Sinbad
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Chapter 217: Spain
🕑 Added 2025-06-08 18:54:05 +0000 UTCNovember 12, 2015
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Clouds pressed thick against the plane windows, smudging out the horizon in shades of pearl and slate.
Barbara sat curled in her seat, one leg folded beneath her, the other stretched out beneath the polished wood table. A pale grey blanket draped across her lap like fog. Her hair, still damp from the rushed shower that morning, clung in soft, uneven waves along her neck and collarbone, the ends drying into lazy spirals.
No makeup. Just moisturizer catching the light across the high arc of her cheekbones. The bare honesty of her face made her look both younger and prettier at least according to Tristan. So whenever she could, she did that.
Across from her, Tristan leaned into her shoulder, his head tilted just enough to brush hers. His curls were tousled from sleep or from running—she couldn’t tell which. His lips were parted slightly. Peaceful, yes but not fully. His fingers, resting near his thigh, twitched now and then, as if still gripping something in a dream.
Barbara didn’t move. She only turned her head enough to study him. Those green eyes she had come to love now hidden. She stared at the faint stubble along his jaw, the faintest shimmer of sweat still lingering in the hollow of his throat. It hit her, how recently he’d been running—not metaphorically, not romantically, but literally sprinting through terminals to make it here.
To her.
Despite Spain. Despite Hodgson. Despite every headline and that entire world on his shoulders.
And still, here he was.
Her eyes flicked downward—his hand, now motionless, inches from hers.
She’d always been the one to travel. To shift her schedule around his. To carve windows in her life and fly through them to stand by the touchline or behind a hotel curtain. It had never felt like a sacrifice.
But this—his presence at the show, the way he hadn’t blinked when she walked the runway—this was something different.
Barbara looked at him again. That way his chest rose, steady. The faint twitch in his jaw when she shifted. The tiny, almost imperceptible movement of his lips when she ran a single fingertip across the fabric of his sleeve.
He didn’t wake.
She leaned forward slowly, brushing her mouth against the edge of his jaw, a kiss as a way to say thank you for everything.
She shifted slightly, careful not to disturb him reaching for her phone just a few inches from her lap to the table. She angled the screen, adjusted her wrist, tilted the lens just enough to catch him—the way his curls fell across his forehead, the soft crease in his brow, the long lashes.
Tristan didn’t stir.
She didn’t post it. Didn’t plan to. The internet already had enough photos of Tristan and her from childhood to them now. God she couldn’t imagine that disaster waiting to happen whenever they had kids.
Barbara tucked the phone away and leaned back again, eyes still on him.
Somehow, even asleep, he always made her feel better.
And now, she’d have something to look at when she missed him.
.
Later That Day
Alicante, Spain — 4:32 PM, Local Time
The plane touched down with a soft jolt, rubber sighing against tarmac.
Outside the window, the clouds had thinned into streaks of amber and steel-blue. The airfield stretched flat and sleepy under a muted Spanish sun, only a few crew members moving in lazy, fluorescent circles.
Barbara stepped down the metal stairs first, the wind catching the hem of her coat and flipping it lightly against her calves. The air hit different here—drier, warmer. Not like New York. It smelled and felt a lot better.
Behind her, Tristan followed, shielding his eyes.
“Kinda weird landing somewhere and not needing a boarding pass,” he muttered, blinking against the light.
Barbara bumped his elbow. “You get used to it.”
He turned toward her with mock gravity. “We’re so rich we don’t even buy tickets. We just point somewhere and go.”
“Shut up.” She laughed, nudging him harder. “Don’t make me tell auntie what you just said. She doesn’t need another spoiled brat besides Biscuit in the family.”
“I’m joking,” he said quickly, his voice shifting slightly. “Don’t tell her that.”
She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He didn’t need to explain—he hated the way money clung to him lately, like static. The headlines, the gifts, the VIP entrances. It was easier to joke than to admit how carefully he tried not to let it swallow him.
Barbara just smiled again, and this time it lingered.
They stopped a few feet from the stairs, letting the last breeze pass over them.
A black van idled near the edge of the strip, half-hidden by the hangar's shadow. Sleek, tinted. The English crest on the door was barely visible. The driver, already in sunglasses, stepped out and popped the back.
“That’s me,” Tristan said.
