Sinbad
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Chapter 212: The Shortlist
🕑 Added 2025-05-25 21:33:22 +0000 UTCOctober 19, 2015 — Evening
Leicester City Centre
.
The wind had a bite to it. Not winter yet, but close enough that Tristan pulled his hoodie tighter and adjusted the black mask over his lower face. Not that it mattered much. It was dark. He was dressed low. He hadn’t expected anyone to notice.
But fame has its own downsides.
He stepped out of the small café on the corner, takeout cup in one hand, toasted sandwich in the other. The bag was warm against his palm. Steam curled up from the lid of the cup.
He hadn’t meant to come out.
But after Mendes left, the hotel suite felt too tight. He needed space.
And maybe — without saying it — he needed space from Mendes too.
He crossed the street with his head down, watching the puddles shimmer under the streetlights.
“Excuse me?”
A small voice cut through the quiet.
Tristan looked up.
A boy, maybe eleven or twelve. Wrapped in a Leicester scarf that hung down to his knees, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
“You’re… Tristan, right?” the boy asked. His voice wobbled with excitement. “Even with the mask… I knew it was you.”
Tristan hesitated, then pulled the mask down just enough to smile.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s me.”
The boy’s eyes went wide. “Oh my God—Dad! Dad! It’s him, I told you!”
A man jogged over, phone already out, hands fumbling with the camera app like it was an emergency.
“Sorry—he just… he spotted you somehow—” he stammered.
Tristan set his coffee on a bench, crouched beside the boy, and smiled again.
Flash.
“Thank you!” the boy said, absolutely beaming. He didn’t stop staring, like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.
Before Tristan could stand, two teenagers crossed the street fast, hoods up, half-laughing.
“Mate,” one of them said, tugging his jacket open to flash a Leicester kit underneath, “can you sign this?”
The other one held out a crumpled notebook.
“You think you’ll win the Ballon d’Or?” he asked, voice cracking halfway through the sentence.
Tristan signed both without a pause. “We’ll see,” he said, tone light.
They left still whispering, giddy like they’d just won the lottery.
He watched them disappear, then sat down slowly on the bench. Picked up his coffee. Sipped it in the silence.
Mendes’s face flashed in his mind. That calm. That shrug. That quiet nod when he said he’d talk to the president of Real Madrid.
Tristan had heard it all before. The politeness of someone who’d already made his own decision.
But this wasn’t a club transfer. This was about him.
His choice. His decision.
Barbara didn’t have an agency anymore. Just Sophia. Just a friend who cared, who didn’t treat her like a product. She controlled everything — her pace, her shoots, her brand.
And it worked.
Maybe that’s enough.
Mendes had gotten him this far, yes.
But he didn’t need Mendes. He didn’t have a close relationship like Mendes did with Ronaldo where they had a father-son relationship. Mendes was just an agent and a good friend.
But lately?
Lately it felt like Mendes didn’t like any of his choices. He wanted Real Madrid as his first option. He wanted him to team up with Jose in United despite how bad that would be for his career and future.
And each time he rejected Mendes, he felt like Mendes took it as a snub against him. He was that agent, that world’s best agent. In his eyes, he should be planning all the career moves, not that player.
He wasn’t going to be another Bale. Another name sacrificed to make room for someone else’s ego.
Not in Madrid. Not anywhere.
And Mendes?
He’d wait. Tristan would give him that.
He’d wait until the Euros. Until next year’s Ballon d’Or.
See who Mendes backed.
See if he really was in his corner.
And if not?
Then maybe it was time.
.
The drive to his parents' house didn’t take long. Just thirty minutes through familiar roads, past quiet houses and dim orange streetlights. But it felt longer tonight.
Tristan didn’t blast music like he usually did. Just the soft hum of the engine. Just his thoughts. He hadn’t planned on going anywhere else after his meeting with Klopp and Mendes. But once he got home and the door clicked shut behind him, the silence hit too hard.
Felix was there, of course. Cooking up amazing food in the kitchen. The house smelled like herbs and garlic. But Barbara was in New York. The dining room felt too big. He didn’t say much when he left. Just told Felix not to wait up.
