Sinbad
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Chapter 218: Reputation
🕑 Added 2025-06-10 22:34:28 +0000 UTCNovember 13, 2015
Alicante, Spain
.
Plates clinked. Chairs scraped. The coffee machine hissed behind the counter.
The breakfast room was quieter than usual. Not tense — just tired. Voices low. Heads down. A few players hunched over eggs and toast, nursing bruises with orange juice.
Tristan moved through the buffet line without saying much. Grabbed a banana. Poured himself a glass of juice. Then slid into the open seat between Drinkwater and Albrighton.
“Morning,” Danny said, still chewing.
“Just,” Marc added. “You sleep at all?”
“Eventually,” Tristan said. “Was too wired after getting Iniesta’s shirt.”
Danny nodded. “Yeah… can’t blame you for that. It’s Iniesta. Pretty sure that’s the first time I’ve seen you do a swap.”
Marc leaned in. “Wait — yeah. You never do those. You too good to trade jerseys with the rest of us peasants?”
Tristan didn’t even look up. He did jersey swaps — occasionally. Usually with legends. Retiring icons. Players he actually respected.
Across the table, Rooney looked up from his toast. “Still Spain, though. Doesn’t matter if they’re not prime 2010. Beating them still matters. You could see it in their faces last night.”
Vardy wandered past, grabbed two croissants, and dropped into the seat next to Bertrand. “Ramos looked like someone ran over his dog.”
Marc chuckled and turned back to Tristan. “What’d Iniesta say to you, anyway?”
Tristan paused, then said calmly, “He said I play beautiful football… like Messi. Then said I was already better than him.”
The table went silent for a beat.
Then Vardy choked on a croissant.
“You’re f***ing joking.”
Tristan just shook his head.
Danny blinked. “That’s not surprising, you are better than him even in his peak.”
Rooney let out a low whistle. “Fair play. You handled the moment. Proper mature out there.”
Tristan glanced down at his plate. “Wasn’t perfect. Gave Isco too much space in the first half. And Morata’s goal—”
“Come on,” Danny cut in. “Even Busquets loses Isco sometimes. That guy’s a shadow.”
“Exactly,” Rooney said. “Don’t dwell on it. We beat Spain. That’s the story.”
Vardy leaned back, arms behind his head. “Be honest — did any of you actually think we’d win?”
No one answered for a second.
Then Bertrand shrugged. “I hoped.”
Rooney smirked. “Didn’t think it. But I knew if Tristan started getting everyone involved, we’d have a shot.”
Marc nudged Tristan’s elbow. “Man was dancing around Fabregas like he owed him child support.”
That finally cracked a laugh.
Later That Morning
Tristan lay back on the bed, legs stretched to the footboard, hotel duvet tangled around his feet. The room was quiet — just the hum of the AC and faint voices from the hallway.
He unlocked his phone just to see the reaction to the game.
Even though this was a friendly, this was still that best team England faced in a while. England’s route to the Euro was an easy one which might have been one of that reasons England got knocked out by Iceland.
The players and team were too confident.
Twitter – Trending in the UK
@SkyFootball: “Tristan Hale leaves Iniesta speechless after MOTM display in Alicante. ‘He plays beautiful football… like Messi.’ We have to ask if this is an invitation to Tristan from Inesta. Tristan would fit right into Barca’s system but would Tristan allow himself to be second to Messi? That is the biggest question whether Tristan will join Real Madrid or Barca? This is a player who is playing better than both Messi and Ronaldo.
@Tobirama Uchiha: Where all that people saying Tristan couldn’t handle Ramos or Spain. Lol come on people do you guys honestly think Spain can stop Tristan? Maybe if they were in their prime than just maybe they can limit how effective he can be.
@ₙᵧₐₙₐᵣ𝓬ₕᵧ: Fabregas got sent to the shadow realm like five times 😭😭😭 this was another Tristan Masterclass. I was a bit worried he was gonna be tired after running from US to Spain. Btw love how supportive Tristan is of Barbara.
