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Chapter 188: Return Home
🕑 Added 2025-04-27 16:00:48 +0000 UTCSeptember 11, 2015 — 6:42 AM
East Midlands Airport — Departures Loop, Parked Car
.
The world outside the car was grey, cold, depressing, the sun barely doing anything yet.
Inside Tristan’s car, however, it was anything but the opposite. It was warm. Comfortable.
Biscuit was already passed out in the backseat, curled into a ball, soft snores filling the quiet.
Barbara sat sideways in the passenger seat, her sunglasses pushed up into her messy bun, boots half-kicked off. She looked tired.
Tristan leaned over a little, one hand resting lightly on her leg. Neither of them said much. They didn’t need to. The car was warm. Comfortable. They were back in the same place again, and that was enough.
Barbara shifted a little closer, pressing her forehead lightly against his. Her voice was soft when she spoke. "You look tired."
He smiled, lazy and fond. " I should be saying that to you, babe." He was tired, dealing with the English press was never easy much less dealing with them when they are trying to find some kind of connection linking you to one of the bigger clubs.
She gave a little shrug, her nose scrunching up in that way that always killed him.
"Plane AC. And these stupid boots."
He chuckled under his breath, squeezing her thigh gently. "Still wore them though."
"Fashion hurts," Barbara said seriously, deadpan — and somehow managed to look adorable doing it.
Before he could fire back something, Tristan tilted his head and kissed her — quick, instinctive, like muscle memory.
Barbara kissed him back without hesitation — and then again, slower the second time, her fingers curling into the collar of his hoodie.
It should’ve stopped there. It didn’t.
She shifted closer, tugging lightly at his hoodie like she wanted to pull him even tighter against her. Her smile was small but wicked, her eyes fluttering closed as their mouths found each other again and again — messy, tired, uncoordinated kisses neither of them seemed willing to stop.
Barbara laughed against his mouth, breathless and a little giddy. "I missed you," she mumbled between kisses, the words brushing warm against his lips.
"Missed you more," Tristan murmured back, refusing to let her get even an inch away.
She poked his chest lightly, her touch lazy, teasing. "You're so clingy."
"You're lucky I am," he shot back, voice low.
Barbara grinned — that sleepy, mischievous smile she only ever pulled with him — and pressed her forehead against his again.
"You did good without me, cover star," she said, nose brushing his.
Tristan groaned dramatically, dropping his forehead to her shoulder.
"Don’t start."
Her fingers slid up into his curls, twirling a piece of hair around one fingertip.
"I saw the presser," she teased, voice mock-innocent. "Smooth lying, by the way."
He kissed the side of her neck once, soft and lingering, before pulling back a little and dragging a hand over his face.
"Had to," Tristan said, smiling tiredly. "Locker room would’ve exploded otherwise."
Barbara stretched her arms up with a soft groan, her sweater pulling up just slightly at the waist, revealing a sliver of skin. The jetlag was hitting her hard now.
"Let's go home before Biscuit wakes up and demands cuddles I’m too tired to give," she said, yawning mid-sentence.
Tristan laughed softly, reaching for the ignition. "Buckle up, love. I'm not stopping till we hit the couch."
Barbara gave him a little lazy salute and finally sank back into her seat, pulling her seatbelt across her lap with one hand and reaching for his free hand with the other — threading their fingers together without even looking.
.
Later that morning
The bedroom was dim, curtains pulled halfway against the lazy afternoon sun.
The only sound in the house was the faint hum of the air vents and Biscuit’s soft snoring from the living room. The girl was knocked out; she was active in the plane throughout the entire ride.
Barbara lay half-curled into Tristan’s chest, hair sticking to the side of her face, one bare leg draped lazily over his hip.
The sheets were tangled around them, kicked halfway down the bed like they hadn't stood a chance.
Tristan ran his hand slowly up and down her back, fingertips tracing light, absent patterns against her skin.
Barbara tucked her face into his neck, breathing him in like she'd been waiting two weeks to get it right.
He kissed the top of her head, slow and lazy. Couldn’t help it.
Honestly, they both knew it was going to happen the second she stepped through the door.
