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Chapter 189: FIFA 16
🕑 Added 2025-04-28 16:56:57 +0000 UTCSeptember 15, 2015 — 10:41 AM
Belvoir Drive — Media Room
.
The media room at Belvoir had been completely flipped — bright lights overhead, camera rigs squeezed into corners, a long table draped in EA banners planted right in the center.
At the front, a stack of giant FUT cards sat face-down, edges gleaming under the spotlights.
Pinned proudly behind them, stretching across the wall, was the new FIFA 16 poster.
One side: Messi. The other: Tristan.
[FIFA 16 Cover > Insert Image Here]
The door banged open.
"Finally! Five-star skills, baby!" Vardy's voice ripped through the room as he stormed in, arms wide like he owned the place.
"LET’S GO!" he shouted, spinning around like he was already looking for trouble. "I better have a gold card this time. I’m warning you lot now."
The other players trickled in after him laughing, jostling, already in full banter mode.
Danny Drinkwater was next, giving Mahrez a playful shove through the doorway.
"What’s all this, then?" Danny asked, scanning the setup.
Mahrez smirked. "Back to the good old days, mate."
Danny slapped the back of his head lightly. "Good old days? Bro, you did one FIFA video last year. Stop acting like you’re Gary Neville on a testimonial tour."
Mahrez laughed, dodging a second fake slap. "Still counts. Veteran status now."
Behind them, Schmeichel, Fuchs, Albrighton, and King wandered in — the room filling up with noise fast.
"Bet they gave me 60 pace again," Fuchs muttered under his breath, eyeing the FUT cards suspiciously.
"You’re lucky if they didn’t put you at walking speed," Schmeichel deadpanned, making the whole group snicker.
Another door swung open.
Kanté slipped in quietly, hoodie half-up, smiling shyly at the chaos already unfolding.
Vardy spotted him immediately.
"Kante!" he bellowed across the room. "If you ain’t got 99 stamina, I’m suing EA!"
Kanté chuckled, giving a tiny shrug. "Maybe... 40 shooting," he said in English, so deadpan it made Mahrez double over laughing.
The group roared even louder, clapping him on the back.
Then the door opened again — Harry Maguire ducking through with Ben Chilwell right behind him.
"First FIFA card for Chilly, innit?" Maguire said loudly, clapping Ben on the back.
"If I'm under 60, I’m deleting the game," Ben muttered darkly. "Tristan got an 84 last year, didn’t he?"
"Yup," Danny said, grinning. "Pressure’s on, lad."
And that’s when the noise dropped.
Vardy spun toward the wall and froze.
"NOOOOO WAY!" he shouted, pointing dramatically at the massive FIFA poster.
The whole group turned.
There it was — Tristan, standing side-by-side with Messi like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The perfect hair, the serious game face, the blue Leicester kit catching the lights.
Schmeichel wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "Our little man's all grown up."
Mahrez clutched his chest dramatically. "And they didn't even need to Photoshop him! That's the worst part!"
Fuchs leaned heavily on Drinkwater, gasping between laughs. "Better skin than Messi too!"
Tristan just shook his head, hands buried deep in his hoodie pockets, trying to hide the grin tugging at his mouth.
Yeah, he already knew about the poster — EA had sent him the final proof weeks ago.
But seeing it now, larger than life, surrounded by his teammates?
Different feeling.
Even Kanté cracked a grin, nudging Tristan gently. "Very serious face," he said, smiling. "But still looks twelve."
The group broke into another round of laughter.
One of the EA media guys stepped forward finally, clapping his hands together.
"Alright, alright, folks — let’s rein it in for a second!" he called out, struggling to hide his own grin. "Grab a seat. We'll get started in a minute." He tapped the long table where the FUT cards were waiting.
"Cards are face-down. You’ll guess each other's stats first, then we'll reveal. And yes," he added, glancing pointedly at Vardy, "you’re allowed to riot when you see your pace rating."
"Wicked," Vardy said, cracking his knuckles. "Can’t wait to scrap someone."
Morgan crossed his arms, dead serious. "If I get less than 70 strength, I'm flipping this table."
