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Chapter 215: The Cost of Comfort
🕑 Added 2025-05-28 22:24:49 +0000 UTCNovember 3, 2015 — Belvoir Drive
Early Morning
.
Sunlight — actual, proper sunlight — poured through the windows, casting pale gold lines across the carpet. The kind of morning that felt like it had wandered into the Midlands by mistake.
Claudio Ranieri stood by the radiator, mug cupped in both hands, watching the grounds crew move about the pitch like they couldn’t quite believe it either. His glasses sat low on his nose, half-forgotten, and a pile of untouched paperwork rested behind him.
“Three-nil, automatic,” he said quietly, eyes still on the glass. “Not the ending anyone here wanted. But I’ll take it.”
Paolo Benetti didn’t look up from the schedule in front of him. He sat slouched in the chair opposite, fingers drumming absently on the edge of the desk.
“Tell me about it,” he muttered. “Best Lazio doesn’t come near an English club for another decade. Next time it'll be more than thirty or so folks injured. Someone would have died if Lazio was allowed to play against us at home.”
Ranieri huffed once through his nose — not quite a laugh, more like agreement without enthusiasm.
“A holiday miracle,” he said. “Sunshine in Leicester and no midweek chaos.”
Benetti stood, stretching his arms back, spine popping as he moved to the window. He squinted at the bright sky like it had personally offended him.
“So what now? Light recovery? Keep ‘em ticking over for Watford?”
Ranieri turned from the window, placed his mug on the windowsill. His eyes were soft, faint lines creasing deeper as he looked back toward the pitch.
“No drills. No tactics,” he said. “Let them switch off a little. We’ll train properly on Thursday.”
Benetti leaned against the radiator beside him. “You’re serious?”
Ranieri gave a slow nod. “They’ve earned it. Still unbeaten. No match this week. Why not give them space to miss the ball for once?”
Benetti scratched the back of his neck, lips twitching in thought. “Two full days?”
“Two,” Ranieri said. “It will be a vacation for them.”
“You want me to tell them?” Benetti asked, his voice light now.
Ranieri smiled like he had that greatest idea in the world. He tilted his head.
“No,” he said. “Let them turn up. Find the pitch locked. Watch them start a mini-revolt before someone checks the notice board.”
Benetti’s face broke — his eyebrows lifting in mock disbelief, lips parting around a soft chuckle.
“You’re really turning into one of them, you know that?”
“I’m not a child,” Ranieri replied, deadpan, reaching for his mug again. But the corner of his mouth tugged upward as he took a sip.
.
9:42 AM
The car park was filling up, one thudding door at a time.
Boots scraped the concrete. The usual drill: nod at John on the gate, curse the cold, and shuffle toward the dressing room still half-asleep.
Except—
Mahrez slowed to a stop, brow furrowing at the paper taped to the door. A protein bar hung from the corner of his mouth like a cigar.
“Training pitch is shut?” he mumbled around the chew.
Vardy dragged his gym bag across the floor behind him. “What d’you mean, shut?”
“Read it.” Mahrez jabbed a finger at the sign like it owed him money.
NO TRAINING TODAY. NO PITCH ACCESS.
ENJOY THAT DAY — CLAUDIO
A beat of silence. Confused blinking. Like someone had told them water was illegal.
Vardy squinted at it. “Wait... does that mean we’re off?”
Albrighton skidded in behind them, rucksack nearly falling off one shoulder. “Mate. I just sat in traffic for forty minutes. You’re telling me this now?”
Kanté appeared next, zipping up his jacket like he was still unsure he’d dressed right. “A prank?”
Tristan stepped up behind them, hands in his hoodie pocket. He looked at Mahrez. “If we break in, you think it’s jail or just stairs ‘til we puke?”
Mahrez raised an eyebrow. “Depends. Do we count as criminals if we only steal cones?”
“Not unless you take the foam rollers,” Drinkwater muttered, emerging from the hallway.