All the tiredness, the jet lag, the promises to "just nap first" — none of it stood a chance once they were alone.
They were twenty. Twenty-one. And neither of them had that kind of patience.
"You’re bad for me," Barbara mumbled against his throat, her voice muffled and tired.
Tristan smiled, pressing his forehead lightly against hers.
"You’re worse."
She smiled too — that small, sleepy one she only ever used with him — and tightened her arm around his waist like she was trying to glue herself there.
He let his eyes fall closed, finally with his girl.
Barbara shifted a little closer, her leg sliding higher up over Tristan’s hip. Neither of them moved to fix the sheets. They didn’t care.
For a long moment, it was just breathing. His hand drifting over her back. Her thumb tracing the seam of his ribs.
Then, out of nowhere, Barbara’s stomach gave a loud growl.
She groaned and pressed her forehead harder against his chest. "Don’t laugh."
Tristan chuckled anyway, the sound rumbling under her ear.
"I’m not laughing."
"You’re definitely laughing," she mumbled.
He kissed her hair, grinning. "Come on. Let’s get you fed before you waste away."
Barbara stayed glued to him for another few seconds, then finally sighed and pulled back enough to look at him — hair a mess, one side of her face flushed from sleep. "You’re carrying me," she said seriously. "I’m not moving."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Might drop you. No guarantees."
"You won't." She poked his side. "You’re obsessed with me, remember?"
He rolled his eyes but pulled the sheets around both of them anyway and hauled her halfway onto him like it was nothing.
Barbara yelped, laughing, clutching his neck. "You’re so dramatic."
"You’re the one demanding royal treatment," he shot back, adjusting her so she didn’t slip.
.
The kitchen smelled like butter and toasted bread now.
Barbara sat cross-legged on a stool at the island, picking at a piece of egg on her plate, wearing a white Nike hoodie that definitely belonged to her.
Biscuit had finally woken up and was curled around Tristan’s feet, shamelessly angling for scraps.
Tristan dropped another piece of toast onto Barbara’s plate, sliding it toward her with the back of the spatula.
He leaned his hip against the counter, arms crossed loosely, watching her eat like he hadn't seen her in months. Which, in his mind, felt pretty much true.
"You know," he said casually, "I told Felix to take the day off when I woke up this morning."
Barbara looked up mid-bite, chewing slowly. "You did?"
Tristan nodded, like it was no big deal.
"Yeah. He came in at five, dropped off groceries. I told him to go home."
Barbara raised an eyebrow, swallowing. "Aw. How thoughtful," she said sweetly. Then leaned her elbows onto the counter, smirking.
"Or..."
Tristan narrowed his eyes, already sensing it. "Or what?"
Barbara grinned, pure mischief lighting up her whole face."Or you just couldn't wait to get me naked without any witnesses."
He almost choked on his drink.
Biscuit barked once, like she was agreeing.
Tristan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, giving her a look.
Barbara shrugged, taking a sip of orange juice like she hadn’t just derailed the conversation. "Don’t deny it. You practically sprinted home with me."
"I drove responsibly," Tristan said defensively. "Speed limit the whole way."
"Uh huh," Barbara said, still smiling. "And then you broke a different speed record once we got through the door."
Tristan shook his head, smiling despite himself.
Barbara leaned over and kissed his cheek, quick and easy. "You’re lucky I love you."
Tristan caught her hand before she could pull back and laced their fingers together on the counter. "Yeah," he said quietly, squeezing her hand. "I know."
.
Later that afternoon
The TV hummed in the background, casting soft flickers of light over the room.
Naruto Episode 3 was playing — old animation, but neither of them cared.
Barbara was curled up sideways against Tristan, feet tucked under a blanket, her head resting on his chest. Tristan had one arm slung lazily over her shoulder, half-focused on the screen.
Biscuit lay sprawled across both their legs, belly up, snoring softly every few minutes.
On screen, Naruto was yelling about becoming Hokage for the third time that episode.
Barbara snorted against Tristan’s hoodie. "That’s you," she said. "Screaming about becoming the best in the world every two minutes."
Tristan nudged her side lightly. "I’m more subtle than that. And unlike Naruto, I only say that to you.”