Her smile slipped—only slightly, just enough that it touched the corners of her mouth and not her eyes.
“I know.”
He turned toward her, all the way this time. His fingers brushed under her chin, tipping it up. “You’ll be in Milan by morning?”
“Yeah. Sophia’s picking me up.”
His eyes scanned her face, briefly. “Text me before your shoot?”
She met his gaze. “If you text me after the Spain match.”
He grinned faintly. “I’ll probably be bleeding.”
“You better win,” she said, and leaned up to press her mouth to his.
“No promises,” he murmured, just against her lips, “but if I score—it’s for you.”
He kissed her again—slower, more certain—then stepped back. One foot, then another. Still facing her.
Barbara didn’t move. Just watched. Watched as he walked toward the van, the sun flaring once across the window. Watched as the door slid open.
He hesitated for half a breath.
Then he ducked in.
Gone.
Barbara stood still until the door thudded closed behind him. Only then did she breathe out.
.
When Tristan stepped into the hotel lobby, conversation slowed by a fraction.
A few heads turned.
Then more.
And within seconds, the room shifted.
He didn’t even make it past the fountain before three of them peeled off from the couch near the vending machines. Another two — Jones and Butland — craned their necks from the hallway. Someone whistled.
“Oi!” Vardy said. “Look who just landed from heaven’s backstage.”
Because unlike the rest of the Three Lions, he had actually been there. Front row at the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show. Not watching on YouTube. Not scrolling Instagram. Not thirsting from the group chat. He’d lived it.
And now he was surrounded.
The questions came fast — who was taller in real life, who looked better without makeup, what was Selena’s voice like, were the wings heavy?
But not everyone just wanted gossip.
Lallana pushed through the crowd, phone already unlocked.
He held up the screen — a model in red lace. “This one,” he said, grinning like it was already sorted. “You think you can ask Barbara for her number?”
Tristan blinked once. “Wrong guy, mate.”
Lallana raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
That earned a couple of laughs from the others, but Lallana just shrugged. He knew the game. He’d play it later.
And Tristan?
He stood a little straighter. He thought that mood would be a little different; that some would be mad he missed the first few days of training. For sure a few probably were but really what can they say to him? Maybe a few talking about Hodgson but mostly about that fashion show.
The Premier League wasn’t just football. It was youth, power, fame — all churned into something messy and loud.
And here, in the national team, the rules weren’t much different.
Tristan had seen it all. Players hiring escorts. Secret parties in hotel suites. Affairs with teammates’ wives — that one had nearly torn a club apart. And every time the tabloids printed a new expose, the squad pretended to be shocked like they hadn’t all known.
Lallana was practically a season pass holder at half the strip clubs in the northwest. Everyone knew. He didn’t even bother hiding it. He’d taken Henderson, Sterling, Joe Hart — even one of the younger call-ups once — on nights out that never stayed quiet for long.
And now he was trying to add Tristan to the list.
But Tristan wasn’t biting. He had Barbara. He loved her. She loved him, believed in him, and he wasn’t about to throw that away for five minutes of nothing.
Besides, if his mum ever found out… God help him. She adored Barbara.
So when Lallana walked off, Tristan just stood there, letting the buzz fade.
Some of the others went back to their phones. Someone restarted FIFA. Kane gave him a knowing glance from across the lobby and didn’t say anything.
Because in this squad, good men were rare.
And even though the world tried to chew them up — even though temptations came dressed in lace and red carpets — there were still a few left who remembered who they were.
Tristan. Kane. Maybe Vardy on a good day.
Dinosaurs, in a way to Tristan at least.
.
The hotel hallways had mostly gone quiet now it was close to 10.
Tristan walked alone. He’d showered, changed, eaten something bland and forgettable, and now—he was here to meet Hodgson. He just wanted this meeting to be over with.
Tristan knocked once and stepped in.
The overhead light was dimmed, but the projector still buzzed, paused on a freeze frame of Spain’s midfield shape. Faint red and yellow outlines hovered on the screen like a warning sign. Diagrams cluttered the whiteboard. A pile of notes lay half-sorted on the table.
Hodgson sat at the head, sleeves rolled, reading glasses pushed up onto his forehead. He didn’t look up.
"Close the door."
Tristan did.