The players jostled and shoved each other, claiming seats around the table.
Above them, the FIFA poster loomed — Messi, eternal. And Tristan Hale, England's golden boy, right beside him.
The cameras started rolling.
It was finally time to see just how much — or how little — FIFA had rated them this year.
.
The players had barely gotten comfortable around the long table when one of the EA staff members — a tall guy in his late twenties, clipboard tucked under one arm and a mic clipped to his polo — raised his voice above the chatter.
"Alright, lads," he said, flashing an easy smile. "Who’s brave enough to go first?"
Vardy slapped the table with both hands, loud enough to rattle the water bottles.
"Kanté!" he shouted, pointing across the table. "Little machine deserves the first card!"
A ripple of agreement went around the room — a few claps, some whistles, boots scuffing against the floor.
Across the table, Kanté ducked his head slightly, his shoulders tensing like he wished he could melt into his chair. A shy, almost bashful smile tugged at his mouth.
The EA staffer chuckled as he flipped through his clipboard. "Alright, alright. Full card guess, then — pace, shooting, passing, the whole deal."
"If EA actually watched the last five matches," Vardy said, leaning in on his elbows, his voice loud and animated, "he'd be ninety for everything — pace, stamina, defending — all of it."
The players laughed, a few shaking their heads in agreement.
"Trust me," Mahrez said from the other end of the table, stretching his arms back over his chair lazily, "they don't know yet. They will... but not yet."
Kanté gave a tiny shrug, a flicker of humor flashing in his eyes, like he was used to being underestimated.
The EA staffer raised a hand, playfully defensive. "Hey, hey — don't blame me! I don’t make the ratings, I just have to survive you lot complaining about them."
That got a round of louder laughter.
"Alright," the EA staffer said, holding up a finger. "Pace guesses?"
Tristan leaned forward, resting his arms casually on the table. His gaze lingered on Kante, thoughtful.
"Eighty," he said, his voice even. Now he didn’t remember most FIFA cards, but there were a few he did, and those cards were Leicester players from the miracle with Kanté’s 72 something he memorized in his head as motivation.
"Seventy-four," Mahrez threw in immediately, sitting forward now. "EA always lowballs."
The EA guy nodded, jotting a note with a small smile. "Passing?"
"Seventy," Fuchs said from the far side, tossing a piece of tape he'd been fiddling with onto the table.
"Dribbling?"
"Seventy too," Chilwell added, tapping a finger against the wood.
"Defense?"
Morgan leaned back, crossing his arms. "Should be seventy-five easy," he said. "But EA... probably sixty-something."
"Physical?" the EA guy asked, already smiling.
Vardy barked a laugh. "Sixty-five, if they’re feeling generous. Blokes at EA wouldn’t know stamina if it chased them down the street."
More chuckles rolled through the room.
The EA staffer rested his hand dramatically on the top card. "Alright, final guesses?"
A chorus of nods answered him.
With a smooth flip, he revealed the card.
NGOLO KANTÉ — 74 PAC | 63 SHO | 70 PAS | 70 DRI | 64 DEF | 66 PHY — 72 OVR
There was a beat of silence — not outrage, but the kind of heavy, amused sigh that said, of course.
Vardy burst out laughing, slapping Mahrez’s chair. "Typical, innit? They have no bloody clue what they’re missing."
Drinkwater leaned back, arms folded, a wry smile pulling at his mouth. "Fresh outta France. EA scouts probably thought he was a fitness coach."
Mahrez ran a hand down his face, half-laughing, half-sighing. "Give it a few months," he said. "They’ll be scrambling to fix that rating."
Across the table, Tristan bumped Kanté lightly with his elbow, a smile pulling at his mouth.
"They’ll fix it, mate," he said lowly. "Just wait for the winter upgrades."
Kanté gave a small, shy smile in return, his hand tugging unconsciously at the sleeve of his training top.
The EA staffer shifted forward a little, voice lighter now.
"Kanté — what did you think you’d get?"
Kanté blinked, his mouth opening and closing once as he searched for the right words in English. He looked around the table, almost like he was asking for backup.