Barbara tilted her head up to look at him."Ah that’s true. I couldn’t imagine the scrutiny you would get if you kept shouting, I want to be the best in the world.”
After a moment, Tristan’s fingers brushed through her hair absentmindedly.
"So," he said, voice low, "what else happened in L.A.? Besides you eating In-N-Out and ignoring my texts."
Barbara smiled against his chest. "I was working. And we FaceTime each other every night; besides, what message could I respond to if every time we talk, it’s face-to-face?”
“Actually, before I forget," she said, dragging it out, clearly enjoying it, "I got some news."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Good news?"
She nodded, her eyes bright. "Victoria’s Secret — they picked me."
Tristan blinked, slow. "For... you told me they offered the casting thing. So you decided to do it?”
Barbara smiled wider. "Yeah, I was still on the fence until they offered the lead role. I'm going to be the main girl this year. It will be a huge boost to my career.”
For a second, Tristan just stared at her, mouth slightly open. Then he laughed — loud, happy — and pulled her straight into his arms. He knew how much that meant to her. Hell, that was the equivalent to the Ballon d’Or for her.
Barbara squeaked into his chest, laughing too.
Biscuit, sensing the sudden explosion of energy, popped her head out from under the blanket, wide-eyed. She scrambled onto Tristan’s stomach, paws slipping everywhere, and let out a series of wild, high-pitched barks:
"Roaf! Roaf! Wroof!"
It was half excited, half confused — like she was trying to roar but ended up sounding like a wind-up toy losing battery. "WHAT ARE WE CELEBRATING?? AM I INVITED??"
Barbara wiped her eyes, still cracking up."She’s literally lost her mind."
Tristan grinned, scratching Biscuit's belly with one hand and pulling Barbara tighter with the other. "She’s just happy everyone is home."
.
Barbara tucked herself under his arm again, still smiling. "I’m nervous, honestly," she admitted quietly after a second. "It's... a lot. A lot of pressure. Expectations."
Tristan kissed the top of her head, not even thinking about it.
"You’ll kill it," he said. "You always do. You don’t even realize how good you are yet."
Barbara closed her eyes for a second, soaking it in. Biscuit let out a little whine like she agreed.
"Okay, okay," Barbara said, laughing softly. "Enough about me. What about you? What did you do while I was gone, besides beating up San Marino and lying to the media?"
Tristan tilted his head back against the couch, thinking."Honestly?"
Barbara poked his side lightly. "Honestly."
"Trained," Tristan said. "Tried to stay focused. Watched a lot of anime. Argued with Roy Hodgson internally about my positioning. Did a bunch of interviews for England. Talked to Mendes. I know Sofia is busy with a few deals right now. So you didn’t miss much.”
Barbara looked up at him again, biting back a smile. "Missed me the most, though, right?" She was going to bring up him saying he was going to marry her, but she held that off. The fact he even said it to the world was more than enough for her.
Tristan didn’t even blink. "Obviously," he said back, kissing her hard on the mouth.
Barbara shifted under the blanket, poking Tristan lightly in the ribs with her elbow. "So, cover star," she said, grinning up at him. "When do I get to beat you at FIFA now that you're literally on the box?"
Tristan groaned, letting his head fall back against the couch dramatically.
"You've been home for five minutes, and you're already plotting my downfall."
Barbara laughed, tucking herself tighter against his side.
"I’m just saying — if I beat you using you, that's, like... double humiliation. Legendary stuff."
He looked down at her, pretending to look wounded. "It’s actually in my contract that you can't beat me at my own game. Terms and conditions. Small print."
Barbara rolled her eyes. "Convenient."
Before Tristan could come up with a comeback, his phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Biscuit barked once, annoyed at the sudden noise.
Tristan reached over lazily, squinting at the screen.
A text from Jesse Lingard: BRO WHY DID I JUST FIND OUT YOU'RE THE COVER OF FIFA 16?? WHAT ELSE YOU HIDING FROM US?? YOU HAVE A SECRET FAMILY??
Tristan snorted and tilted the phone so Barbara could see.
Barbara let out a loud laugh, smacking his chest lightly. "You didn’t tell him? Incredible."
