Sinbad
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Chapter 211: The Red Pitch
🕑 Added 2025-05-24 01:28:24 +0000 UTCOctober 19, 2015 — Afternoon
Undisclosed Location, London
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The blacked-out car rolled to a stop outside a quiet luxury hotel — no signs, no press, no questions. It looked like just another glass-wrapped building in central London.
Which was exactly the point.
Tristan stepped out first, hoodie up, hands in his jacket pockets. Jorge Mendes followed, blazer crisp, sunglasses still on despite the overcast sky.
“You nervous?” Mendes asked as they crossed the lobby.
Tristan shook his head. “No. Actually... I’m kind of excited. I like Klopp more than the others.”
Mendes didn’t reply. Just tapped the elevator button and stepped inside.
They rode in silence. Mendes thumbed the corner of the folder tucked under his arm — packed with projections, bonus structures, market valuations. All of it useful. None of it important to Tristan.
“You know he’ll try to charm you the second he walks in,” Mendes said, quiet.
Tristan smirked without looking over. “Let him try. I’m not that easy.”
He was interested — very interested — but not desperate. Liverpool might be his first choice, but it wasn’t his only one. If he told any club in the world he wanted to join, they’d roll out a red carpet so long it’d trip their own players.
A hotel attendant opened the suite door on the top floor.
It was exactly what Mendes always picked — quiet, expensive, professionally forgettable.
Tristan walked in first. Mendes peeled off his coat and checked the time.
“Gordon and Klopp should be here any minute,” he said. “You ready?”
Tristan nodded and sat down, grabbing a bottle of still water from the table. He unscrewed the cap slowly, almost absentmindedly. His thoughts weren’t on what Klopp might say.
They were on what he needed to hear.
The money didn’t matter — not really. Every offer was going to be massive. Signing bonus, personal terms, image rights. He’d end up with the highest salary in the league wherever he went. His valuation had shattered the market.
But the release clause? That was the interesting part.
Sixty million. Dirt cheap for the best player in the world.
At first, it made him feel guilty. He hadn’t signed a new deal with Leicester. But Mendes had talked him through it — showed him the numbers. What he’d brought to Leicester in revenue, branding, international growth. What they’d already earned off his name.
And then came the real point.
With that kind of low release clause, every club — not just Madrid or PSG — could afford to spend more building around him. Clubs like Liverpool. Clubs that wouldn’t have a shot otherwise.
It was strategy. Not selfishness. He told himself.
He leaned back in the chair.
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The door swung open with too much force.
“Tristan!”
Jürgen Klopp’s voice ricocheted off the soundproofed glass before the door had even shut behind him. He strode in like he was late for kickoff, eyes alive, grin breaking wide across his face.
He didn’t walk — he charged, arms already open.
Tristan Hale stood instinctively, only to get enveloped in a hug that felt part-celebration, part ambush.
Klopp thumped his back twice and pulled away just enough to get a good look at him. “God, look at you! You’re even taller than you looked on the tapes. Or maybe I’ve shrunk.”
Tristan blinked, half-laughing. “I didn’t know this was a full-contact meeting.”
Klopp laughed louder. “You’ll learn quickly, I’m not subtle.”
The room itself barely registered to him. Typical Mendes operation: high-end, hush-hush, the kind of place that felt allergic to fingerprints or raised voices. But Klopp wasn’t built for hush. And he wasn’t here to whisper.
Across the room, Jorge Mendes gave a nod — amused. Michael Gordon entered behind Klopp a moment later, all composed formality in contrast. He shook hands with Mendes, offered a short nod to Tristan.
Klopp didn’t sit right away. He looked at Tristan for a second longer, absorbing the stat line now tattooed into his brain:
Twenty goals. Nineteen assists.
Fourteen games.
Thirty-nine goal contributions.
2.78 per match.
At Leicester.
He whistled under his breath, then finally dropped onto the edge of the couch. Forward lean. Elbows to knees. The coach pose.