Now, parked outside his childhood home, Tristan sat for a moment before cutting the engine. The porch light was already on. His mum always turned it on when he texted he was coming.
He rang once. The door opened before the sound even finished.
"Hi, love," His mum said, already stepping forward to pull him into a hug.
He leaned in. "Missed you," he muttered.
"You hungry?"
He nodded. "Starving."
His dad looked up from the living room, glasses low on his nose.
"Hey, son. Big day?"
Tristan dropped onto the couch beside him. "You could say that."
Julia was already in the kitchen, pulling plates. "I made soup earlier. And there’s roast. You want both?"
"Please."
Ling studied him for a moment. "You look tired."
"Yeah. It’s been... a day."
"Want to talk about it?"
“It’s nothing to worry about.” He replied, because he didn’t know how to tell his parents he might leave Leicester. That he was already halfway out.
They gave him space. That was the best thing about his parents. They gave him space, not pressure. Love, not demands.
Dinner came quickly. Julia always knew how to heat things without drying them out. They sat at the table with mismatched plates and a bowl of butter rolls between them.
Between bites, Ling finally asked, "We saw online... the Ballon d’Or list leaked. You’re on it, yeah?"
Tristan nodded. "Yeah. Mendes said it’s confirmed. Official announcement comes tomorrow."
Julia leaned forward. "And? Are you happy?"
He shrugged. "I’m not surprised. Top five, maybe top three. But Messi’s winning it."
“You were on our couch watching that award three years ago. Now you’re in the conversation.”
Tristan paused over a piece of bread. “It’s different now. It’s not a dream anymore. Now it’s my turn to make my dream into reality.”
They didn’t interrupt.
Julia reached over, brushing crumbs off his sleeve. “Well, no matter what number you are, you’re our number one.”
He smiled. “That was terrible.”
Ling grunted. “She’s been saving that all day.”
They laughed.
And Tristan stayed the night. His old room was exactly as he left it. Posters faded. Desk a bit dusty. But the bed felt the same.
.
Next Morning
The morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen blinds in soft stripes. Julia stood at the counter, buttering toast with half her attention. The kettle whistled behind her, the TV hummed softly in the corner — volume low, but not low enough to miss.
“—and this year’s inclusion might also be the most deserved: Leicester’s Tristan Hale. The youngest on the list. The only nominee outside of the traditional top clubs. The only Englishman.”
The anchor’s voice was smooth. Polished. But Julia had already heard the segment twice.
She wasn’t going to change the channel.
Tristan walked in, hair still damp from a quick shower. He stopped mid-step.
His own face was on the screen. Again.
“Morning,” Julia said, placing a steaming cup of tea by his plate.
“Morning,” Tristan muttered, dropping into the seat like his limbs were heavier than they should be.
His dad folded the newspaper next to him. “They’ve been talking about you since six a.m. Twitter’s been on fire. Some lad called you ‘the British Messi’ but more handsome.”
Tristan snorted softly.
Julia set a bowl of porridge and a plate of toast in front of him. “You hungry, darling?”
“Yeah.” He paused. “Thanks.”
Then Ling said, “So. Top three?”
Tristan didn’t answer right away. He took a bite, chewed slowly, swallowed.
“Maybe,” he said finally. “But Messi’s winning it. Treble year.”
“Second place would still be historic,” Julia offered gently. “Twenty years old. Leicester City.”
He shrugged. “I’m not chasing second.”
That sat in the air for a moment.
Then Julia reached across the table and lightly smacked his wrist. “Then win the bloody thing.”
Ling chuckled behind his tea. “She’s not wrong.”
Tristan grinned — just a flicker — and shook his head. He picked up his spoon again, but his mind had already wandered. Headlines. Voters. Social media storms.
The world was watching. Every pundit had something to say. Every comment thread was a battlefield. Every award was now a question of legacy.
But right now?
It was just him and his parents that mattered that most to him.
The TV was still on in the corner, but Julia wasn’t watching anymore. She had her reading glasses on, scrolling slowly through her iPad, thumb pausing every few seconds.
She cleared her throat lightly.
“Everyone is posting full articles about the list,” she said. “The shortlist’s everywhere now.”
Tristan didn’t look up.