Tristan shook his head, thumbs already flying over the keyboard. “How did you not know?!”
.
At some point, the FIFA jokes died down, and Naruto's background chatter filled the room again.
Tristan had shifted to the floor, tugging Biscuit into a playful wrestling match — Biscuit growling in her tiny, ridiculous way, batting at his hands like she thought she was a real fighter.
Barbara stayed curled up on the couch, watching them with her chin resting on her knees. Smiling so hard her cheeks hurt.
She quietly grabbed her phone from the armrest, lifted it just enough to frame the scene — Tristan lying on the floor in sweats, Biscuit half-pouncing on his head.
Barbara snapped the picture. She opened Instagram without even thinking, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she uploaded it.
Caption: "Finally back home to my love. ❤️"
[IG Post > Image Here]
She hit post, tucked the phone away again, and sank back into the blanket, feeling like the missing piece of her life had just clicked into place again.
Across the room, Tristan looked up, Biscuit still trying to tackle his hand.
"You better not have posted something stupid," he warned, smiling despite himself.
Barbara just smiled wider. "Too late; just don’t open Instagram."
Biscuit let out a final "Wroof!" and flopped dramatically onto Tristan's stomach, victorious.
.
September 12, 2015 — 8:17 AM
Belvoir Drive — Leicester City Training Ground
Tristan swung out of his car, Biscuit trailing beside him on a leash, her little tail wagging hard enough to nearly knock her over.
Barbara had a busy day with her doing a few photoshoots in London, so he just decided to take their baby with him.
Biscuit trotted ahead of him toward the training fields, nose twitching, sniffing at every blade of grass like she was inspecting the facilities. It was her first time here at the training base.
Across the lot, a few heads turned.
"Guys, Tristan brought his bodyguard!" Danny Drinkwater shouted out, letting out a loud laugh, clapping his hands.
Biscuit wagged harder at the attention, nearly tripping over her own paws.
Tristan just shook his head, smiling. "Security's tight these days. But nah, I had to babysit her today; no one is home.”
Mahrez jogged over, tossing his water bottle from hand to hand.
"You sure she's not your manager too?" Mahrez teased, nodding at Biscuit. "Probably negotiates better contracts."
"Probably does," Tristan said dryly, unclipping her leash and handing it off to one of the academy staff members with a smile. "Handle her like you would Messi, yeah?"
The young staffer laughed, giving a mock salute as Biscuit immediately sat at his feet, tail sweeping the grass like a metronome.
As Tristan jogged over to the warm-up circle, Vardy and Schmeichel were already chuckling to themselves.
"You look different today, mate," Schmeichel said, squinting at him.
"Yeah," Vardy chimed in, grinning wide. "Like... glowy. Radiant. Bit sus, if you ask me."
"Maybe he got married and didn't tell us," Danny Drinkwater joked.
"Nah," Mahrez cut in, smirking as he stepped into the rondo circle. "It's his wife. She’s back."
The whole group howled with laughter, clapping and hollering like someone had scored a worldie.
Tristan rolled his eyes, stretching his arms overhead.
"Don't act like you're denying it!" Vardy said, laughing harder. "You're literally bouncing around like you won the lottery."
Mahrez fake-narrated dramatically. "Tristan Hale, future Ballon d’Or winner, powered solely by true love and In-N-Out burgers. Tell me did she bring some from LA?”
Even Ranieri, setting up drills on the sideline, shook his head with a smile when he caught a bit of the banter.
Training finally kicked off properly after the ribbing died down, though not without Biscuit barking once in protest when Tristan ran off without her.
"Wroof! Wroof!" she yipped, tugging slightly at her leash like she wanted to chase after him too.
The academy staff member chuckled. "Relax, girl. He'll be back."
.
Later — After Training
The sun was a little higher now, the fields glowing gold.
Most of the players had finished their sessions and were lingering by the sidelines, sweaty and stretching — except Tristan, who had dropped to his knees to unclip Biscuit from her leash.
"Alright, who's up for a real challenge?" Tristan called out, tossing a small soft ball across the grass.
Biscuit bolted after it like a bullet, her little paws kicking up dirt.
Vardy immediately perked up. "I'm in. Biscuit one-vs-one me."
