said softly, not looking up. “That’s how you curse a good run.”
Vardy pointed at him. “That’s why you’re annoying. You play better than Messi but act like it’s nothing.”
“It is nothing,” Tristan muttered. “Until we win something.”
That quieted the room for a second.
Then Kante stood up and adjusted his sleeves. “Team meeting in ten. Ranieri will want us early.”
Mahrez nodded, stretching. “Better not be raining.”
“It won’t,” Vardy said. “Because for once, the football gods are on our side.”
The corridor outside the players’ lounge hummed with casual footsteps and clatter. Shin pads clacked against tiled floors. A few players peeled off toward the treatment rooms while others wandered toward the tactical suite upstairs.
Marc Albrighton leaned against the vending machine, tapping on the screen with a glazed look.“Why do we even have this? Nobody eats this crap.”
Christian Fuchs walked past him, unwrapping a protein bar. “Because Mahrez always forgets his lunch. And because I still believe in Twix.”
Schlupp emerged from the ice bath room wearing flip-flops and a grimace. “Never again. That thing’s colder than Tristan’s soul.”
Kante passed behind him at that exact moment and simply nodded once.
“Exactly,” Schlupp said, deadpan. “Exactly.”
In the far corner, Tristan stood with his back to the wall, phone still in hand. A soft buzz. He opened it.
Love: Let me know when you’re home later ❤️ We can pick a movie.
He smiled faintly, thumbs hovering for a second before tapping back.
Tristan: Will do. Hopefully not too late.
“Tristan,” said a voice beside him.
It was Mahrez again, this time slipping his arm around his shoulder in mock drama.
“You going to flirt your way to another goal tomorrow?”
Tristan pocketed the phone. “Might pass for once. Keep the ball moving.”
Mahrez smirked. “That’s boring.”
“You saying I’m selfish?”
“I’m saying,” Mahrez said as they began walking, “if you’re going to break hearts, do it with style.”
Vardy jogged past them with a mock snarl. “Save the flirting for Saturday, boys. There’s only one team we’re seducing this weekend — and they wear red.”
Laughter bounced down the hallway.
As they reached the doors of the tactical room, Steve Walsh waited, leaning on the frame with a clipboard in hand.
“Inside, lads. Ranieri wants the energy up. No lagging.”
Kante stepped through first. Chilwell and Drinkwater followed. Mahrez nudged Tristan forward.
Inside the room, the lights were dimmed. The screen was already glowing blue, frozen on an aerial image of Old Trafford — an overhead schematic of United’s pressing shape.
The chairs filled slowly, players slumping down one by one.
Albrighton leaned in. “You ready for this?”
Tristan nodded once.
The screen clicked to life. Ranieri’s voice came through the speakers.
“Let’s begin.”
The projector flickered softly against the wall as the final few players filed into the darkened room. A wide aerial still of King Power Stadium filled the screen — not a stadium in theory, but their stadium. The stands tinted in blue, the dugouts familiar, the pitch a territory they’d bled on for years for some players..
Ranieri stood at the front, one hand on his hip, the other resting lightly on the clicker.
“Sit. Breathe. Listen.”
The video resumed. A clip from the last time United visited. Crowd noise swelling. Vardy crashing home the fourth goal. The scoreboard reading 7–1. Tristan with arms outstretched, ice-calm while bodies around him screamed.
The room was quiet.
Ranieri let the clip hang for a few seconds before clicking forward. It cut to a freeze-frame of the current United lineup. A pause.
“This time, they come prepared,” he said, voice slow. “They want revenge. But they walk into our house. The same pitch we humiliated them on.”
He clicked again. A tactical schematic of United’s usual 4-2-3-1 formation rotated onscreen.
“They will not open themselves up like last year. Van Gaal will plan deep blocks. Carrick to slow tempo. Herrera to press. Martial and Depay will try to isolate us wide.”
He paced slowly along the front row, his voice low but cutting.
“But that doesn’t matter. Because it’s not about them.”
Click.