He stood there for a second, unsure if he should sit yet. Hodgson didn’t say anything, so he stayed standing.
Eventually, without looking up, Hodgson spoke.
"You missed two training sessions."
Not angry. Just a plain sentence. Like reading a stat off a page.
Tristan nodded. "I caught up on the notes you sent."
"It’s not the same."
"No. But it’s better than nothing."
Hodgson finally looked up.
"Everyone wants you to be something lately, don’t they? Every week I hear another pundit tell me what you should be doing."
Tristan said nothing.
"I know you think I’m holding you back," Hodgson added. He gestured at the frozen screen.
"Spain plays a two-man pivot. Busquets sits. Fabregas floats. If there’s space, it’ll be between their lines. But it won’t be there long. They close fast."
He looked at Tristan.
"You want to go higher tomorrow?"
Tristan blinked. "You’re letting me?"
"I’m not letting you. I’m challenging you."
A pause. Then—
"Go higher. Float if you want. Shadow Rooney or Vardy. Drift into that channel. But if we get exposed… if we’re pinned back and you’re twenty yards too far forward… I’ll pull you before the half hour. And I’ll do it in front of everyone."
"Understood." Tristan replied and if he was scared of being subbed off then Hogdson better be prepared to be fired and never hired again.
Hodgson nodded once.
"I’m not your enemy, Tristan. I’m just the manager trying to win in a country that thinks it knows better than I do."
Tristan nodded before leaving but right at the door. “Just let me do what I need to do, and we will win. Not just games, not just knockouts, but tournaments and trophies.”
,
Tristan slipped his keycard into the door of Room 406. The lock clicked. He pushed the door open, expecting an empty room.
Instead, the lights were on, the TV was blaring in Spanish, and Vardy’s shoes were already off and halfway across the room.
Danny was on the floor, back against the bed, nursing a protein shake like it was a pint. Marc Albrighton had claimed the window ledge.
Tristan closed the door behind him.
“Be honest,” Vardy said without missing a beat, dragging the words out with a grin. “How many angels winked at you?”
Danny tossed a pillow at him. “Shut up, mate.”
Marc smirked. “Nah, I wanna know. Was it really that crazy?”
Tristan ran a hand through his hair and half-smiled.
“It was a lot,” he admitted. “Flashing lights, camera crews. It was too much at times.”
“Barbara looked class,” Marc added. “Like… a proper movie star.”
“She was,” Tristan said, a little quieter. “She was made for it.”
“Romantic lad,” Vardy muttered. “Say that again with less blush in your voice.”
Danny leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Must’ve been wild though. You see Selena?”
“I saw her perform,” Tristan said. “Didn’t talk to her.”
“Shame,” Vardy said. “We had bets going.”
“You always have bets going.”
“True.”
The room settled after that.
Danny broke the stillness. “So. You caught up on training?”
“Mostly,” Tristan said. “Talked to the boss.”
Vardy raised an eyebrow. “That go alright?”
Tristan shrugged, easing onto the edge of the bed. “Better than expected.”
Marc let out a low whistle. “Bloody miracle.”
Tristan gave a tired laugh. “He said I could float higher tomorrow.”
Vardy grinned. “Good. About time. Let ‘em worry about you for once.”
Danny nodded. “We’ll back you. Just don’t pull a Mahrez and dribble into three people.”
“I’m not Mahrez.”
“You’re worse,” Vardy shot back. “You think three people’s a warmup.”
They laughed again.
Marc tilted his head. “You nervous?”
Tristan paused, staring at the TV for a moment like he’d forgotten it was even on.
“No,” he said finally. “Just… happy to be playing against Spain.”
Vardy stood with a groan and stretched. “Alright. I’m knackered. I’m off before the physio catches me with another Redbull”
Danny rose after him. “Night, man.”
Marc stayed a second longer, finishing the last sip of his drink. He looked over at Tristan. “For what it’s worth… it’s good having you back.”
Tristan just nodded.
The door clicked shut behind them, and the room finally quieted for real. He let his head fall sideways into the pillow before sleep caught up to him.
.
November 13, 2015 — Estadio José Rico Pérez, Alicante
7:45 PM Local Time
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The lights hummed overhead, casting a cold white glare across the freshly cut pitch. Spain’s red kits moved like drops of ink across the green, flowing through warmups with that same clockwork grace they'd had for a decade.