"You'll lose," Mahrez said, dead serious.
"Oi, she’s got better close control than you!" Morgan shouted, already laughing.
Biscuit snatched the ball up in her mouth and darted back toward them, letting out little "Roaf! Roaf! Roaf!" sounds like she thought she was roaring.
"GOOOOAAAAL!" Vardy shouted as she crossed an imaginary line between two cones.
Everyone cracked up, players dropping into crouches to pet and play with her, while Biscuit ran little zigzags between them, tail wagging in hyper-speed.
"You know," Vardy said, tossing the ball again for her to chase, "I get it now."
Tristan raised an eyebrow, hands on his hips, catching his breath.
"You said in that England presser you were gonna marry her, didn't you?" Vardy grinned wider."And now you're back here, smiling like a loon. Mate, you are married. Soul-married or whatever."
Tristan just laughed, not even bothering to argue.
Biscuit barreled back into his legs with the ball, letting out a final triumphant "Wroof!" like she'd just scored the winning goal at Wembley.
.
September 13, 2015 — 4:01 PM
King Power Stadium — Leicester vs Aston Villa (Premier League, Matchday 5)
The sun hung low behind the stands, throwing long shadows across the pitch.
Rob Hawthorne’s voice cut through the buzz of the crowd, steady and familiar.
"A Midlands clash here at the King Power. Leicester City hosting Aston Villa.”
On the broadcast, the starting elevens flashed across the screen:
Leicester City (4-2-3-1):
🧤 Schmeichel (GK)
🚀 De Laet (RB)
🏰 Morgan (CB) (c)
🏰 Huth (CB)
🚀 Fuchs (LB)
🛡️ Drinkwater (CDM)
🛡️ Kanté (CDM)
🏃♂️ Mahrez (RW)
🎯 Tristan (CAM)
🏃♂️ Albrighton (LW)
⚽ Vardy (ST)
.
Aston Villa (4-3-3):
🧤 Guzan (GK)
🚀 Hutton (RB)
🏰 Richards (CB) (c)
🏰 Clark (CB)
🚀 Amavi (LB)
🛡️ Veretout (CM)
🛡️ Westwood (CM)
🛡️ Gueye (CM)
🏃♂️ Gil (RW)
⚽ Agbonlahor (CF)
🏃♂️ Sinclair (LW)
(Those will be the symbols from now on.)
The camera panned down the touchline — Vardy bouncing on his toes, Mahrez fiddling with his wrist tape, Tristan adjusting his socks with the camera staying on his shoes longer than necessary.
Alan Smith’s voice chimed in, easygoing.
"Yeah, good atmosphere here today. Leicester unbeaten so far this season — and you can tell they’re feeling good about themselves."
As the referee jogged to the center circle, the broadcast cut to the VIP section —
high up in the stands, past the rows of blue-and-white scarves and waving flags.
Barbara Palvin sat tucked into her seat, a cream knit scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, sunglasses pushed up into her hair despite the fading sun. She was laughing at something Sofia said beside her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she glanced down at the pitch.
Rob Hawthorne’s voice softened slightly, playful.
"A familiar face back at the King Power this afternoon — Barbara Palvin, returning after a little time away. Her presence was definitely missed — especially by a certain number twenty-two."
Alan chuckled lightly under his breath.
The camera cut back to the pitch just in time for the whistle.
The stadium roared to life.
Kick-off.
.
The first whistle blew against the roar of the King Power.
Leicester surged forward immediately, the intent clear in every movement. Quick, aggressive passing snapped between the lines — Drinkwater to Kanté, Kanté out wide to Fuchs. The ball zipped across the grass with speed.
Up front, Vardy and Mahrez pressed high, hounding Villa’s back line like they smelled fear. Leicester weren’t here to feel out the game. They were here to tear it apart.
Five minutes in, Tristan was already running the show.
Dropping deep into the half-space, he let a pass roll across his body and slipped into a disguised Cruyff turn, shedding two Villa midfielders like a coat. He flicked a no-look pass out to Albrighton on the wing without even breaking stride, his body already pivoting into the next space.