“They’ve got Barca with six,” she went on, reading. “Messi, Neymar, Suarez… Iniesta, Mascherano, and Rakitic.”
Ling let out a short breath. “That’s half their team.”
Julia kept reading. “Madrid got four. Ronaldo, Bale, Benzema, James.”
“No trophies,” Tristan said without looking up.
His mum nodded, scrolling. “Bayern’s in there too. Neuer, Müller, Lewandowski, Robben. Then City, PSG… all the usuals.”
She paused.
Then: “And then it says — ‘But among the snubs and the star power, one name stood out across every headline, every tweet, every pundit panel: Tristan Hale.’”
She looked up at him. “That’s you, by the way.”
Tristan gave her a look that said really.
Julia went back to it. “You’re the youngest again. The only Englishman. Only player from outside a Champions League team. They’re calling you the most complete player in the world.”
“They’ve got the stats right?” Ling asked.
“They do,” she said. “Seventy-five contributions last season. Broke Henry’s record. Europa quarterfinal. And now twenty goals and nineteen assists in fourteen games this season.”
She didn’t say it to impress him. Just said it like it was. Like a weather report.
Tristan sat back in his chair. Picked at the edge of his toast. Let it sit.
“Second time I’ve been nominated,” he said quietly. “But this year’s different.”
“You’re not just a kid anymore,” Ling said. “You're the best in the world.
.
Later that day, Tristan found himself scrolling through Reddit in his room.
He was lying flat on the bed. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Just... drifting. A kind of mental idleness.
Then he saw it: [Discussion Thread] 2015 Ballon d’Or Shortlist — Final Predictions + My Ranking
Posted by u/Lucas · 1 hour ago
⬆️ 42.1k upvotes 💬 6.1k Comments 🏆 Reddit Gold ×4
Title: If the Ballon d'Or is really about performance, not politics — Tristan Hale is third. Maybe even 2nd
Alright. Let’s get into it.
We’ve got the official 23-man shortlist. No surprises: Messi, Ronaldo, Neymar, Suárez, Lewa, Müller, Hazard, De Bruyne, Pogba, and of course... Tristan Hale.
And I’m just gonna say what a lot of people are already thinking:
I’m tired of Messi and Ronaldo automatically being 1 and 2.
Yeah, Messi had a treble. Yes, he was brilliant. And yeah, he’s winning it this year — deserved. But let’s be honest: second place should be a fight, and Tristan belongs in that ring.
This is his second nomination. He finished 9th last year at 19 — as a rookie. And now?
Here’s his last 12 months:
75 G/A in 56 matches last season.
Premier League all-time assist record.
20+ goals and 20+ assists in his first PL season.
Europa League quarterfinalist.
Top 6 with Leicester City — LEICESTER.
PFA Player of the Year.
FWA Footballer of the Year.
Premier League Player of the Season.
Golden Boy.
Puskás Award.
IFFHS Best Playmaker.
FIFPro World XI.
Now this season? He’s 14 games in.
20 goals. 19 assists.
That’s 2.78 goal contributions per game.
Let me say that again.
2.78 G/A per game. In the Premier League.
Not La Liga. Not Ligue 1. Not Bundesliga with Bayern steamrolling the league. He’s doing this in the most physical, most punishing league in the world — and he’s doing it while carrying a team most thought would be fighting relegation last season.
His stats are so stupid you can’t even make them up in FIFA.
And look — I love Neymar. Suarez too. Ronaldo’s still a machine. But if we’re being honest?
None of them have done this in the past year. Not like this. Not as a 20-year-old playing for Leicester City.
Not when you’re the only nominee on the list not playing in the Champions League.
That alone should tell you how undeniable his season has been.
My prediction?
Lionel Messi – Treble year. It’s locked.
Tristan Hale – Most productive player on earth. He’s changed English football.
Cristiano Ronaldo – Trophyless, but still got the numbers.
Luis Suárez – 40 goals, carried Barca through tough stretches.
Neymar – Great year, but faded a bit post-summer.
Robert Lewandowski – Great Bundesliga stats, but Bayern underwhelmed in UCL.
Hazard – Carried Chelsea to the title.
De Bruyne – Amazing with Wolfsburg, even better start with City.