Tristan leaned in slightly, speaking slower and pointing at the card.
"What rating you think?" he asked.
Kanté hesitated, then gave a small, shy laugh.
"Eh... seventy..." he said slowly, thick accent curling around the words. "Maybe... more... for defense."
Mahrez leaned in and translated more fluidly in French, teasing him a little at the end, which made Kanté huff a soft, bashful laugh.
"He thought he should’ve had more defending," Mahrez reported back, grinning. "And more stamina too."
Vardy slapped his palm against the table dramatically.
"Oi, he deserves an Icon card already!"
The players cracked up again.
Tristan leaned back slightly in his chair, arms folded loosely across his chest, a faint smile playing at his lips. It was surreal — seeing Kanté at the very beginning of it all. No World Cup yet, no Champions League, no Ballon d'Or nominations. "You'll be gold before you know it," he said.
Kanté’s smile widened even more at that.
The EA staffer laughed, setting the next card down onto the table with a soft thud.
"Alright," he said, brightening. "Who’s next?"
"Me!" Vardy shouted, grinning wide. "Time for my bloody coronation! If I’m still silver, someone's getting tackled!"
The whole table cracked up, a few players pounding the wood for good measure.
"Right, alright," Danny said, laughing as he leaned forward. "Whole card guess — let’s hear it."
The EA staffer nodded, settling in behind the camera. "Pace first?"
Mahrez leaned his elbows on the table, his voice light. "Gotta be at least eighty-eight."
"If they didn’t bump him after this year, we riot," Tristan added, his voice warm but serious.
"Mate, he’s been leaving defenders in the dust," Fuchs said, shaking his head. "High eighties minimum."
Tristan rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "Ninety-two," he said. "No way they missed that."
Vardy gave a small snort, sitting back and spreading his arms like he agreed completely.
"Finishing gotta be better too," Schmeichel said, his tone casual. "Eighty-five shooting."
"Seventy-eight," Drinkwater guessed, more cautious.
"Passing…" Chilwell wrinkled his nose playfully. "Fifty-something. Be honest, mate. You don’t pass.”
That got a round of fresh laughter.
Vardy threw his hands up. "Oi, I spray some good long balls!"
He jabbed a thumb at himself, face mock-offended but clearly enjoying the chaos.
"Physical’s gotta be solid," Morgan said, serious as always. "You're a nightmare to wrestle with."
"And defending?" Mahrez added with a sly smile, lifting his brows slightly. "Zero."
The EA staffer raised his hands like a referee stepping in.
"Alright, alright — final guesses locked?"
Everyone nodded eagerly, leaning forward on their elbows.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he flipped the card.
JAMIE VARDY — 92 PAC | 85 SHO | 63 PAS | 73 DRI | 30 DEF | 76 PHY — 80 OVR
For a split second, there was silence — the kind that teetered right before chaos.
Then it exploded.
"LET'S GO!" Vardy roared, leaping out of his seat and throwing his arms over his head like he’d just scored a World Cup winner.
Danny was pounding the table with both fists, laughing too hard to say anything.
"Mate, ninety-two pace!" Mahrez shouted, slapping the table with an open palm. "You're basically a cheat code!"
Vardy snatched the card off the table like it was a trophy, holding it above his head.
"I’d like to thank my mum, my dog, the academy..."
He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye, grinning so wide it hurt.
"You forgot Tristan for all the assists," Morgan called out, chuckling.
"Yeah, yeah — and my supply line!" Vardy shouted, tossing a wink across the table toward Tristan.
Tristan just laughed, shaking his head.
"At least you’re finally gold, mate. No more excuses."
The EA staffer, still chuckling behind his clipboard, leaned in toward the group.
"You happy with it, Vardy?"
Vardy slapped the card against his chest like a badge of honor. "Buzzing, mate. Frame this. I’m sleeping with it tonight."
The players roared again, the atmosphere electric.
The EA staffer reached for the next card, sliding it smoothly into the center of the table.
"Alright — who’s brave enough to follow that up?"
Mahrez pushed his chair forward, arms already on the table. "My turn," he said, voice mock-serious. "Time for EA to disrespect me again."