Up in the stands, fans poured in late but loud. Spanish flags draped over shoulders. English scarves twisted tight against the throat. No real rivalry here—just pride. Just football.
In the England tunnel, Tristan stood behind Vardy and ahead of Barkley, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. The walls were narrow. White. Claustrophobic in a way that didn’t bother him anymore.
He rolled his neck once. Then again.
His shirt clung a little tighter around his chest now—sweat from warmups, nerves maybe. Or maybe it was just Spain.
From the far end of the tunnel, boots echoed. A whistle blew sharp. The line began to move.
Vardy glanced back at him once, eyes narrowing with that usual, manic glint. “Let’s give ‘em hell, yeah?”
Tristan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
They walked out into the noise.
Flashbulbs. Flags. Chants in two languages.
Up in the stands, a camera lingered on the young English midfielder with the gold boots and the crown on his heel. Even here in Alicante, the name Tristan Hale carried weight now.
And Spain knew it.
Cesc Fabregas nudged his shin guards into place and muttered, “Hope he likes getting kicked.”
David Silva chuckled under his breath. “He’s too quick for you, Cesc.”
As the players lined up for the anthems, Busquets stood quietly beside Isco, eyes steady on Tristan as if studying a chess piece that hadn’t made its first move yet.
Of course for both Real and Barca players all that attention was on Tristan. He would either join their team or become their rivals.
Then the camera pulled wide.
Spain. England. Alicante.
Kickoff was coming.
Spain were first out — red shirts sharp under the lights, moving in sync like it was muscle memory. Then came England.
The camera swept across the line — Hart, Kane, Vardy — before settling on the white boots and number 22.
“Well, there he is,” Guy said as the noise rose around them. “Man of the hour.”
Jermaine let out a soft chuckle. “Yeah. I wonder how he’s feeling right now. There were a few reports of him rushing to get back to Spain from the U.S’
“And now he gets to face Spain,” Guy added. “Busquets. Ramos. Iniesta. That midfield’s seen it all.”
Jermaine leaned in. “This will also be a challenge for Tristan, facing a team like Spain but that Crown Jewel never shied away from pressure.”
ENGLAND — 4-4-2 Formation
🧤 Joe Hart (GK)
🚀 Nathaniel Clyne (RB)
🏰 Chris Smalling (CB)
🏰 Phil Jones (CB)
🚀 Ryan Bertrand (LB)
🏃♂️ Marc Albrighton (RM)
🛡️ Danny Drinkwater (CM)
🎯 Tristan Hale (#22) (CM)
🏃♂️ Raheem Sterling (LM)
⚽ Wayne Rooney (ST, Captain)
⚽ Jamie Vardy (ST)
SPAIN — 4-3-3 Formation
🧤 Iker Casillas (GK)
🚀 César Azpilicueta (RB)
🏰 Gerard Piqué (CB)
🏰 Sergio Ramos (CB)
🚀 Jordi Alba (LB)
🛡️ Sergio Busquets (CM)
🛡️ Cesc Fàbregas (CM)
🎯 Andrés Iniesta (CM)
🏃♂️ David Silva (RW)
⚽ Álvaro Morata (ST)
🏃♂️ Isco (LW)
.
“If he gets time on the ball,” Jermaine said, “he’ll hurt them. Tristan sees passes no one else sees including the midfielders on the opposing team.”
“And he’s fearless,” Guy added. “Doesn’t care who’s in front of him — club, country, reputation. He’ll take them all on.”
The camera lingered again on Tristan. Calm. Bouncing on his heels.
The anthem began.
Flags waved. The crowd roared.
Spain opened sharp.
Busquets dropped deep between the centre-backs, pointing and pivoting like a metronome. One-touch passes. Triangle rotations. Red shirts gliding in sync. Iniesta drifted left. Fabregas pushed right. Silva floated into the half-space, and Alba overlapped like a whip.
England’s line of four held shape, but every few seconds, one of them glanced behind — half-expecting someone to already be through.
Rooney and Vardy pressed in short bursts, but not enough to bite. They couldn’t. That’s how Spain killed you — lured you forward, then passed around you like you weren’t there.
"This is Spain doing what they do best," Jermaine said over the commentary feed. "Sixty percent possession already, and we’re barely fifteen minutes in."