Thomas Müller – Consistent, but nothing historic.
James Rodríguez – Aesthetic player, good numbers, questionable inclusion.
I get it — Tristan plays for Leicester. He’s not flashy on social media. Well dude has a crazy following online but he’s not like Ronaldo posting everyday about his sponsors. He’s not backed by a Champions League narrative.
But if this award is really about who’s been the best over the last 12 months?
Then the conversation is Messi... and Tristan.
That’s it.
Top comment – u/Max Schmitthenner: If Tristan finishes outside the top three, it proves this is a branding contest and not a football award.
↳ u/Pess: Agreed. 75 G/A and still not good enough? What else is he supposed to do — win the World Cup in January?
↳ u/Monkey D. Murda: Dude is just built different. Imagine being viewed as England’s greatest player whilst only being 20. His stats for England in so little games is stupid too. If only Hodgson would free our boy from his chains.
↳ u/Tony Beynette: I’m a Leicester fan, and I still feel like this is a simulation. The best player in the world plays for us. I can’t explain it.
↳ u/Carlos Bihain: I love Cristiano but Tristan had the better year. Not even being salty. Man’s a freak.
↳ u/BarcaDNA: Can’t believe I’m saying this — but I want Messi to win, and Tristan to get second. Just to break the cycle.
↳ u/BiscuitStan_: Also can we talk about how Tristan posts pics of his dog more than himself? Also Barbara too lol. I noticed on Tristan’s accounts, he posts more about Barbara, Biscuit and his family whilst on Barbara’s, she posts more about Tristan and his achievements. Love their relationship.
Tristan’s thumb hovered over the upvote arrow. He didn’t press it.
Then he laughed. Quiet at first.
Then again — louder, hand going to his forehead.
He didn’t even realize someone was tracking his and Barbara’s accounts that much. Well not tracking as all that posts are right there.
He kept scrolling.
u/Luke Bohlander: All these kids saying Tristan > Ronaldo are wild. Bro is 20. Let’s talk after he wins multiple Champions Leagues and breaks every record in the book. Longevity matters.
↳ u/Rhei: We’re talking about this year. Not careers. If it was about legacy, just hand Messi the next ten Ballon d’Ors and call it a day.
↳ u/William Skondras: Ronaldo’s a beast, but Tristan was untouchable this year. Different level of game intelligence. And unlike Ronaldo, he passes when it’s the right play — not just when he’s tired of shooting.
↳ u/Aee: No mention of Neymar’s Champions League final goal? Really? Just gonna skip that like it didn’t happen?
↳ u/BiscuitEnergy: Neymar was great… but Tristan didn’t need the Champions League to make this list. That’s how undeniable he’s been.
↳ u/Marco: Facts. Who else at 20 has a Puskás, a FIFPro XI, and broke Henry’s assist record? I’ll wait.
↳ u/kyle ellis: People are tired. Messi or Ronaldo wins every year. Let someone else breathe. And if anyone’s earned that air — it’s Tristan.
↳ u/Kraken27: Man’s got 75 G/A in one season, broke records, won everything individual — and he’s dating Barbara Palvin. Bro is stat-padding in real life. I can’t compete.
Tristan couldn’t stop smiling. Then a buzz hit.
Instagram notification: @realbarbara.p tagged you in a post.
Twitter: @BarbaraPalvin — “Congrats to my love for his Ballon d’Or nomination 💫❤️”
He tapped it open.
Barbara had posted a carousel: the first photo was of him mid-game — sweat-slick, arms outstretched, celebrating. The second was that photo of them on the beach from summer, his arms around her waist, both of them laughing into the sun. The third? Biscuit — wearing his Leicester shirt like a cape.
Caption: “You’re already the best in the world to me. Now the world agrees. So proud of you @Tristan_22 my number 1 forever. ❤️🐾👑”
Tristan exhaled. Pressed the side of his phone to his forehead.
And then it buzzed again.
@England: “He’s not just our future. He’s our present. Congratulations, @Tristan_22, on your second consecutive Ballon d'Or nomination.”