Mahrez leaned forward on the table, his elbows resting casually as he flashed a slow, easy smile at the cameras.
Mahrez leaned forward, resting his elbows lightly on the table. A small, easy smile played at the corner of his mouth.
"Alright," he said, voice casual. "Moment of truth. Let’s see if EA finally got it right."
"You’re dreaming already," Vardy said from across the table, cradling his gold card like it was a family heirloom.
"Creative players always get shortchanged," Danny added, shaking his head. "Prepare yourself."
The EA staffer chuckled under his breath, adjusting his clipboard. "Alright, let’s hear it. Pace guesses?"
Fuchs spoke up first. "Eighty-two. No way they gave him more."
Tristan tapped the table lightly, thinking it through.
"Eighty-two sounds about right," he said. "Fast enough to kill fullbacks, but EA never goes crazy."
Schmeichel leaned back in his chair, arms folded.
"Eighty-one," he said. "Just to annoy him."
Mahrez lifted his eyebrows, tilting his head like he was genuinely offended.
"You lot think I'm slowing down?" he said, pretending to be insulted. "Harsh."
"Dribbling’s where they better show some respect," Morgan said, pointing across the table."Eighty-five minimum."
"Agreed," Tristan said, nodding. "One of the best on the ball."
The EA staffer smiled, scribbling something down. "Passing?"
"Seventy-eight," Drinkwater guessed after a beat. "Decent, but you know they’ll be stingy."
"Physical?" Chilwell asked.
Vardy leaned forward, grinning. "What physical?"
The room cracked up.
"Sixty-three," Tristan said quickly, before Mahrez could fire back. "He’s wiry. Not weak, just not… built."
Mahrez chuckled under his breath and shrugged like he couldn't even argue it.
"Defending?" Schmeichel asked.
"Thirty-five," Fuchs said, deadpan. "He’s not there to tackle."
The EA staffer lifted the card halfway.
"Final guesses locked?"
Everyone nodded, the energy buzzing again.
With a smooth flip, the card turned.
RIYAD MAHREZ — 82 PAC | 85 DRI | 78 SHO | 78 PAS | 35 DEF | 63 PHY — 82 OVR
For a second — just silence.
Then the table broke out in noise.
"Finally!" Tristan said, leaning closer to read it.
Mahrez sat back, a wide smile breaking across his face. "Eighty-five dribbling," he said, almost to himself. "Took them long enough."
"Eighty-two overall," Danny said, clapping him on the back. "Welcome to the gold squad, mate."
Mahrez picked up the card, turning it slightly in his hands.
"Still a crime they gave me 63 physical," he said, glancing around the table.
"You weigh less than Biscuit," Schmeichel called out dryly, making the whole room crack up again.
Mahrez tilted his head, smirking. "You ever try knocking me off the ball?"
"No thanks," Fuchs said, laughing. "I like having ankles."
The EA staffer leaned forward. "Happy with it, Riyad?"
Mahrez looked down at the card one last time — then smiled, setting it neatly in front of him.
"Not bad," he said. "But next year — higher."
The EA guy chuckled and reached for the next card.
"Alright," he said, tapping the deck. "Cover star’s up."
Every head immediately turned toward Tristan.
Vardy rubbed his hands together, leaning forward like a kid about to tear open presents. "Here we go, lads. Cover boy time."
forgot the cameras were rolling.
All eyes locked onto Tristan.
"You lot ready for a 99 overall?" Mahrez teased, shielding his eyes dramatically.
Vardy pointed accusingly. "If he's anything under 90, we riot."
"Under 90?!" Drinkwater said, laughing. "Mate, he broke like five records last season. EA probably gave him secret attributes."
The table buzzed with energy as the EA staffer smiled, tapping the back of the next card.
"Alright, lads — let’s guess the cover star," he said.
"Okay, pace first," Chilwell said, tapping his fingers against the table.
"Ninety-three" Fuchs said straightaway, nodding seriously. "Easy."
"Yeah," Danny agreed, turning slightly to Tristan. "You’re quicker now. Way faster than last season."