The image shifted again — now Leicester’s pressing traps. Visuals of Kanté intercepting, Mahrez breaking, Tristan threading passes without looking. There was rhythm in it. Design. Fluidity that looked like a mess until slowed down frame by frame.
“This is us,” Ranieri said, tapping the screen. “This is our language. Ball. Pressure. Escape. Movement.”
He turned around to face them directly.
“They are afraid of this system. Afraid of you.”
A brief beat.
“And they are terrified of our golden boy.”
He pressed forward again — now footage from Leicester’s home matches this season: fans roaring, banners flying, the chorus of “We believe in miracles” echoing through the stadium.
“They come here. They come nervous. Don’t forget that. They hear this crowd. They remember the seven. They feel the pressure.”
A few nods now. Quiet ones. From Fuchs. From Simpson. From Vardy, who leaned forward in his chair.
Ranieri set the clicker down.
“This isn’t about fear. It’s about control. You control the press. You control the runs. You play with conviction. We do not wait to see if they’re ready. We decide the tone.”
He stepped away from the screen.
“If Tristan plays, they’ll panic. If he doesn’t, they’ll wonder when. Either way — we hold the knife.”
“Same assignments. I want decisions tonight. Training’s done. You know your jobs.”
Chairs scraped back. Murmurs returned — measured, focused.
As the players filed out, Mahrez slapped Tristan lightly on the back of the head.
“Did you hear that? You’re the knife now.”
Tristan didn’t smile. “Let’s hope I’m sharp enough.”
.
Later That Evening
The corridor was quieter now.
No shouts, no music, no studs clicking on tile. Just the soft echo of cleaning staff in the distance, and the low buzz of halogen bulbs humming above the narrow hall. A vacuum whined somewhere down by the away dressing room.
Claudio Ranieri walked slowly, alone. No clipboard. No coat. Just the man himself, his pace thoughtful, his brow slightly creased as if still revisiting slide number 17 from the tactical breakdown.
He passed the team meeting room, now empty. Water bottles left half-full. A tactics board still bearing the shape of a miracle.
One of the club interns passed him and gave a polite nod.
“Coach,” she said.
He nodded back gently.
Ranieri turned left, where the hallway opened into a press corridor dressed in Leicester blue. Security nodded him through.
At the end of it, a single door stood propped open — the small, boxy media room lined with club banners, camera setups, and soft plastic chairs already filling with journalists.
He took a breath at the threshold.
Then stepped inside to a room filled with hounds.
The low hum of chatter died the moment the cameras switched on. Red tally lights blinked. Dozens of journalists leaned forward, their elbows brushing as they reached for recorders and notepads. A dozen languages, one man.
Claudio Ranieri sat at the center of it all, flanked by the club’s PR officer and the glinting silver of the Premier League match backdrop. His navy sweater was freshly pressed, glasses perched comfortably on the bridge of his nose. If there was tension behind his calm, he didn’t show it.
“Good evening,” he said gently.
The BBC’s lead reporter wasted no time.
“Claudio, Manchester United return here tomorrow. Everyone remembers last year — seven-one. Do you expect them to come at you with a more… aggressive approach?”
Ranieri gave a diplomatic nod. “When a proud club like Manchester United loses that way, it becomes memory. Deep memory. I would remember too. I’m sure they do. They will come with discipline. With purpose.”
“But you don’t sound too concerned.”
He smiled faintly. “Worried? No. Respectful? Always. We know what they bring. But we also know what we have.”
Another hand shot up — from Sky Italia. “Coach, be honest — is Tristan Hale starting?”
Laughter rippled across the room, but the question carried weight. Ranieri only smiled, almost too calmly.
“You will find out tomorrow, like everyone else. Including him.”
“But is he fully fit?”
Ranieri’s fingers tapped gently against the desk. “He is available. That is all I will say.”
A writer from The Guardian leaned in. “Claudio, with all due respect, do you ever worry your team has become over-reliant on Tristan?”
This time, Ranieri didn’t smile.