@VardyFan69: Tristan gave Spain PTSD. Casillas still on the ground searching for that chip.
@BallKnowledge: Bro literally became Iniesta and then outplayed him.
He blinked down at the screen.
Not because he was surprised.
But because it always felt surreal — that millions of people he’d never meet had something to say about what he just did. Some quoting Iniesta. Others trying to fit his performance into narratives he hadn’t agreed to. Barca or Madrid. Messi or Ronaldo. Prince or king.
He locked the phone for a second. Let it rest on his chest.
Then stared at the ceiling.
He’d beaten Spain. In Spain. Outplayed the midfield he’d grown up watching. That made him happier than beating clubs like Arsenal or United.
Tristan shoved his hands into his jacket pockets as he and Vardy strolled down the narrow cobbled street. Tourists meandered with shopping bags.
Vardy kicked a pebble ahead of him. “You know, not bad, this Spain place.”
Tristan glanced at him. “Takes a war to get you to admit that?”
“We had to beat ‘em first,” Vardy said, grinning. “Now I can enjoy the tapas.”
They turned past a small café, the scent of espresso cutting through the air. Tristan slowed for a second, eyeing the plates on a nearby table — octopus, anchovies, glistening olives.
“Want to sit for a bit?” he asked.
“Nah,” Vardy said. “Walk it off. I had two full plates at breakfast..”
They kept walking.
A beat passed, and then Vardy asked, “So... France next, yeah?”
“Tuesday,” Tristan nodded. “Home game.”
“Good,” Vardy said. “Can’t let them act like it’s a fashion show.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow.
“Pogba,” Vardy clarified. “He’s gonna be on you like perfume, mate. You know that, right?”
Tristan gave a small smile. “He’s always physical.”
“Yeah, well, physical and petty,” Vardy muttered. “You kinda stole his crown. Wasn’t long ago people were calling him the future. The next golden boy. Now?” He shrugged. “Now they say he’s the midfielder with a haircut, and you’re the one who plays like Zidane and scores like Ronaldo.”
Tristan didn’t answer right away.
He knew Vardy was exaggerating — kind of. But the undertone wasn’t wrong. The spotlight had shifted. The noise that used to follow Pogba around… it followed him now.
“I don’t care about all that,” Tristan finally said.
“No, but he does,” Vardy said. “And you’ll feel it. Might as well prepare now. He’s gonna want to make a point.”
“I’ll give him one,” Tristan said, soft and even. “Right through midfield.”
Vardy laughed. “There’s the killer.”
They reached the stone wall overlooking the harbor. Waves slapped the dock below, lazy and blue.
For a moment, they both went quiet, eyes on the ocean.
Then Vardy said, “You thinking about Newcastle too?”
Tristan exhaled once. “Every damn day.”
Vardy nodded. “Last season — first one was the brawl. Second one was the hit job. You were out. Danny too.”
“They got away with it,” Tristan said. “But not this time.”
Vardy smirked. “We owe them pain.”
Tristan stared out over the water. His voice barely more than a breath:
“No mercy. We haven’t had a big scoreline in a while right? Maybe another 7-1?”
Vardy let out a low whistle. Now that’s a number. Haven’t seen you this cold since United. Reckon they’ll try to rough you up again?”
“They can try,” Tristan said. “But we aren’t that the same team from last season.”
They stood there another few seconds, both leaning on the stone ledge, the wind tugging at the hems of their jackets.
Vardy cracked his neck. “You know, it’s funny. Start of last season, we were just trying not to go down. Now teams circle us in red and pray we don’t humiliate them.”
Tristan smiled faintly. “Not bad for a bunch of rejects and Championship leftovers.”
“Oi,” Vardy said, nudging him. “Speak for yourself. I was top scorer in non-league once.”
Tristan laughed.
The sun started to dip behind the buildings, stretching long shadows across the harbor. A few fans had spotted them by now — a kid with a Liverpool beanie was whispering excitedly to his dad, pointing. Tristan gave a small wave. They waved back.