"Oi, oi," Vardy cut in, pointing across the table. "Hold on. My pace is ninety-two. No way he's faster than me!"
Tristan laughed under his breath, leaning forward. "Mate," he said, voice light, "maybe last season you had me by a few seconds But now? Not even close."
Mahrez leaned in, resting his chin on his hand, smiling. "Tristan’s been dusting people on counters. Ninety at least. Also, guys, you have to remember they aren’t counting the start of this season. Tristan made all his improvements in the break.”
"Alright, alright," Vardy said, throwing his hands up. "Fine. Ninety pace. But don't think you're outrunning me in a race yet."
Tristan raised an eyebrow, teasing. "Line one up after training. We'll see."
The table laughed, a few players banging the table lightly.
"Passing?" Morgan said, steering it back.
Mahrez immediately spoke up, not even hesitating. "Ninety-five. Minimum. No one's touching him there."
Schmeichel nodded slowly. "Best passer in the league right now. Easy."
"Dribbling?" Vardy added, grinning across the table.
"Ninety," Tristan said confidently, tapping his chest lightly.
Vardy squinted at him. "Oi, you can’t guess your own stats!"
"Fine," Tristan said, leaning back.
"Shooting?" Schmeichel asked next, turning to the group.
"Eighty-five," Morgan guessed, arms crossed. "Man scored goals for fun last year."
"Physical?" Mahrez said, glancing sideways at Tristan, trying not to laugh.
"Still built like a noodle," Vardy said immediately, cracking everyone up. "Seventy."
"Oi!" Tristan protested, flexing his arm with an exaggerated pout. "I bulked up! Look at this weapon!" He lifted his bicep dramatically — barely making a ripple — and the room howled.
"Defending?" Chilwell asked once everyone calmed down.
"Fifty," Vardy guessed quickly, waving his hand. "Gotten better at pressing but let's not get carried away."
The EA staffer laughed quietly, holding the card just above the table now.
"You sure you're ready?"
Every player around the table shouted at once — a mess of "Come on!", "Flip it!", and "Do it already!"
The staffer grinned — and flipped the card.
TRISTAN HALE — 88 PAC | 85 SHO | 95 PAS | 86 DRI | 60 DEF | 75 PHY — 90 OVR
For half a second — stunned silence.
Then chaos.
"LET'S FUCKING GO!" Vardy yelled, leaping out of his chair.
"NAHHH LOOK AT THE PASSING!" Mahrez shouted, pointing at the 95 like it was a cheat code.
Kanté clapped quietly, smiling huge.
Even Schmeichel whistled. "World-class, mate. That's disgusting."
Tristan leaned forward, studying the card properly now — still grinning wide.
"88 pace..." he muttered, nodding. "Acceptable." Now he was disappointed with his ratings, for sure. But it’s also EA ; what can you do about it ? And this was his stats from last season, so some parts of it made sense.
The fact he even got a rating of 90 was surprising, considering Neymar only had a rating of 87 if he was remembering correctly. Guess being a cover athlete has some benefits with how EA shits on young players.
"85 shooting?" Danny said, mock-outraged. "Bro, they finally admitted you can score."
"95 passing," Mahrez said again, just shaking his head. "No one’s touching you."
"88 dribbling too," Chilwell added. "You're basically Hazard on steroids."
Tristan finally sat back, "Not bad for a second card, yeah?"
"Understatement of the century," Morgan said, laughing.
In the background, one of the EA crew whispered to another, "He's the highest-rated under-21 player in the game and in history as well. 90 at 20 years old—I don’t think anyone is breaking that record.
The laughter was finally dying down when one of the EA guys stepped closer, a microphone tucked in his hand.
"Alright, alright," he said, grinning. "Before you lot cause a fire drill, we’ve got a few quick questions."
The players leaned back in their chairs, still buzzing.
"First one," the EA guy said, smirking. "Who thinks they deserved a higher rating?"
Hands shot up instantly.
"Me!" Vardy barked, still cradling his gold card like a newborn. "I should have a rating of 90!"
"Bro, you missed three sitters last season," Danny said, snickering.
Vardy pointed dramatically across the table. "Defamation."