“Feels like they’ve got fourteen players out there,” Guy muttered. “Busquets just doesn’t lose the ball.”
Tristan had touched the ball four times in the opening twenty minutes.
Two of them were backwards. One was a short give-and-go with Drinkwater. The fourth was a volleyed clearance after Ramos stepped high and intercepted a pass meant for Vardy.
He wasn’t panicking. He was waiting.
And watching.
Every time the ball moved left, he tracked Fabregas’ hips. Every time it went central, he watched how close Busquets let the defenders come before offloading. It wasn’t fear. It was pattern recognition.
Clyne, beside him, shouted out as Isco dragged wide again, forcing the line to stretch. “How do they always have another option?”
"Because they move before we do," Marc Albrighton muttered under his breath. "They’re like cockroaches."
Tristan smirked faintly at that. Then reset his stance.
Inside the England dugout, Hodgson stood with arms crossed. Not shouting. Just squinting through the pattern, waiting for the cracks Spain always left behind their brilliance. If they weren’t perfect — you could hurt them.
The ball came to Sterling on the left, finally, and he spun once — then twice — but Alba nudged him off balance, and suddenly it was gone again.
“England can’t hold it,” Jenas said. “Every time they try to settle, Spain swarms them like bees.”
“They’re compact. But Tristan hasn’t gotten a touch in zone fourteen yet,” Guy pointed out. “That’s where he kills you.”
Back on the pitch, Tristan dropped slightly deeper on the next reset, almost brushing against Drinkwater’s shoulder.
Danny muttered under his breath, “You seeing anything yet?”
“Yeah,” Tristan replied quietly. “They turn slower on the left. Ramos cheats high.”
And just like that — the map was changing.
He didn’t need fifty touches.
He needed one.
England finally strung three passes together — Bertrand into Tristan, into Drinkwater, back to Tristan — but even that felt like threading a needle in a storm. Still, it shifted the energy. It slowed Spain just a touch.
Then came the moment.
Busquets stepped forward half a beat too early. Fabregas turned to cover — but he turned blind. He hadn’t seen Tristan slip wide into space near the halfway line, shoulder-checking once before the ball came.
Thud.
Tristan took it on the half-turn, left foot cushioning it like velvet. One touch. Then another.
Space opened.
“Here he goes,” Guy said, voice sharpening.
The Spanish line backpedaled as Ramos scrambled across. But Tristan didn’t run — not yet. He let the moment breathe. Let the panic start to ripple.
Then, with the outside of his boot, he stabbed a curling pass between Alba and Piqué. Not chipped. Not lofted. Threaded. Ground-level. Whisper-perfect.
Albrighton burst onto it down the right. Cross low. Near post.
Vardy slid—
Casillas smothered.
“First real chance of the game!” Jermaine shouted. “And who else but Hale to unlock them?”
Rooney jogged over, clapping Albrighton on the back. But his eyes found Tristan. And he nodded once.
Tristan didn’t celebrate. Just jogged back, chest rising with the quiet kind of hunger.
Spain restarted like nothing happened. Tick. Tick. Tick. Back to the rhythm. Like machines.
But now there was something else in the air — a flicker of hesitation.
A hesitation Iniesta had when he turned and saw white shirts already stepping higher. A second glance from Ramos before he switched play.
And Busquets? Busquets didn’t step forward again.
Not for a while.
Because they knew now this England team wasn’t that same team they could ignore and make jokes at.
The chance changed the air.
England hadn’t scored. But something had shifted — like the tension in a bowstring just before it snaps.
The Spanish fans, once humming in that calm, controlled confidence, started shouting louder. Faster. Some whistled. Others chanted.
“¡Vamos España! ¡Vamos!”
But the English end — boxed in the top tier, outnumbered but never quiet — roared back with full-throated defiance.
“Stand up, if you hate Fabregas!”
And louder still:
“We know what we are! We know what we are! Champions of the world — you bottled Qatar!”
“Crowd’s woken up now,” Jermaine said. “That little flash from Tristan’s changed the mood.”
“Changed the pace too,” Guy added. “And that’s the thing — one pass, and England believes again.”
Spain reset. Their tempo returned — deliberate, cold, smothering. They passed like they’d invented it. Silva to Alba. Back to Iniesta. Back to Ramos. Across to Piqué.