“No lies,” Klopp began, voice low now, focused. “Every club in Europe wants you. Some will throw money. Some will sell you stories. Some will promise statues before you’ve even signed the contract.”
He waved a hand like batting the idea away.
“But I’m not here to sell the past. I’m not going to bring a PowerPoint about Istanbul or Kenny Dalglish.”
His eyes locked with Tristan’s.
“I’m here to talk about the next five years. Ten. Your future. Built in red. Built around you.”
Klopp let that land. Just a beat.
Because this wasn’t hype. This was the truth — the raw, stubborn, maybe delusional truth. If someone walked up right now and asked him to choose between Messi and Tristan Hale — not the memory, not the GOAT, but the footballer today?
He wouldn’t hesitate.
Tristan was better.
More complete.
A machine with a pulse.
And he still hadn’t peaked.
“If you come,” Klopp said, “we build everything around you. You dictate the press. I give you eleven soldiers who’d run through fire to chase your pass.”
Tristan leaned back, one hand on his knee. His face didn’t move much, but his eyes… they studied.
“What would it take,” Klopp asked softly, “for you to come to Liverpool?”
A pause.
Then Tristan spoke, even.
“Top four.”
Klopp’s smile froze. Not gone. Just... suspended.
“I want Champions League football,” Tristan said. “Tuesdays. Wednesdays. Not Thursdays in countries with silent letters. If I’m joining… Liverpool needs to be ready for me.”
Klopp didn’t answer immediately. His fingers drummed once, twice, then stopped.
His brain flicked through the standings like he was flipping cards at a casino.
Leicester: First. Twenty-three points. Still undefeated.
Manchester City: Second — fine.
Manchester United: Third — somehow.
West Ham: Fourth — ridiculous.
Then Arsenal. Palace. Spurs.
Liverpool?
Eighth.
Thirteen points. One win from four.
The team wasn’t his yet. Not the mentality. Not the press. He’d inherited fog — and was trying to carve a lightning storm from it.
But this kid?
This kid could galvanize metal.
He leaned forward again, elbows grinding into his knees.
“Then we make top four,” he said. “Whatever it takes.”
Across the room, Michael Gordon sat quiet — arms folded, brow creased in calculations.
He had seen balance sheets. Sponsor deals ready to detonate the moment Tristan’s name inked onto a contract. He saw a player who was more than a player. He saw the centerpiece of Liverpool’s global future.
When Gordon finally spoke, it was clean and deliberate.
“You’d be the face of the club. Transfers. Commercial structure. Global reach. We’d frame this entire era around you. We’re already aligned on the board side.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.
It was expectant.
Klopp grinned suddenly — not as a coach, but like a boy who'd just spotted a treasure map in his attic.
“Whatever happens,” he said, voice gentler now, “I hope I get to see you walk out at Anfield. In red… or across the touchline.”
Tristan didn’t say anything.
But Klopp saw it — the twitch of the mouth. The spark behind the eyes.
That little, dangerous flicker of imagination.
They talked for another thirty minutes about everything from tactics to players Liverpool wanted to sign to players Tristan wanted to see.
Of course he mentioned a few players he knew would turn out amazing.
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The door clicked shut behind Michael Gordon and Jürgen Klopp, their departure leaving a vacuum in the suite — the kind of silence that wasn’t just quiet, but emptied.
Tristan stayed seated, eyes still on the door. Still hearing Klopp’s voice echo somewhere in the walls.
Mendes was the one who finally broke it.
“If Liverpool makes top four,” he asked, smoothing the fold in his scarf, “are you signing with them?”
Tristan didn’t answer right away.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and let the question hang there for a few seconds.
Then:
“Probably. Out of Chelsea, City, and Liverpool? Klopp’s the only one I actually like.”
Mendes didn’t react. He rarely did.
Tristan went on, voice dropping a level. “He gets it. Not just the tactics. The people. The pressure. The whole weight of it.”
Of course, it wasn’t that simple.
He was from the future.
He remembered this season — roughly. Liverpool didn’t make top four. Sixth maybe? Lower? The exact finish was a blur, but the headline stuck.