Somewhere in Barcelona
.
The TV flickered across the room, casting soft light on the rug where Thiago and Mateo lay tangled in pillows. A cartoon rolled on — something with singing animals. Messi sat on the floor nearby, cross-legged, sipping slowly from a mate cup. Antonela scrolled on her phone from the couch, barefoot and half-asleep.
The phone buzzed beside him.
Iniesta.
He picked up without hesitation.
“¿Lo viste?” Andrés asked. Did you see it?
Messi glanced toward the TV, then muted it with the remote. “Yeah. Watched the whole thing.”
There was a pause.
Then Iniesta said it plainly. “He’s the real thing, Leo.”
Messi rubbed his jaw, thumb over his bottom lip. “You played against him, yeah?”
“I tried to,” Iniesta said. “Barely touched him.”
Another pause.
“Be honest with me,” Messi said. “How good is he really? Not just the clips. Not just stats. You know how it is — people look amazing on YouTube.”
He did say Tristan was better than him and he meant it but it was different watching highlights and reading that crazy stats than playing against him.
Andrés was quiet for a second, then replied, calm as ever:
“He’s got your skills,” Iniesta added. “He feels like a combination of different players to be honest. You can’t describe him unless you play against him.”
“I told him he plays like you. Not because of the pressure or the media — just because how similar you guys are.”
Messi stood and stretched, pacing slowly toward the kitchen. “You think he’s better than you?”
“I do,” Iniesta said, without ego. “And I think he’ll give you your first real challenge in a long time. I know you said he’s better than you. But now I do believe it myself.
Messi turned the kettle off. The steam hissed and quieted.
He poured the water into the gourd. “Good,” he said finally.
Andrés hummed on the line. “You don’t sound nervous.”
Messi sipped, then smiled. “No. Just… curious now.”
There was a pause.
Then Messi added, “I’m gonna go train. Can’t let a kid beat me.”
November 15, 2015
.
The wheels touched down just after 8:00 AM. Light rain smeared across the window, blurring the runway into motionless grey.
Tristan didn’t say much. Hoodie up. Bag at his feet. He moved with the rest of the team as they filed off, boots heavy on the metal stairs.
A breeze caught him halfway down. Cold. Familiar.
England again.
John was already waiting at the bottom, standing beside the car with both hands tucked into his coat pockets. He gave a short nod as Tristan stepped off.
Then came the voice behind him.
“Tristan.”
Tristan stopped. Turned halfway.
Hodgson was a few steps up.
“You did well.”
Tristan held the older man’s gaze, unsure if that was it.
But Hodgson stepped closer. Paused just beside him now.
A beat passed.
“Thank you,” Tristan said quietly.
Hodgson nodded once. “Rest up. You’ll need it against Kante.”
Then he turned and walked back toward the terminal, coat flapping behind him in the wind.
Tristan stood still for a second. Then walked toward the car.
John opened the door for him without a word. Inside, it was warm. They were home.
November 16, 2015 — Clairefontaine
.
Cleats scraped against the concrete as the squad trickled out toward the training pitch.
It was cold. Damp. Breath in the air.
Pogba zipped up his jacket and stretched one leg behind him. Light jog. A few ankle rolls. He wasn’t sore, but the cold always made things feel tighter than they were.
Across the grass, Kante was already warming up — small shuffles, head down, quiet as ever. He barely talked at these camps. Polite, sure. But not loud like the rest of them. He missed Tristan and the rest of the Leicester players.
Especially Tristan, they had a friendship he couldn’t make with any of the other French players weather that's due to personality or upbringing he wasn’t sure.
Pogba jogged over anyway.
“Yo,” he said. “N’Golo.”
Kante looked up.
Pogba didn’t say anything right away. Just bounced on his toes a few times, then finally asked:
“You best friends with Tristan right?”
Kante didn’t answer. Just gave the smallest nod. He already knew where this was going. Pogba didn’t really like Tristan and he didn’t like people bad mouthing his best friend so he kept interactions with Pogba limited.