“I worry about many things. Rain during warm-ups. Mistimed runs. Red cards. But not that. We are not one player. Vardy scores. Mahrez dances. Kanté runs more than any two men combined. If Tristan cannot play, someone else will. Maybe Vardy. Maybe Mahrez. Maybe... the goalkeeper,” he joked.
The room laughed, breaking the tension for a moment.
“But Claudio,” a French journalist said, “some pundits are calling Hale the next Pele.”
Ranieri tilted his head. “People like to compare. That is their job. My job is to help him stay humble. And to protect him — from pressure, from praise, from noise. You do not teach a lion how to roar. You simply let him learn when.”
A pause. Then came the question that had been building:
“Can you win the league?”
Ranieri sat back. Then leaned forward again, palms flat.
“Can? Yes. Will? That is for time to decide. We are not chasing glory. We are chasing growth. And maybe… if we grow enough, glory will find us.”
The reporters nodded — not out of agreement, but something more subtle. Admiration.
Even the tough questions began to sound softer. Like admiration in disguise.
Meanwhile – Old Trafford Media Theatre
Same time. Different air.
.
Flickering fluorescents. Faint static from the microphones. A single plastic bottle of water sat unopened at the table. No club crest banner here — just a blank white wall behind the podium and a sense of obligation.
Louis van Gaal entered briskly. Sat down. Folded his arms.
“Let’s begin,” he said flatly.
A Sky Sports reporter started first. “Louis, it’s been two matches without a win against Leicester. Last season’s 7–1… do you understand why so many fans are doubting your ability to adapt to Tristan and this Leicester system?”
Van Gaal’s jaw flexed. “My record speaks for itself. But yes — that match was a humiliation. We do not hide from it. And we have worked very hard since.”
The Daily Mail’s voice cut through: “Do you see tomorrow as a must-win?”
“At United, every game is must-win. That is not news.”
Another voice — sharper now. “But the pressure’s different. With Mourinho available, reports are swirling. Can you address those rumors?”
Van Gaal narrowed his eyes. “I am not interested in rumors. Only in facts. The fact is: I am the manager. And I prepare my team.”
“But your top scorer has five goals. Vardy alone has sixteen goals and that’s not including Tristan.”
Silence.
“We play differently,” he finally said. “We are built to handle pressure that comes with trying to win the league. Leicester has no experiences in this regard.”
The PR officer stepped in, stiffly: “Next question, please.”
No one moved. Then a Telegraph columnist leaned in.
“Louis, how do you stop Tristan?”
Van Gaal blinked once. “We don’t. We stop Leicester.”
“Can you?”
That hung in the air too long.
The press officer called time shortly after. Van Gaal stood, slower this time, the weight showing in his posture. Not angry. Just… dulled. By repetition. By contrast. By the distance between his answers and the applause Claudio received down the motorway.
Back in Leicester
.
The room was winding down. A few journalists packing laptops. Camera crews quietly coiling cables.
One final question rose from the back — a soft Italian accent.
“Claudio… in England, they used to call you the Tinkerman. Now they call you the Architect. What changed?”
Ranieri’s smile returned.
“Nothing changed. I am still Claudio. Still adjusting. Still thinking. Still stubborn. The only difference…”
He glanced at the Leicester crest behind him.
“...is maybe now, people like the blueprint.”
Click.
Another camera flash.
And with that, the lights dimmed. The miracle marched on.
.
The door clicked softly.
Tristan stepped inside, shutting it with the quiet care of someone trying not to disturb the world. His duffel bag hung loose off one shoulder. The hallway was still, lit only by the amber hue of a lamp in the corner. Biscuit’s paws tapped against the hardwood before she padded around the corner, tail wagging sleepily.
“Hey, girl,” he whispered, crouching to rub behind her ears. She licked his knuckles once, then turned and trotted off, mission accomplished.
Shoes off by the mat. Bag dropped gently by the stairs.
The faint sound of a TV murmured from the living room — soft, distant, familiar. He turned the corner.
She was there.