@PremierLeague: “History-maker. Record-breaker. England’s crown jewel. Tristan Hale named on the final 23-man Ballon d’Or shortlist for 2015. 👏🇬🇧”
@LCFC: “From the Academy to the world stage. Our very own Tristan Hale has been shortlisted for the Ballon d'Or for the second time.Let’s make history. 🦊💙”
He smiled and hit FaceTime.
Barbara answered in seconds. The screen came to life with the low amber hue of her kitchen — a faint steam rising behind her, the clatter of a wooden spoon against the side of a pot.
Her hair was up in a damp bun, a hoodie slipping slightly off one shoulder. She didn’t even look at the camera right away — just gave it a glance and said, “Well, hello, Mister Golden Ball.” Then her blue eyes flicked up fully. “You look like someone who just cried at a dog meme.”
Tristan let out a breath. “Close. I cried at Biscuit in a Leicester shirt.”
Barbara made a soft, proud face — the kind she never had to fake — and went back to stirring.
You’re welcome.”
“I loved the caption,” Tristan said. “You made me sound like a Disney prince.”
She gave the spoon a quick taste, frowned, then tossed in something off-screen. “I meant every word. Except maybe the ‘number one forever’ part.” She looked up again. “That depends on whether you still remember how to cook.”
“I miss your cooking,” he said, leaning back against the headboard. “Like, genuinely. Even the over-salted pasta that one time.”
Barbara rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched.
“I miss you more,” she said, quieter.
Neither of them filled the silence for a second.
Then Tristan picked up again, lightening his voice: “You know you started an international incident, right? Messi fans. Ronaldo fans. Neymar fans. I’m getting smoked in ten languages.”
Barbara turned the heat down on the stove, nudging the pot slightly. “Well,” she said, flicking her eyes to the screen, “you’re welcome for the engagement.”
Tristan watched her for a second. The curve of her cheek. That natural little smudge of flour on her wrist. Her expression — relaxed, amused, loving.
Then he said, flat, “We need to talk about that yoga photo you sent me.”
Barbara tilted her head. “Which one?”
“You know which one.”
Her mouth tugged up — innocent, not innocent.
“What exactly,” she said, “did you mean when you texted, ‘I’m going to fold you like laundry’?”
Tristan didn’t look away. “It means the second you’re home,” he said, voice low, “you’re not walking for a week.”
Barbara froze mid-stir. Then let out a laugh — hand to her face, trying not to spill whatever was in the pan. “Get your head out of the cloud. You have a game in 2 days.”
“You started it.”
“I was just stretching!”
“You were showing off.”
“Okay,” she said, breath catching, “maybe a little.”
Tristan ran his hand down his face. “Just wait till I get you back.”
Barbara turned fully now, one elbow resting on the counter, chin in hand. Her eyes were soft. Blue and locked on his.
“You promise?”
He nodded once. “Promise.”
The moment lingered — playful turned quiet.
Then Barbara broke it. “You’re not even blushing.”
“I’m thinking too hard about the logistics.”
She laughed again, covering her mouth, then looked back at the stove.
“I’m making that stew you like,” she said. “Goulash.”
“I could smell it through the screen.”
“I’ll make it for real when I’m home.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
Barbara picked up the phone now, holding it closer. Her face took up most of the screen. The curve of her mouth. That tiny freckle on her jaw he always kissed first.
“I love you,” she said, softer now.
Tristan’s voice dropped with it. “I love you more.”
“I’m proud of you, Tristan. So, so proud.”
“I know,” he said smiling.
Barbara smiled — real, no teasing. Just all heart.
“I’ll call you tonight,” she said. “When I’m done with the shoot.”
“Call me even if you’re not done.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
He waited for her to hang up first, but she didn’t.
“I don’t want to hang up,” she murmured.
“Then don’t,” he said. “Leave it on while you cook.”
“I’d burn something.”
“I’d still stay.”
Barbara bit her lip, still smiling.
“I’ll see you soon.”
Tristan let the screen linger a second longer before it went dark. After that he finally decided to unmute that group chat. Moment he woke up, he muted that entire group.
Vardy: I demand a recount
Mahrez: where was my nomination? i scored two bangers and embarrassed half the league
Vardy: I held a dog last week. what more do they want from me
Schmeichel: Maybe your passes should go to the net, not the photographers
Vardy: Alright wall lad, you get save of the year for punching my ego
Vardy: Serious question. Who writes Tristan's captions? Barbara or PR jesus?