And for ten more minutes, England were made to suffer.
Tristan tracked shadow after shadow. Drinkwater was barking instructions like a mad dog. Rooney dropped deeper. Even Vardy — usually pure chaos — was pressing with discipline.
But Spain didn’t care.
Morata finally wriggled into a channel between Jones and Smalling — slipped in by a divine flick from Isco — and fired a left-footed shot toward the far post.
Hart dove.
Fingertips.
Post.
THUNK.
The crowd gasped. Then roared.
“Off the woodwork!” Guy cried. “Inches away from the opener!”
“England is living dangerously,” Jermaine said. “You can’t give Morata that space twice.”
Bertrand booted it clear. But not far. It fell to Busquets. Another reset.
And still — England held.
Then came the twenty-ninth minute.
Tristan didn’t call for it. He just ran.
Albrighton caught the glance. Fired it into his feet. One touch to settle, two to skip past Fabregas — and now he was flying. Sprinting between lines, past Busquets, eyes darting left and right.
The Spanish midfield turned.
Too late.
Tristan faked right — cut left — flicked it with his heel to Sterling who had peeled off Azpilicueta.
The crowd lifted.
Sterling squared.
Rooney — back post.
Casillas came out—
Too slow.
Rooney toe-poked it through his legs and into the net.
GOAL!!!
The stadium cracked in half.
The away end exploded. Flags flying. Fans jumping on each other. Someone threw a beer into the air and didn’t even look up to see it fall.
“ROONEYYY!!!” Guy bellowed. “One-nil England — and it’s Hale who tears them open!”
Jermaine’s voice climbed right behind it. “He split them apart like threads — Fabregas, Busquets — he made them look like traffic cones!”
Rooney pointed straight at Tristan as he jogged over.
But Tristan didn’t celebrate. He just exhaled.
Not from relief.
From calculation.
He could feel the blood in the match now. It had taken thirty minutes. But now, finally, he felt he was back to normal. And unlike weak teams, Spain didn’t beat three or four bodies on him.
England surged.
For the next five minutes, it was chaos in white.
Every pass Spain made was suddenly hunted — not just pressed, but swarmed. Sterling chased like a man possessed. Rooney barked orders like a man defending his crown. Even Phil Jones stepped up to intercept a pass meant for Iniesta and roared as he booted it into the stands.
“Now that’s more like it!” Jermaine shouted. “This England side — you give ‘em belief, and they start swinging.”
But belief is fragile.
And Spain?
Spain waits.
In the 38th minute, it started small. A clipped pass from Ramos to Alba. Then a no-look from Iniesta that somehow skipped two England shirts and landed at Isco’s feet.
Tristan backpedaled, shouting at Clyne — “Wide! WIDE!”
But Isco was already gone. One shimmy, one feint, and the whole right side collapsed.
Morata made the run again.
Jones and Smalling turned late.
Busquets fed the channel.
And with one smooth, gliding finish across Hart’s gloves, Spain were level.
GOAL — 1-1.
The stadium erupted.
Scarves flew. Drums pounded. Flags waved like a rising tide.
Morata pointed to the crest. Then to the stands. Then to the sky.
And Guy’s voice was clipped now, lower. “You can’t give them even that much space.”
Jermaine just sighed. “That’s Spain. Doesn’t matter if you’re better for five minutes. One mistake, and they punish you.”
Tristan stood still, watching the replay on the big screen. He’d known. He’d seen it unfolding a second too late.
Clyne came over, hand on his shoulder. “That’s not on you.”
Tristan nodded — once. But the gears were already turning again.
If that was their equalizer…
Then what would his response look like?
44:58
The ball spun loose near the touchline. Rooney flicked it forward with a heavy touch — too far for himself, but not for Tristan.
The crowd leaned in as Hale darted past Fabregas, shoulder to shoulder with Ramos. For a moment, it was just speed. Sweat. Spikes digging in.
Then Tristan cut inside.
One shimmy sent Ramos the wrong way. Another touched it into stride.
He didn’t shoot.
He waited.
Slid it across the box—
Vardy lunged—!
But Casillas dropped low, palm flicking it just wide.
Gasps exploded through the ground.
“Brilliant run. Brilliant vision. Inches from a second assist,” Guy called.