Barbara lay curled into the couch, one leg tucked under a blanket, the other dangling lazily off the edge. Tristan’s hoodie swallowed her frame. A forgotten bowl of popcorn sat half-eaten on the table. Blue light from the screen flickered over her cheekbones, catching the slow rise and fall of her breath.
He stood there for a second. Maybe longer.
The weight in his body — the soreness, the exhaustion, the planning, the pressure — eased just slightly. His fingers brushed over his temple. A breath. A faint smile.
She stirred.
“Mmm?” her voice rasped sleepily. “Tris?”
“Yeah,” he said gently. “I’m home.”
Barbara blinked, adjusting upright. Her voice was thick with sleep. “What time is it?”
“Almost midnight.”
She reached for the remote, killed the TV. The room dimmed.
“You eat anything?”
He shook his head.
Barbara sat up fully now, the blanket slipping to her waist. Her hair was mussed, her face still soft from sleep. She patted the cushion beside her.
“Come here.”
He didn’t hesitate long. He sat. Her legs curled beside his like it was second nature.
“You smell like turf and anxiety,” she mumbled, tucking her head under his chin.
He chuckled. “You should’ve seen Vardy at dinner. Nearly threw a fork at Chilwell.”
“Why?”
“Chilwell made a playlist and didn’t put Dizzee on it. Vardy called it ‘criminal negligence.’”
Barbara snorted. “Sounds about right.”
She shifted, wrapping her arms around his middle. Her cheek against his chest. Her fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt.
“You okay?” she asked.
Tristan didn’t answer right away.
“I’m ready,” he said finally, “but… it’s a lot. Expectations. Headlines. Pressure. Everyone wants another hat-trick. Another show. And I don’t know if I have enough in the tank this week to give it.”
Barbara didn’t say anything. Just pulled him closer, warm and wordless.
“You’re freezing,” she murmured.
“You stole the blanket.”
She grinned. “You can have it back if you promise to shut up and just be here.”
“I can do that.”
He kissed her — soft and slow.
When he pulled back, Barbara blinked up at him. “That good a session?”
“Long,” he murmured. “Cold. But good.”
“Biscuit passed out by ten,” she said, motioning vaguely toward the living room.
“Wish I could’ve done the same.”
Barbara stood, her bare feet silent on the floor. “C’mon. You’re eating.”
“Bossy tonight,” he said, following her to the kitchen.
“You’re dramatic when you’re tired.”
She pulled a plate from the fridge — grilled chicken, sweet potato, greens — and slid it into the microwave.
“If we win tomorrow,” Tristan said, leaning against the island, “we’re eight points ahead of United.”
“At the top?”
“Yeah. Top.”
“Then eat like someone who’s about to be king.”
When the microwave dinged, she handed him the plate. He sat. Started eating.
She watched him for a moment before pulling up a stool.
“How’s the team?”
“Calm to be honest. No one’s really nervous or excited to play United compared to Newcastle. We pretty much spent two whole weeks preparing for the match to make sure we won. As for United, we already embarrassed them enough thanks to your little motivation.”
At the little motivation Barbara couldn’t help but smile. United fans really hated her. How was she supposed to know that score would be 7-1 even if Tristan got a hat-trick.
She settled in beside him, pulling her knees up onto the stool. “I had kind of a weird day.”
He looked up mid-bite. “Yeah?”
“That Hungarian brand I worked with last year? The lipstick one. They called. Said the campaign blew up in Asia. They want to launch a full capsule — my own line. Sofia thinks it could be huge.”
Tristan paused. “Wait — like a full Barbara collection?”
“Lipstick. Skincare. Maybe more.”
He stared. “That’s… actually sick.”
“She even came up with a name. ‘Palva.’ Palvin plus diva.”
Tristan laughed. “That’s catchy.”
Barbara chuckled. “I told her to slow down. But she sees the momentum.”
Tristan reached out and touched her hand. “If you want to do it, I’ll back you 100%.”
Maybe she could even start her own makeup company instead of just collabing with others and just being the face of it. If he was remembering right, that’s how Selena Gomez and a few others got to billionaire status.