Mahrez: The dog
Schmeichel: Barbara > tristan
Chilwell: Agree
King: Unanimous
Vardy: Don’t tell him we said all this
Tristan: Too late
Tristan: I was enjoying my peace and you ruined it
Vardy: Good. stay humble
Mahrez: Can’t believe i’m feeding this man assists and he doesn’t even @ me in his acceptance speech draft
Tristan: I said "the lads". Do you want me to list every time you missed a back post?
Morgan: Don’t fight. Save it for Europa
Schmeichel: Genuinely though — proud of you, brother.
Drinkwater: All jokes aside, it’s surreal. keep going.
Vardy: Next year we all get in. Team award.
Tristan: Only if I get to write the captions
Mahrez: God help us
Vardy: One love, golden boy.
Chilwell: Even if you ignore us half the time
Tristan: Only muted you once
Tristan: (for twelve hours)
Tristan dropped the phone onto his chest and exhaled. They were idiots.
But he wouldn’t change it for the world. This was his team.
.
As Tristan dropped his phone to his chest and let the group chat fade to silence, he had no idea that the kids he'd written to were reading his letters for the first time.
.
Stockport — Foden Family Home
The doorbell rang just after lunch. Phil had been juggling a ball in the hallway again — one touch, then another, keeping count under his breath — when he heard his mum call out, “Parcel for you!”
He skidded into the front room like it was matchday.
His mum was already holding a slim cardboard package. No return label, just his name in neat black letters across the top.
He took it with both hands, eyes wide. “Is this…?”
“Go on,” she said, already smiling.
He tore through the tape with shaking fingers. Inside was an England away kit. Size small. A Leicester City shirt beneath it — blue and perfect — with Tristan Hale’s signature sharp across the back.
And tucked between the folds, a handwritten note.
Phil sat cross-legged on the carpet, heart hammering as he unfolded it. His lips moved silently as he read.
"Phil — Never stop running, but don’t forget: the best wingers make their teammates faster too. I hope to see you in the England team one day. —Tristan"
He read it again. And again.
Then he whooped so loud it startled his mum and sent the cat flying off the windowsill.
“Tristan Hale wrote to me,” he shouted, arms in the air. “Mum — he actually wrote to me!”
She was already laughing, wiping her hands on a towel as she came over to hug him. “Of course he did, love.”
Phil grabbed the Leicester kit and pressed it to his chest. “I’m never washing this.”
.
Stourbridge — Bellingham Residence
Jude was at the kitchen table with his little brother Jobe when the door knocked. His mum came back a minute later holding a brown package and a letter in a plastic slip.
“For you,” she said, sliding it over.
Jobe leaned in before Jude even had the box open.
When he saw the England shirt — crisp white, signed on the back — Jude’s jaw dropped.
“No way,” he breathed.
He picked up the folded paper. Read the message slowly. Then out loud:
"Hey Jude. If your coach says be braver, then be braver. Trust your feet. Trust your mind. You already sound like a leader — keep working like one. I’ll be watching. P.S. Take care of your brother. I think he might be just as good. —Tristan"
Jobe’s eyes lit up. “He mentioned me?”
Jude turned the note so he could see.
“Mate,” Jobe whispered, “you got a message from Tristan Hale.”
.
Manchester — Palmer Household
Cole’s room was a mess. There were three balls under his bed, a stack of FIFA cards on the desk, and posters of Rooney, Bale, and Tristan taped to the walls.
When the door opened and his dad called out, “Cole! You’ve got something!” — he sprinted down the stairs in socks.
Inside the package: an England jersey. A Leicester training top. A pin with Tristan’s number and crest. And a note.
Cole read it once, blinked, then read it again.
"Cole — Never stop practicing. Flair’s not a flaw. But the real magic? That’s knowing when not to use them. Keep mastering your free kicks. And one day? I’ll be screaming when you bend one top corner. —Tristan"
He held it up over his head.
“Dad!” he shouted. “HE CALLED ME MAGIC!”
.