“Oh, he’s in good form today, then," Alan Smith said on commentary. "You can see it in his body language. Looks like he carried that momentum from England. I wonder if we might see his first hat trick of the season today."
Rob Hawthorne chuckled. "Wouldn’t bet against it. He looks like he’s playing on fast-forward."
The pressure kept building. Leicester forced mistake after mistake — Vardy snapping at Guzan’s clearances, Mahrez weaving through two defenders before being bundled off the ball.
And then, it cracked in the 20th minute.
Tristan collected a fizzed pass from Kanté near the halfway line. A quick shimmy of his hips sent Veretout the wrong way. He drove forward, pace picking up, defenders backpedaling in panic.
One-two with Mahrez.
Ball slipped perfectly into his stride. A defender lunged — Tristan chopped inside, lightning-quick — and felt the clumsy clip against his ankle.
Down he went, just inside the box.
The referee didn't hesitate. Arm straight up. Whistle sharp.
"Penalty! Leicester City have a golden chance here!" Rob Hawthorne called.
The crowd exploded — some already chanting Vardy’s name, assuming he’d step up.
Tristan stayed down a second longer, hands braced against the grass, catching his breath. He was feeling pretty good right now. His ankles felt fine; it was just a light touch, as none of the minor and anti-injury cards activated.
When he pushed up to his feet, he didn’t look for anyone. He just picked up the ball and tucked it under his arm.
Vardy jogged over first, clapping him on the back. "You alright, mate?" he said, flashing a grin.
"Yeah," Tristan said, breathing out. "I'm taking it."
Vardy raised an eyebrow, playful. "Ohh, are ya now?"
Morgan, the captain, trotted over too, looking between them. "You sure?" he asked. "It’ll be your first one. I know you trained for it, but still I don’t want you to miss.”
Tristan laughed at that. “Come on, trust me. I’m already the first for everything else; might as well complete the whole thing.”
"Just score it," Vardy said, giving Tristan a light shove toward the penalty spot. "And make it look easy, yeah?"
Tristan walked forward, heart steady.
He rolled the ball under his hand once, twice, feeling the slight give of the grass under his boots.
The King Power roared around him, but it felt distant — like he was moving inside a bubble.
He placed the ball carefully on the spot, twisting it with his fingertips until the Nike logo faced up, dead center.
Alan Smith chuckled lightly over the broadcast.
"Look at him — cool as you like. I just remembered what Martin said about Tristan, that kid has ice in his veins. He doesn’t feel any pressure.”
Tristan straightened up, hands on his hips, eyes locking onto Guzan standing tall in the Villa goal. The American shifted on his line, bouncing lightly, arms loose at his sides — ready to dive.
For a second, Tristan just stood there, weighing it.
He could lash it high. Side netting. Or he could go safe, bottom corner.
Or…Something reckless tugged at him.
Barbara was watching. His parents. His teammates. The whole stadium leaning forward.
The camera cut briefly to the VIP seats.
Barbara sat forward, lips pressed together, hands bunched nervously in the sleeves of her cream sweater.
Back to the field.
Tristan smiled — a little. If there was ever a moment to be a little arrogant, a little stupid... It was now.
"This kid’s got something about him," Alan said, almost laughing now. "You can tell he’s thinking about something cheeky."
Across the pitch, in Villa’s technical area, Tim Sherwood barked something at Guzan —
"No data on him! Watch for anything!"
But it was too late.
They had nothing to prepare with. No penalty history. No tendencies. No tells.
The referee whistled.
Tristan took three steps back. One to the side.
He inhaled — long and slow — and then moved.
A slow, coiled approach — almost lazy.
Guzan tensed, crouching low, guessing left.
At the very last second, Tristan changed everything.
He chipped it.
Soft. Deliberate. Straight down the middle.
For a half-beat, it felt like time froze.
Guzan threw himself sideways — sprawling fully left — and the ball floated right where he had been standing, bobbling gently into the back of the net.
GOAL.
The stands erupted full volume shaking up the stadium.
Tristan turned away, a grin breaking over his face, tapping his temple twice before being mobbed by Mahrez and Vardy.
"That's filthy," Alan said, still half-laughing on commentary. "Absolutely filthy. First Premier League penalty... and he decides to do a Panenka?!"