“And if I want to put eyeliner on you again?”
“I’ll consider retirement.”
“You looked good.”
“I looked like a villain in a K-drama.”
“A hot villain.”
They both laughed — tired and close and comfortable.
Then Barbara’s voice dropped a little. “Sometimes it’s weird.”
“What is?”
“All this. Being with you. Not because of you — just how the world sees us. I used to be the one in front. Now I feel like the plus-one.”
“You’re not,” Tristan said firmly. “Not in this house.”
She looked at him, eyes soft. He meant it.
“I know,” she whispered. “It’s just strange. That’s all.”
“You’re gonna run the whole damn beauty industry. I’ll be clapping like an idiot in the background.”
Barbara smiled.
“You’re gonna run the whole damn beauty industry,” Tristan said, watching her. “Honestly, you don’t even need to wait on anyone. You could launch your own brand — your own company. Not just a capsule or collab. A real one. With your name. Your vision. Full control.”
Barbara blinked. “You think?”
“I know.” He pushed his plate slightly to the side. “And if you need the funds to start it — anything at all — I’ve got you. No strings. No pressure. Just say the word.”
Her eyes searched his face. Soft. Surprised. Then something warmer.
“Love…”
“I mean it,” he said. “Not because you’re my girlfriend, or because it’s some ‘power couple’ thing. But because it’s smart. You’re smart. And this is yours to build. All of it.”
Barbara looked down at the countertop. Her fingers idly played with the corner of a napkin.
“Okay,” she murmured. “Let’s… talk about it after United.”
He tilted his head. “Yeah?”
She nodded, gaze lifting to meet his. “I want to think about it when your head’s clear. When you’re not carrying a stadium on your back. You’ve got enough on your plate. No distractions.”
He smiled faintly. “You’re not a distraction.”
“I know,” she said. “But tomorrow’s big. You need to be locked in. And I need you to walk into that pitch like you own it. Not thinking about lip gloss logistics.”
Tristan laughed under his breath. “Lip gloss logistics. That’s a new one.”
“I’m serious,” she said, reaching out to touch his hand. “If we’re going to do this — really do this — then I want your full support when you’re not burning 1,200 calories in 90 minutes.”
He squeezed her fingers gently. “Deal.”
Barbara exhaled, her shoulders softening. “And after we beat United, you can be my first investor.”
“Only if I get naming rights.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What would you name it?”
He grinned. “Tristan’s Skincare.”
She laughed. “You’re banned from the boardroom.”
They stayed there for a moment, fingers loosely laced between them. The house felt still again. Warm. Like it always did when the world outside felt too big.
Barbara glanced at the clock. “You need sleep.”
“Yeah,” he said, but didn’t move.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
She stood and leaned over to kiss his temple. “C’mon. We’ll talk empire building later. You need your beauty sleep now.”
Tristan got up, taking one last look at the now-empty plate, then followed her down the hallway.
Behind them, the kitchen light stayed on for a beat longer — casting their shadows together on the wall.
.
November 28, 2015
King Power Stadium – Matchday, Early Afternoon
The camera jolted slightly as KSI turned it on himself, his wide grin already filling the frame.
“Let’s goooo!” he roared. “It’s matchday, baby! We are HERE. Leicester City vs Manchester United. The return. The smoke. The storyline. The sequel. Tristan vs history. 7–1 revenge tour, part two!”
Behind him, the plaza outside King Power was already chaos.
Not the bad kind.
Scarves looped from every neck. Flags waved from backpack poles. Faces were painted blue and white, some with crude little 22s scribbled across foreheads in marker pen. Blue smoke drifted from flares like incense in a church of madness.
A group of middle-aged fans were banging empty kegs like war drums. A teenager blasted “Fix Up Look Sharp” from a portable speaker, remixing Dizzee Rascal into a football hymn. Somewhere nearby, a local street performer balanced a football on his neck while juggling two more.