A few of the younger lads started drifting toward the glass doors, peering out like the pitch might suddenly reveal a loophole.
A staffer jogged up, slightly out of breath. “Yeah, uh — Coach says no sessions ‘til Thursday. Full rest. Just… go home or something.”
That was all Vardy needed.
He turned, cupped his hands like a foghorn.
“WE’RE OFF, LADS. PUB OR POOL?”
Someone whooped. Someone else barked like a Labrador. Dyer jogged past holding his phone up, already grinning.
“I’m booking table tennis. Winner gets to call Vardy’s missus and tell her he’s gone feral.”
Vardy spun around. “Oi! Touch my marriage and I’ll bench you myself.”
Tristan shook his head, walking away. “Two days off. Either we rest or get arrested.”
Mahrez gave a lazy shrug. “Long as I don’t hear you singing in the ice bath again, I’m good with both.”
Tristan looked wounded. “Barbara says I have a great voice.”
“Barbara lies to spare your feelings.”
“Barbara’s a saint.”
Vardy tossed his gym bag down with a soft thud. “So, what’s the plan, gentlemen? I vote pool. Or darts. Or we break into the physio room and see who can last longest in the cryo chamber.”
“Let’s not do FIFA,” Maguire said, raising a hand. “Last time Vardy unplugged the console mid-loss and called it divine intervention.”
“I slipped,” Vardy shot back.
Tristan watched all of them with faint amusement, arms folded, then glanced sideways.
“Alright, come on then,” he said to Vardy. “You scored your hat-trick. What celebration do I have to do now in front of Wembley?”
The group immediately perked up, every head turning.
Vardy’s eyes lit with pure joy.
“Ohhh no, sunshine. You don’t get to know yet.”
Tristan frowned. “We had a deal.”
“We did,” Vardy said, nodding seriously. “And you’ll fulfill it. But not until you’re surrounded by 80,000 people, the Queen probably watching, and all of England wondering why Tristan Hale just did that with his hips.”
“You’ll know when the moment arrives,” Vardy said, clapping Tristan’s shoulder as he passed him. “But I’ll give you a clue—”
He leaned close.
“—your girlfriend might break up with you.”
Tristan blinked. “That’s not a clue. That’s a threat.”
“Trust me, it will be funny,” Vardy said, pushing open the door to the lounge, “For me, not for you.”
The group filed in after him, boots squeaking on tile, shouts already starting over who got the good cues and which table was cursed.
Tristan lingered at the edge a moment longer, watching the lot of them.
Then sighed, muttering under his breath.
“I should’ve made it four goals.”
.
The rec room looked like what it was — a decent, modern lounge built to keep elite footballers occupied between training sessions. Smooth laminate floors, overhead lights set to soft daylight tones. Two pool tables with branded felt tops. One dart board mounted clean above a protective mat. A flatscreen the size of a door stretched across the far wall, replaying old match clips on mute.
There were plush leather couches. A few pairs of trainers sat by the far corner like their owners hadn’t quite bothered putting them back in lockers. A row of shelves held everything from board games to foam rollers, and there were kettlebells and a massage gun charging in one of the wall outlets.
Half the squad had filtered in already — boots still on, tracksuits half-zipped, shoulders damp from the walk in. They sprawled without ceremony. Bags tossed, pool cues lifted, banter rolling.
Mahrez was lining up his third shot of the game, cue held awkwardly against his side as he narrowed one eye like he was trying to squint the table into compliance.
He missed. Badly. The cue ball clipped the edge of a red, ricocheted, and ended up near the corner pocket without hitting a single stripe.
“Hopeless,” Dyer said, collapsing into the far end of the couch with his arms spread like a martyr. “That cue’s cursed, mate.”
Mahrez didn’t even flinch. “It’s the table. Floor’s uneven.”
“No,” Vardy said, stepping up with all the swagger of a man preparing to conquer a pub tournament, “it’s your head that’s uneven.”