Wythenshawe — Saka Family Kitchen
Bukayo didn’t rip the envelope. He peeled it open carefully, fingers slow, like the paper might fall apart if he touched it wrong.
He saw the jersey first. England. Signed. Then the handwritten note.
He read it silently, mouthing each word.
"I get nervous every game. Still do. Even when I know I’m ready. That feeling? It means you care. Keep practicing. I hope to see you in the England team one day —Tristan"
“Still think it’s silly to feel nervous?” she asked.
He shook his head. Folded the note carefully. .
Hulme — Mainoo Family Flat
Kobbie didn’t scream. He didn’t shout.
He just sat there with the letter open, jersey draped over his lap, staring.
“Midfielders who learn defense grow twice as fast,” he read again under his breath. “You already sound like someone who sees the whole pitch.”
His dad walked past and paused.
“Something wrong?”
“No,” Kobbie said quietly. “Nothing’s wrong.”
He held up the signed Leicester kit. Still stunned.
.
Later that Afternoon
Tristan sat on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under him, the other bouncing restlessly. The TV was on, volume low at first, but he reached for the remote and nudged it up just as the familiar Sky Sports jingle faded.
David Jones leaned into the camera. "Let’s talk Ballon d’Or. Official shortlist dropped yesterday — and it’s a familiar story at the top: Messi, Ronaldo, Neymar. But this year, one name outside that bubble has got everyone talking."
The graphic flashed on screen: Tristan Hale – Age 20 – Leicester City – England.
Thierry Henry was the first to speak, elbows resting on the desk, fingers laced. He didn’t smile — not quite — but his voice carried that unmistakable spark of admiration.
"For me, he’s not just in the top five — he’s in the conversation full stop. You look at the numbers, the consistency, the maturity... This kid’s twenty. He plays like he’s twenty-nine."
David nodded. "Twenty goals and nineteen assists in just fourteen games this season. Premier League pace. Physicality. And still — he leads from midfield."
Carragher leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. He looked over his notes, then up.
"Here’s the thing," he said. "I’ve criticized Tristan. I won’t pretend I haven’t. He knows it. I’ve had things to say about his media, about Barbara, about the way he handles the spotlight — and we haven’t spoken since then. That’s fine. But none of that changes what I see on the pitch."
He tapped his pen against the desk.
"You want output? He’s got more goal contributions this year than every player. You want work rate? Watch what he does off the ball. You want clutch moments? He gave Leicester three wins from losing positions already. That’s not just talent. That’s pressure-resistance."
Thierry nodded slowly. "He’s reinvented the ten role. He’s not just creating — he’s scoring, he's pressing, he's dropping deep. And he's doing it without the structure you see at Madrid or Barcelona."
David looked down at his tablet. "Also the youngest player ever to break Thierry’s assist record."
"Cheers for that," Henry muttered.
They all chuckled.
Carragher sat forward again. "And then there’s what he does off the pitch. Forty kids got letters this month. Signed shirts, notes, England kits. No PR campaign. No sponsor push. Just him sitting down and replying by hand."
David raised an eyebrow. "You sure you want to praise him that much?"
Carragher shrugged. "Look, I’m not going to be fake about it. We don’t talk. But credit’s credit. And the work he’s done with his foundation — England, Hungary, China — that’s amazing. That’s not charity for show. That’s funding school meals, training camps, and local pitches."
Thierry leaned back, arms folded. "The thing is, he doesn’t promote it. Doesn’t post. Doesn’t announce. He just... does it."
Carragher nodded once. "You want to talk Ballon d’Or? Fine. Messi deserves it this year. Treble. Great form. But Tristan Hale deserves top three. And frankly, if it wasn’t for Barcelona winning everything in sight, I’d say give it to him."
David chuckled. "High praise from Jamie. You alright over there?"
"Don’t push it," Carragher said flatly. Then, almost under his breath: "Still think he should come to Liverpool, though."
Thierry smiled. "So this wasn’t a Ballon d’Or segment — it was a Tristan Hale PR reel."
"Deserved one," David replied.
The screen faded to commercial.
From the other room, Julia called out, "You alright, love?"
Tristan didn’t answer at first. Then finally:
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Just watching something nice."
.
5250 word count
Took a while to write this chapter but I hope you guys like it.