Simon (Miniminter) swung into frame next to JJ, hoodie up, beanie underneath, scanning the scene.
“Bro... this isn’t a normal football match,” he muttered.
Vik turned the camera for a crowd sweep. “Look at this. It’s like Glastonbury but with more polyester and hatred for Smalling.”
Around them, every five feet seemed to be its own pocket of madness — friends locking arms and belting out chants, dads lifting their kids onto shoulders, people posing with homemade signs.
Near the club shop, a group of uni lads in matching “TRISTAN IS THE GREATEST” t-shirts had stacked five crates to make a makeshift podium. One was standing on top, arms stretched out like a prophet, leading a chorus of:
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE, YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN’S ON FIRE, YOUR DEFENSE IS TERRIFIED!” 🎵
The chorus spread like static. Kids joined in. Pensioners clapped along. People slapped car bonnets in time with the beat.
“UNITED GONNA CRY AGAIN!”
“UNITED GONNA CRY AGAIN!”
“UNITED GONNA CRY AGAIN!”
Tobi pointed at a guy in a fox mask and foam crown holding a cardboard sign: TRISTAN HAT-TRICK LOADING… ⏳
“These lot already wrote the script,” he said, shaking his head.
“JJ! SIDEMEN!”
Phones whipped out like pistols. Dozens of fans rushed over. “Picture, please!” “Big up the Mandem!” “Sign my shirt!” “JJ, gimme a shout-out!”
One girl — probably eleven — handed JJ a miniature Tristan Hale bobblehead and asked him to “bless it with goal powers.” JJ tapped it on his temple like a wizard and handed it back.
“You guys live-streaming it?” one fan shouted.
“Nah, man,” JJ grinned. “We’re here live and breathing. You gotta feel this one.”
“Bro,” said another, showing him a homemade poster. It was a Game of Thrones style render — Tristan Hale on a throne made of shattered red jerseys, Mahrez kneeling beside him, Vardy holding a sword.
Title: The Boy Who Broke Manchester.
“Jesus,” Simon said. “That’s proper fanfic art.”
A fan in a retro Muzzy Izzet shirt walked up for a quick interview.
“Prediction?” JJ asked.
“Pain,” the guy replied. “For United.”
Another fan — older, leather jacket, gray in his beard — leaned in: “They came here last year like giants. We chopped them down. This time, they bring armor. But Tristan? Hale goes through armor.”
A few United fans lingered near the edge of the plaza, tight-lipped and avoiding eye contact.
JJ clocked them and pulled them in. “Come on, lads. What do you honestly think?”
One United fan, to his credit, stepped forward. “If we hold Leicester to one goal, I’ll call that a win.”
The crowd laughed. Someone shouted, “Smalling’s gonna need prayer beads!”
And then... it changed.
A low murmur rolled across the crowd like distant thunder.
The Manchester United team bus had arrived.
It turned the corner in slow motion — matte grey, tinted windows, escorted by two police bikes. Silent. Cold. A machine on wheels. But the way the Leicester fans saw it?
A hearse.
BANG.
Boos erupted like a cannon blast. It was louder than a concert, more tribal than war drums.
“SEVEN–ONE! SEVEN–ONE!”
“WELCOME TO THE SLAUGHTER!”
“YOUR GONNA GET FIRED!”
Someone flung a bag of blue confetti into the air. Another fan unfurled a bedsheet banner that read: TRISTAN HALE OWNS YOUR CLUB.
Simon squinted. “Is that a guy in a mourner’s veil waving goodbye?”
“Bro,” JJ laughed. “That’s not tinted glass. That’s trauma shielding.”
Near the front, one fan held up a massive laminated printout of last year’s scoreboard:
LEI 7 – 1 MUN
Beneath it: “FEAR IT.”
A roving YouTube mic found its way to JJ.
“If Tristan drops another masterclass today, can he win the Ballon d’Or?”
JJ didn’t blink. “Ballon d’Or? If he scores a hat-trick today, put him on TIME Magazine, Forbes 30 Under 30, and give him a Nobel Peace Prize for services to humiliation.”