He chalked his cue like it was personal.
“If I win this, do you get to name the trip?” Vardya asked Tristan.
“What trip?” Mahrez asked, glancing up mid-stretch.
“Our boy Tristan,” he announced, stabbing his thumb in Tristan’s direction, “is flying to New York.”
He paused for effect.
“For the Victoria’s Secret show.”
The room erupted — whistles, fake applause, someone knocking over a plastic bottle like it was champagne.
“Wait, seriously?” Chilwell asked through a mouthful of biscuit. “You’re going?”
“Barbara’s there,” Tristan warned, half-laughing. “You lot better behave.”
“Bro, imagine The Sun headline when you take pictures with other girls besides Barbara.”Ben said laughing. “Tristan Hale cheating on his supermodel girlfriend!”
Tristan stared at the ceiling for a beat like he was waiting for divine intervention — or a roof collapse.
“Lord, grant me patience.”
Mahrez clapped him on the back. “Nah. Just give us your tailor’s number.”
And the game rolled on — more banter, more trash talk, the occasional actual shot that made it into a pocket.
.
November 7, 2015 — King Power Stadium
Leicester City vs Watford
Kickoff: 3:00 PM
.
The weather was perfect. Blue skies, trimmed pitch, light wind rolling in from the north stand — the kind of afternoon built for good football.
But Leicester weren’t playing good football.
Not today.
Up in the dugout, Claudio Ranieri stood with his arms folded and jaw tight, watching his players jog half-heartedly into their positions. Something was off. From the first minute, he saw it. No edge. No urgency. Too many touches. Too comfortable.
Watford weren’t world-beaters. But they were disciplined. They came in with a plan — and that plan revolved around Tristan.
Every time he dropped deep, a triangle collapsed in around him.
Capoue marked tight. Watson hovered the back shoulder. Nyom stepped out from right-back whenever he drifted wide. A rotating clamp — three men folding in like creased paper.
Tristan barely had room to breathe.
Ranieri watched the ball bounce off Vardy’s shin in the 8th minute, then off Mahrez’s heel in the 9th. Drinkwater sprayed one out of bounds. Albrighton took a wild swing on a volley and missed the ball entirely.
By the 12th, he’d already pulled off his glasses and started polishing them — aggressively.
By the 14th, Watford scored.
Capoue stole it off Kanté in midfield. Launched a ball behind Morgan. Ighalo took two touches, then slotted low under Schmeichel.
0–1.
The stadium hushed. Not silent — just confused. This wasn’t how Leicester played. Not this season. Not at home.
Not like this.
Tristan tried to rally — dropped deeper, tried to collect and build. But Watford’s trap was surgical. His first touch was rushed. His second was intercepted. On his third attempt, Watson clattered him hard enough to win both the ball and a yellow card.
Ranieri turned to Benetti.
“They think this is a show.”
Benetti glanced up. “They’re playing like the break was a reward.”
“They forgot every team wants to beat us.” Ranieri snapped.
.
HALFTIME — Leicester 0, Watford 1
Inside the dressing room, the mood was muted.
Sweat clung to shirts. Boots sat half-untied. Players muttered to themselves or stared at the floor.
Ranieri walked in slowly, not shouting. Not yet.
He looked at every one of them. Let the silence cook.
Then—
“You think because we beat West Brom, because the table looks pretty, that it’s enough?”
He turned toward the whiteboard, slammed his fist against it. The markers shook.
“This—” he jabbed at the formation sketched out “—is not a joke. It is not a victory lap.”
No one spoke.
“You’re letting them crowd Tristan and not one of you is adjusting. Riyad, you float in and disappear. Marc, you haven’t overlapped once. Jamie — you’re making the runs but not the effort.”
Vardy opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“We trained for this. We talked about this. They’ve tripled Tristan — fine. That means someone is free. I haven’t seen one of you take responsibility.”
Ranieri finally pointed toward the bench. “Ulloa. King. Warm up.”