Barbara let out a loud laugh from the stands, clapping her hands over her mouth, heart pounding.
On the Villa bench, Sherwood threw his hands in the air.
"Fucking hell, what a bastard!" he barked at nobody in particular.
"You're a madman," Vardy said, shaking his head. “What did you think would have happened if you missed.”
Tristan just smiled wider, “Good thing I didn’t right.”
Leicester 1–0 Aston Villa!
.
The reset was clean.
Villa kicked off, passing quickly across the back line, trying to steady themselves after the humiliation.
For a few minutes, they found a rhythm — Westwood dropping deep, Veretout and Gueye darting into pockets.
Agbonlahor peeled off into the channels, trying to drag Huth and Morgan out of position.
Leicester sat compact.
Drinkwater and Kanté buzzed in front of the back four like hornets, snapping at every loose touch, refusing to let Villa breathe.
Tristan drifted just ahead of them, pressing angles, baiting passes, always one step away from springing a counter.
"Villa trying to respond here," Rob Hawthorne said. "They've steadied themselves a little after that opener, but they're not finding much joy in the final third."
At the thirty-minute mark, Guzan rolled it short to Richards, trying to reset again.
Leicester pounced.
Mahrez cut off the first pass.
Vardy exploded toward the second ball, forcing a rushed clearance.
The ball ricocheted awkwardly — straight toward Tristan, hovering near the halfway line.
He trapped it instantly, sole of his boot killing the spin, head snapping up.
One touch to settle.
Another to drive.
Leicester didn't let up.
"Here they come again!" Alan Smith called, the energy rising.
Tristan surged forward, gliding past the halfway line, dragging a Villa midfielder with him.
Mahrez and Albrighton peeled wide, stretching the pitch.
Vardy bent his run, curling between Villa’s center backs like a blade slipping through armor.
The King Power roared louder, sensing blood.
Tristan shifted the ball onto his right — fainted a shot — sent Gueye stumbling — then burst outside, leaving grass torn up in his wake.
He lifted his head once.
Vardy was darting toward the near post.
Tristan didn’t hesitate.
A whipped cross — fast, low, and vicious — curling away from Guzan's desperate reach.
Vardy flung himself forward, forehead snapping onto the ball.
THWACK.
The net bulged.
2–0. Leicester City.
The stadium exploded again — scarves twirling, fists pumping, the stands bouncing in blue and white.
Vardy sprinted toward the corner flag, arms outstretched, skimming across the grass like a plane about to take off.
Behind him, Tristan jogged after him, smiling wide, Mahrez slapping him on the back.
"And just like that," Rob Hawthorne laughed on commentary, "Leicester double their lead! Another goal — and guess who? It’s Jamie Vardy with Tristan supporting the ammo. Vardy has now scored in five consecutive games.”
"The chemistry those two have built is just frightening," Alan Smith said, laughing.
.
Villa restarted the match with more urgency, Guzan rolling it short to Richards, the ball zipping across the grass.
On the touchline, Tim Sherwood was already shouting, arms waving like a traffic controller, his voice cutting sharp through the low rumble of the King Power.
"Get it forward! Press higher!"
Villa responded.
Richards clipped it wide to Amavi, who fed it into Gueye in midfield.
Gueye, harried by Drinkwater, spun neatly and switched the play back across, trying to stretch Leicester’s compact block.
But Leicester didn’t panic.
Their press wasn’t frantic. It was patient. Measured.
Shuffling side to side, closing lanes, waiting for the mistake.
And then — as the 40th minute ticked on — the first real crack appeared.
Maybe it was complacency.
Maybe just one lazy pass.
Maybe just half a second too casual from Kanté.
Westwood pounced — a sharp toe-poke, stealing it clean off Kanté’s boot.
Tristan reacted instantly, spinning to chase — but he was half a step late.
Westwood didn’t waste it.
One touch forward into Sinclair, who turned, slipping a clever ball into Agbonlahor peeling off Huth’s shoulder.
One touch to steady.
Second touch — a snap-shot low and vicious toward the near post.
Schmeichel flung himself — fingertips brushing it — but not enough.