Cheers erupted again.
The Sidemen made their way toward the turnstiles, flashing their tickets.
“Alright,” JJ said, turning the camera on himself, “Tristan gave us the seats. You know he’s giving us the fireworks.”
“Scoreline?” Simon asked.
“3–1,” JJ said. Tristan with a brace. Mahrez curls one. United get a red.”
“Tenner says it’s Herrera,” Tobi added, cracking up.
They stepped under the turnstile canopy. Inside, the noise dulled slightly. Music blared over the tannoy. The smell of fried onions, sweat, cheap beer.
As they passed a vendor, a little girl tugged on JJ’s sleeve.
“Are you really friends with Tristan? I saw your videos and post about it”
JJ crouched. “The one and only. And he told me he’s cooking something special today.”
She beamed like she’d won the lottery.
The Sidemen pushed deeper, toward the tunnel walk. Stewards opened up media row.
Simon glanced toward the tunnel where United’s players were warming up under high security.
“Someone’s already scared,” he muttered.
JJ raised the camera one last time as the chants surged again:
“TRISTAN!!”
“TRISTAN!!”
“TRISTAN!!”
“Let’s go,” he whispered. “I’m hyped.” He never was this excited before to go to a game even when he went to Arsenal games.
The moment they stepped through the final security gate, the noise hit different.
Drums still pounded outside, but in here it was rhythmic thunder. The heartbeat of Leicester. Chants layered on top of chants. The crackle of announcers echoing over the tannoy. Flags waved in every tier. Banners dropped from the second level — one massive one read:
“WE BELIEVE IN MIRACLES”
KSI kept the camera rolling, spinning in a slow circle to capture it all. “This is mental,” he whispered, almost reverently. “This is what football should feel like.”
Simon leaned over the railing, filming the pitch.
“There’s Mahrez. There’s Vardy. Yo, is that… yeah, Tristan’s warming up with the subs. Not even starting?”
“He’s baiting ‘em,” JJ said. “It’s psychological warfare. You see the way Van Gaal’s team are glancing over every ten seconds? They're shook.”
Fans nearby started waving at the camera. Some shouted predictions again.
“Five–nil!”
“Brace for Vardy!”
“Tristan hat-trick incoming!”
Tobi pointed down to the pitch. “Look at Herrera. Man’s already arguing with Fellaini — and the game hasn’t even started.”
“Tristan’s in their heads,” Vik added. “Before the whistle. Before the lineups. He’s already there.”
Then came the announcement over the stadium speakers:
“Welcome to the King Power Stadium! Today’s Barclays Premier League fixture — Leicester City vs Manchester United!”
The crowd exploded into cheers.
The stadium lights brightened.
And then the real noise started.
From the South Stand, a wall of sound erupted:
🎵 “OH TRISTAN HALE, HE’S ONE OF OUR OWN!” 🎵
🎵 “HE DESTROYED UNITED, HE SITS ON THE THRONE!” 🎵
🎵 “HE PLAYS LIKE A DREAM, HE MAKES RONALDO MOAN—” 🎵
🎵 “TRISTAN HALE! OUR GOLDEN STONE!” 🎵
Simon burst out laughing. As the stadium camera panned across the crowd, the Sidemen waved, blending in with the roar.
And in that moment — surrounded by flags, fans, voices, songs — it didn’t matter that they were YouTubers or celebrities or VIP guests.
They were just fans waiting for the start of a game that captured the attention of the world.
.
Apologize for the long ass delay but my parents are divorcing so dealing with a lot of paperwork, stress and moving out as well.
Anyway, hopefully you guys liked this chapter.
I changed the title of the last chapter as well. I wanna give this game the attention it deserves as after this game I’m gonna do a timeskip.
Comments
Sanguinius
Great chapter! I would ask if you know Tobi from the Sidemen is a United fan, it doesn't seem to come across that way but maybe its just me.
BaldRhaegar
Another Hat trick would be legendary Messi against Madrid type shit