He stepped back. Lowered his voice.
“We’re lucky it’s just 1–0.”
.
SECOND HALF
Leicester came out sharper. Not brilliant — but better.
The shape shifted. 4-2-3-1. Ulloa up top. Vardy just behind. Tristan dropped right of center, floating.
Watford still pressed. Still boxed. But it wasn’t perfect now. Gaps opened. Half-spaces emerged.
And in the 52nd minute, Leicester punched back.
Mahrez cut in, slipped a soft pass into the edge of the box. Vardy ducked between two defenders and toe-poked it across goal.
1–1.
The crowd roared — relief more than celebration.
But the joy didn’t last.
Five minutes later, Watford earned a corner. Short ball. Flicked on. Cathcart rose at the far post and buried it off the underside of the bar.
1–2.
Ranieri turned away from the pitch, hands on hips. Benetti said nothing. Neither did the bench.
.
66th Minute
It started with Kanté. As it usually did.
He slid into a tackle, clean as a whistle, and popped up before the ball even stopped rolling.
One touch to Drinkwater.
One pass into Tristan — finally, finally free of that box.
He turned on instinct. Cut once to his right. Then again left. Open lane.
Strike.
Low. Left foot. Skimming the grass like a stone on water.
The net bulged.
2–2.
The King Power stood as one. Not in wild celebration — more like defiance. The noise was loud, but grounded. They knew they’d been poor. They were just thankful it wasn’t worse.
.
FULL TIME — Leicester City 2, Watford 2
.
Back in the tunnel, as boots scraped concrete and damp shirts clung to tired shoulders, Tristan sat alone for a beat at the end of the bench. His forehead rested against the wall. Eyes shut.
No one said anything.
He didn’t need to check the stats. He’d seen it with his own eyes.
Too many touches. Too many flicks. Too much complacency.
He whispered under his breath.
“We got cocky.”
And the truth was — they had.
.
The locker room smelled like sweat and disappointment.
Boots thudded soft against tile. Tape peeled from ankles. A physio moved through slowly with a cooler pack in hand, but no one looked up.
Tristan sat still — shoulders hunched, shirt half-off, steam still rising faintly off his skin.
Mahrez had his head back against the wall, eyes closed. Vardy leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, staring down at the same spot on the floor like he was waiting for it to speak.
No music. No chatter. Just the hiss of the shower down the corridor.
Then the door opened.
Ranieri stepped in without a word. His coat was zipped to the neck. His eyes scanned the room like he was counting casualties.
He didn’t raise his voice.
But the silence deepened.
“You thought this was a gift,” he said. “Two days off. Sunshine. No pressure.”
He looked at Vardy. Then Mahrez. Then Tristan.
“Don’t lie to yourselves. I saw it before the first whistle. The comfort. The expectation.”
He paused.
“Watford didn’t beat you. You gave them the chance to try.”
No one blinked.
Ranieri exhaled through his nose. Then stepped forward, pacing slow, deliberate.
“There’s an international break coming,” he said. “Some of you will be on planes tomorrow. Representing your countries. You’ll wear your badges. Sing the anthems. Smile for the cameras.”
He stopped. Just long enough.
“But when you come back…”
His voice sharpened.
“…don’t you dare bring this effort with you.”
Vardy shifted in his seat. Mahrez opened his eyes.
“Champions aren’t born from comfort,” Ranieri said. “They’re built when it’s ugly. When it’s cold. When it’s Watford at home and you still fight like it’s a final.”
He turned toward the door, paused.
“Training resumes Thursday. Early. Don’t be late.”
Then he left.
.
Tristan didn’t move. Not right away.
His mind replayed every flick that didn’t come off. Every touch smothered by pressure. Every step he took thinking Watford couldn’t possibly hold him.
He knew better now.
They all did.
And as he finally stood to strip off his shirt fully, the only thing louder than the shower down the hall was the sting of regret he hadn’t quite earned his rest.