“And Vardy knows it,” Jenas added. “He’s already yelling at himself.”
Tristan didn’t yell. He just nodded once. Because now he knew. They could be cut. Even this Spain.
Halftime — 1-1.
Second Half nothing changed
Just a steady hum of Spanish voices singing their own anthem now — louder than before.
Spain began the half like they ended the first — methodical, ice-cold.
But England had adjusted.
Drinkwater now stepped into Busquets' space. Sterling and Albrighton tucked tighter. And Tristan?
Tristan floated.
A ghost between lines. Behind Fabregas, in front of Ramos, inside Azpilicueta’s blind spot.
And in the 54th minute — he struck.
It started with a switch. Bertrand lifted a long diagonal to Sterling, who pulled it down on the touchline with a gasp from the crowd. He cut once. Laid it inside.
Tristan let it run.
Fabregas bit.
And in that breath — Tristan spun.
His back to goal, twenty yards out, he stepped across Busquets and opened his body like he was going top left—
—then dragged it low, right, through the defender’s legs.
Casillas saw it late. Too late.
GOAL — 2-1.
Tristan Hale. Number 22.
The crown on his boot kissed the turf as he slid into the corner, fists clenched.
“GOD SAVE THE KING!” Guy howled.
The English fans in the far stand exploded — limbs everywhere, shirts off, voices hoarse.
“World-class,” Jermaine breathed. “You won’t see a smarter turn this weekend. Not in La Liga. Not in the Prem. Nowhere.”
Even the Spain bench stood still for a beat.
Minutes passed.
Spain grew sharper.
Iniesta began to find pockets. Ramos pushed higher, started throwing looks. Morata dropped deep to link play.
By the 70th, England were pinned.
Smalling booted one clear. It bounced twice. Came right back.
72:19
Fabregas curled one into the box. Morata rose — Hart saved it.
74:03
Another flick. Another block. Dier cleared it into orbit.
Guy’s voice cracked. “It’s constant now. Like waves.”
“Yeah,” Jenas muttered. “But the tide’s not the only thing rising.”
Because Tristan hadn’t stopped moving.
He wanted the third.
77:44
Albrighton intercepted and went long. Vardy chased.
Tristan sprinted up the middle, catching pace with every step. Vardy cut left, dragged Ramos, and slid it back central—
Tristan took it in stride—
First touch clean.
Second was gone.
He flicked it over the defender’s foot and chipped with his left—
—and it beat Casillas.
But not the bar.
CROSSBAR.
The whole stadium gasped.
Sterling nearly tucked in the rebound, but Azpilicueta threw his whole body in the way.
“Off the woodwork!” Guy shouted. “How’s your nerve, Alicante?!”
Final Minutes.
Hodgson paced the sideline now. No one knew what he was thinking.
Spain threw everyone forward. Ramos played as a second striker. Iniesta lived in zone 14.
But England didn’t break.
90:00 + 3
Tristan pressed into the corner with the ball. Time-wasting? Maybe. Tactical? Definitely.
Alba kicked his ankle.
The ref blew.
FULL TIME — England 2, Spain 1.
The roar had dulled into applause now. Some claps were for the effort. Some were just habits.
Tristan walked slowly across the grass, sweat clinging to his neck, the crowd still buzzing like static in the background. He didn’t hear all of it. Just the rhythm of cleats crunching on turf. The hum of adrenaline not yet gone.
Ahead of him, Iniesta was already pulling off his shirt.
He turned, calm as ever, and held it out.
Tristan blinked once, then nodded. He peeled off his own, folded it once, and passed it over.
They stood there a second longer — the old master and the one rising.
“I watched your match against Arsenal,” Iniesta said in Spanish, eyes steady. “You play beautiful football like Messi.”
Tristan swallowed, the praise landing heavier than he expected.
“Thank you. I used to study you. Still do.”
Iniesta allowed the faintest smile. “You play better than me already.”
That line hit harder than the crowd had all night.
Tristan just nodded again — quiet, respectful. Grateful.
The two turned slowly, heading toward their own ends of the pitch. Shirt in hand. Pride intact.
.
Wow this took me way longer than expected like two full days than normal. Before that break I could have written this in a few hours or so.
But I’m really struggling to write. Give me a few days and after writing daily I should be back to normal once I’m used to writing again.