Mahrez tapped his card. "Physical. Give me plus twenty. I'm not that soft."
"You are," Schmeichel said immediately.
The room cracked up again.
"Alright, next one," the EA guy said, laughing too. "Who was most disrespected today?"
Everyone shouted at once.
"Kante!"
"Fuchs!"
"Mahrez!"
"Vardy!" Vardy shouted himself, earning a fresh wave of jeers.
Kante just smiled, ducking his head shyly again.
"Okay, okay," the EA guy said, waving a hand. "Now — a fun stat for you."
He turned toward Tristan, who was leaning back in his chair.
"Only two players," the EA guy said, voice lifting slightly, "in the entire game are rated higher than you."
The table immediately went silent.
"Messi and Ronaldo," the EA guy finished, smiling wide.
For a second — just a beat — nobody moved.
Then—
"NAHHHH," Vardy shouted, slamming both palms on the table. "HE’S THIRD IN THE WHOLE GAME?!"
Tristan just rubbed the back of his neck, trying — and failing — to look chill about it.
"Not just that," the EA guy continued, clearly enjoying himself. "You’re rated higher than Zlatan Ibrahimović. Higher than Eden Hazard and Neymar. Tied with Robben, Neuer, and Suarez."
Another explosion around the table.
"OI OI OI," Vardy was yelling now, fake-fanning himself with a FIFA card. "Tristan Hale CLEAR of Hazard! Confirmed!"
"Clear of Zlatan too," Mahrez said, laughing. "You're officially the king now."
Even Fuchs stood up dramatically, bowing low at the waist. "All hail our new overlord!"
Tristan shook his head, laughing despite himself. His face was burning — pink creeping up into his ears — but he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if he tried.
He’ll take being tired with those three. It was just his second full season as well. So there really wasn’t much he could complain about. ‘Thank you system.’ He said in his head with him getting a “you’re welcome” message back.
"How’s it feel?" Drinkwater asked, grinning at him across the table. "Third-best player in the world, according to FIFA?"
Tristan shrugged, trying to look casual. "Means I have to work even harder now," he said simply. “And there are three other players tied with me.”
The players let out a collective groan.
"BOOOO, GIVE A PROPER ANSWER," Vardy shouted, throwing a crumpled napkin at him.
Mahrez grinned. "Someone get him a crown."
Chilwell clapped him on the back. "Bro, imagine Career Mode now. Tristan Hale to Real Madrid first transfer window. Guaranteed."
The EA media guy chuckled, resetting the cameras again. "Alright, alright. Last few shots. We’ll have you lot hold your cards up, say your ratings, and roast each other."
The players groaned and laughed, grabbing their cards, already throwing digs and jabs as the cameras started recording again.
The shoot wrapped with a final round of clapping and a few last jokes flying.
Players started filing out of the media room — some carrying their cards tucked under one arm, others still bickering over their ratings.
"This is going straight on my wall," Vardy said proudly, holding his gold card up like it was a World Cup trophy. "Right next to my wedding photo."
"You have priorities, and you aren’t even married yet," Danny said, laughing as he shoved him toward the door.
Mahrez slung an arm around Kante's shoulders as they walked out. "Don’t worry, brother. You’ll be ninety-rated next year. I’m manifesting it."
Kante just smiled, ducking his head shyly again.
The room slowly emptied — boots squeaking against tile, muted laughter echoing down the corridor.
Tristan hung back for a second, his card still tucked casually under his arm.
He turned, just for a moment, and looked up at the massive FIFA 16 poster again.
Messi on the left — timeless. And there, side-by-side, his own face.
It still felt a little surreal.
He reached up briefly, running a knuckle lightly across the corner of the poster — like he was checking if it was really there.
Then he smiled to himself before turning away, jogging to catch up with the others.
The door swung shut behind him.
The room fell quiet.
.
Now the ratings aren’t perfect, but I write how EA would rate the players, lmao. Which means nothing is correct.
I will write another FIFA chapter, maybe about the public’s reaction to it or something else once the game is released in the story.
Anyway, I hope you guys like this chapter.
l
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks for the chapter