So even if Klopp worked miracles, the math was already against them.
And if they didn’t make it?
There was always Manchester City.
But… he didn’t know if he could breathe in Pep’s system. Didn’t know what role he’d be handed in a machine already engineered to the decimal.
Sure, they’d win things.
But would he matter as much as say in Liverpool or Chelsea or Arsenal.
And Chelsea? Please.
His mind went straight to 2022. Abramovich forced to sell. The war. The sanctions. A squad held together by duct tape and confusion. He already knew where that led — had lived through it once.
“Chelsea,” he said aloud, “is a time bomb. And I don’t have a fire suit.”
Mendes gave a slow, thoughtful nod.
“Then it might come down to how much you like Pep,” he murmured.
“Or,” Tristan said, “maybe I just stay. If Liverpool miss out, and City doesn’t feel right… I’m not leaving Leicester to go backward.”
Mendes tilted his head, absorbing. Then shifted.
“You know what else is tomorrow?”
Tristan blinked. “Ballon d’Or shortlist.”
Mendes smiled, just slightly. “Already leaked. You made it.”
Tristan leaned back in his seat. No real reaction. Just quiet confirmation. He wasn’t surprised. Not really. Last year he was ninth. This year?
Top five felt inevitable.
Top three… maybe.
Messi had won the treble. So number one was locked. But second?
Cristiano? Neymar? Suárez?
Him?
He didn’t remember who came in second.
He looked sideways at Mendes. “Who’d you push PR for? Ronaldo or me?”
Mendes gave a slow shrug. Honest. “Neither.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow.
“I let the voters decide,” Mendes said. “No campaigns. No favors. Cristiano is Cristiano. And you?” He gave the faintest smile. “You made too much noise to ignore.”
He added, “I did focus more on you this year, yes. But only because you’re rising. Ronaldo doesn’t need help.”
Tristan didn’t smile, but something in him eased. Then tensed again.
He looked at Mendes. Let the real question come out.
“Real Madrid. Just how serious are they?”
Mendes nodded. “Perez wants you. He said it directly.”
Tristan folded his arms. His voice turned flat.
“Then tell him this. I only go if I’m the best. Not second-best. Not a side project. Either Ronaldo acknowledges that — or he moves.”
He wasn’t going there to orbit someone else. He wasn’t Bale, and he wasn’t walking into that setup blind.
He’d seen it play out already — Bale brought in to replace Ronaldo. Turned into a sideshow. Booed. Benched.
That wouldn’t be him.
From day one, he wanted it clear — he was the guy. Not the heir. Not the apprentice.
Call it cocky. Arrogant. Whatever label helped people sleep easier. He didn’t care.
Because that’s what it took to be the best in the world.
And with him providing service, even Ronaldo could hit 91 goals. Everyone knew how big his ego was. And with the public already treating Madrid like it was his house?
Yeah. He didn’t want that drama.
Who was the best player in Real Madrid?
Tristan or Ronaldo?
Who should won the Ballon d’Or?
Locker room issues. No one likes a twenty year old making more money than them. Seen as more important than? Add in Real Madrid players’ ego combined with them seeing Ronaldo already as the biggest star?
It would be a media circus worse than when Jose was managing that team.
No thank you.
Mendes gave nothing away. No smile. No sigh. Just a quiet nod.
“I’ll talk to the president.”
And that was it.
Neither of them spoke again.
And in that single moment, Tristan could feel that distance between them.
Where Mendes saw his future.
And where he saw himself.
And how, maybe for the first time…
they weren’t the same place.
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Very short chapter, I know.
Just got back from a wedding, I’m tired.
Anyway I really liked the ending of that chapter, that’s why I’m ending it there even though it makes 2.1k. Shorter than normal but I’m fine with that.
Next chapter should be a long one with the reaction to everything like the Ballon d’Or. To the kids getting their mails from Tristan. It will be a fun chapter, I think.
Anyway, good night. I’m tired as fuck.
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