The cold had settled in by then. Damp and clingy. Breath fogged with every laugh.
The lot of them loitered by the back exit — bags slung over shoulders, zippers half-done, boots clacking faintly as they shifted in place like kids at the end of detention.
Vardy lit a protein bar like it was a cigarette. “I still say the table tennis winner should’ve picked the warmup playlist.”
“No,” Mahrez groaned. “Because you were going to choose ‘Return of the Mack’ again.”
“Because it’s a classic,” Vardy said, hands raised.
King shook his head. “You lot think music’s the problem?”
“It’s not,” Tristan said, tone dry. “The problem is I thought I could walk through three men in triangles like they were cones.”
That got a few chuckles. Not big ones. But enough.
Mahrez glanced over. “You heading to London first, or straight to New York?”
“Straight.” Tristan adjusted the strap of his duffel. “Private jet’s at East Midlands. Barbara’s meeting me on the other side.”
Ben looked up. “Mate, you just got clattered by Capoue, and now you’re flying to the Victoria’s Secret show?”
Tristan shrugged. “Yeah. Life’s weird.”
Vardy nodded solemnly. “Tell Barbara I forgive her for not marrying me.”
“No,” Tristan said.
And with that, he got into his One-77.
.
East Midlands Airport
4:26 PM
The runway stretched out behind a wall of tinted glass. Grey sky above. Just enough wind to make the flags ripple, but not enough to move the plane.
Tristan leaned against the backseat of the airport lounge’s private terminal — jacket open, headphones loose around his neck, a water bottle in hand.
He didn’t even bring John with him. He was going to America, that land of guns and burgers. That chance anyone was going to recognize him was close to zero. People over there would think he was a model instead of a world class famous athlete.
“Your jet’s ready, Mr. Hale,” the attendant said, appearing with a practiced smile and clipboard in hand.
Tristan nodded once, pushed off the wall.
Outside, the tarmac felt colder than it should’ve. But the jet looked warm — polished white and silver.
He gave a little wave toward John who was dropping him off.
“Text if anything blows up.”
John gave a nod. “Enjoy the show.”
Tristan climbed the steps. Boarded.
The cabin was spotless. Leather seats, angled windows. He dropped his bag, pulled out his phone.
No new texts. No missed calls.
Just notifications — a half-dozen alerts about Leicester’s draw, a couple tabloid headlines speculating if he’d be walking the pink carpet in New York, and one very low-effort meme someone had made of him getting tackled by three Watford players with the caption: "Thou shalt not pass."
He sighed, locked the screen, and leaned back into the headrest.
The door sealed. Engines stirred louder.
They were still taxiing when the phone rang.
Roy Hodgson
He stared at it.
Then picked up.
He blinked. Straightened a little.
“…Coach.”
“I’m aware you’re traveling. Just wanted to confirm something.”
Tristan rubbed his brow. “I’ll be back before the thirteenth. That’s what this call’s about, right?”
Another pause. Almost like Hodgson had been expecting a different tone.
“Good,” he said. “We’ve got Spain. In Alicante. We’re not playing catch-up, Tristan — we’re trying to win the Euros.”
“I’m not missing the match.”
“See that you don’t.”
There was a beat of silence. Static hissed faintly.
Then Hodgson’s voice came again — just a touch quieter. Maybe less stiff.
“…You’ve got the talent. But talent alone doesn’t make a team work.”
“I know.”
Another pause.
“Safe flight,” Hodgson said. Then the line clicked dead.
Tristan stared at the screen for a second, thumb hovering. Then locked the phone again and looked out the window. That whole call just ruined his whole mood. He already let that FA know he would be back before that Spain friendly.
He wasn’t going to miss such an important match even if it was just a friendly. Spain was going to be that best team they played so far since this new season.
The plane rolled forward — slow, steady — toward open sky.
.
Sorry for that short chapter, just not feeling that good today. Feel a bit sick.