Pogba smiled faintly. “What’s he like? Really. I’ve seen the clips — everyone has. But clips are clips.”
Still nothing.
“I mean… he’s good,” Pogba said. “But is he that good?”
Kante tied his laces tighter. Quietly. Then stood.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Pogba blinked. “What?”
Kante looked up now. Calm. No heat in his voice. Just fact.
“There’s not a single player that can stop him”
Pogba let out a soft scoff. “Come on. He’s still a kid. One season. You act like he’s Messi or Ronaldo or Zidane.”
Kante shrugged. “Messi said Tristan is better than him.”
Pogba frowned. “So you’re saying he’s better than me?”
Kante didn’t smile. “I didn’t say that,” he said. “But I think he’s ahead.”
Pogba didn’t answer. He just looked past Kante for a second, toward the main pitch, where cones were already being laid out.
“Guess I’ll find out soon than,” he muttered.
Kante just nodded and jogged off toward the drills.
Pogba stood there for a second longer, hand on his hip. Watching. Thinking.
He didn’t say anything else.
But the seed was there now.
And it didn’t sit right with him. But what can he do about it. But he did wanna play against Tristan, what he can do.
November 17, 2015= .
The TV volume was low. Just the quiet hum of pre-match build-up beneath the sound of a soda can cracking open.
Neymar sat slouched on the couch, hoodie halfway up, one leg over the other. His phone buzzed once. Then again.
“Tristan Hale vs France 🇫🇷🔥”
“This the one. He drops another masterclass tonight, it’s over.”
“Barça gotta sell the whole midfield to get this kid. I would sell Neymar to Tristan, ngl.”
Neymar locked the screen. Tossed it beside him on the cushion.
He hated that name.
Not because he didn’t respect the talent.
Not because Hale was English.
But because it was always him. Always everywhere.
Even now, even with France walking out of the tunnel, it was Tristan they were talking about.
Not Pogba.
Not Benzema.
Not even Griezmann.
Definitely not Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior.
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes fixed on the screen. BBC pre-match coverage. England warming up. Tristan laughing with Vardy, shoulder bumping Sterling. Light on his feet. Effortless.
“Messi said he’s better than him,” a voice behind Neymar said.
It was Gil. One of his old boys from Brazil — flown in for the week, sprawled across the other couch.
Another guy — Davi — took a puff of his cigar near the balcony and added,
“Not better than you, though.”
Neymar didn’t answer. Just stared.
“Bro, for real. You’re being wasted in Messi’s shadow,” Gil said. “Everyone knows it. You’ve got more flair. More edge. You’re the show.”
Neymar sat back again. Exhaled.
He’d heard this all before. From friends. From agents. Even from his own father.
But it hit different now that Messi had said it out loud — “He might be better than me.”
That wasn’t just noise. That wasn’t some journalist trying to stir drama. That was Leo.
And now this kid — twenty years old, playing for Leicester — was the name on every scout’s desk. Every manager’s whiteboard. Every transfer rumor.
Even Barcelona.
Even his own locker room.
“Maybe he’ll flop tonight,” Neymar muttered.
Gil snorted. “Bro, he won’t. But I hope he does. Everyone’s acting like he cured cancer and invented football. He hasn’t even touched the Champions League.”
Neymar didn’t say anything. He just kept watching.
Waiting.
Not because he wanted to learn.
But because he wanted to see it — just once — Tristan Hale getting it wrong.
A bad game.
A missed chance.
A slip.
Anything.
Because the more perfect Hale looked… the smaller the rest of them started to feel.
.
Sorry for that short chapter, I am really struggling right now. Just give me some time. I didn’t post a chapter yesterday, sorry for that but to make sure Patreon is 25 chapters ahead, I didn’t post a chapter today on Webnovel.
So new schedule if I don’t post a chapter on Patreon, I’m not gonna post a chapter on Webnovel either to make sure you guys are way ahead.