The net bulged.
Goal.
Leicester 2–1 Aston Villa.
The away section cracked open in noise — fists in the air, scarves twirling — a sudden bolt of life in the stadium.
"Bit of a gut punch for Leicester," Rob Hawthorne said, his voice tight. "They've dominated this first half... but Villa have been handed a lifeline."
Down at the dugouts, Ranieri was already at the very edge of his technical area, arms crossed tight, speaking rapidly to Paolo Benetti and Steve Walsh, jabbing a hand toward midfield.
You didn’t need to hear it to know.
Changes were coming after halftime.
The halftime whistle blew a few minutes later, a welcome relief for Villa.
.
Tristan lingered near the touchline as the rest of the players jogged off. He tilted his head back, scanning the stands — and there she was.
Barbara, standing now, scarf slipping off one shoulder, waving with both hands like he was the only person in the stadium.
He smiled — couldn't help it — and raised a hand back, tapping his heart twice before jogging down the tunnel.
Still 45 minutes left. Still work to do.
.
Inside the Leicester dressing room, Ranieri stood at the front, arms folded, voice low but cutting through the buzz of water bottles and heavy breathing.
"Stay aggressive. Move the ball faster. They can't live with our pace."
Next to him, Paolo Benetti pointed toward the magnetic board.
"Shinji for Albrighton," he said simply. "Push Tristan higher, right off Vardy."
Across the hallway, Villa’s dressing room sounded different — louder, frantic.
Tim Sherwood barked out instructions, hands flying everywhere. "Get tighter! First contact! Make it a fight!"
They smelled weakness.
Leicester smelled blood.
.
The players reemerged, snapping out of the tunnel with bigger strides.
The King Power roared them back to life.
Kickoff again.
Right from the restart, Leicester pressed high — Vardy buzzing like a wasp, Mahrez swarming the flanks, Shinji chasing every loose ball like a terrier.
Tristan drifted just behind Vardy now — closer to goal, closer to danger.
And it didn’t take long.
Near the halfway line, Drinkwater snapped into a challenge, stealing the ball clean off Westwood’s foot.
"Turnover! And Leicester spring immediately!" Rob Hawthorne’s voice lifted with excitement.
Drinkwater didn’t hesitate — he stabbed a sharp ball forward into space.
Tristan was already moving — reading it before it even left Drinkwater’s boot.
The ball came waist-high.
Tristan cushioned it dead with a soft touch off his laces, letting it roll into his stride like it was magnetized to him.
Alan Smith, a beat behind, chuckled into the mic. "Look at the confidence. Look at the swagger. You can see it — he's just toying with them now."
Tristan slowed deliberately, rolling the ball under his sole — baiting Richards forward.
The crowd buzzed louder, sensing it.
Richards lunged.
Big mistake.
Tristan flicked the ball to the right — lightning-quick — then dragged it left with a La Croqueta, sliding clean between two defenders in one shimmering move.
The King Power sucked in a breath — 30,000 fans inhaling at once —
and then the noise broke like a wave as Tristan drove into the box.
"He's through! He's through again!" Hawthorne shouted.
Guzan hesitated, unsure — caught between rushing out or holding ground.
Tristan barely glanced at him.
He dipped a shoulder, feinting a shot.
Guzan flinched.
And Tristan just… waited. He side-footed it low, skipping the ball across the keeper into the far corner.
Just pure ice-cold composure.
"GOAL!" Rob Hawthorne roared, voice almost drowned out by the eruption of the stadium.
"TRISTAN HALE! That is brilliant — absolutely brilliant! Leicester two goals clear again, and it's that man once more!"
The crowd exploded.
Flags waving. Scarves twirling.
"TRISTAN! TRISTAN! TRISTAN!" the chant started — rippling from the Kop end across the entire ground.
Barbara was already up in the VIP box, scarf bouncing wildly around her neck, clapping hard enough to hurt.
Down on the pitch, Tristan lifted his arms high above his head, soaking it in —the noise, the adoration, the pure life of it all.
Vardy tackled him around the waist a second later, laughing in his ear.
.
The game tilted even harder after that.
Leicester hunted everything.
Villa started to panic — their midfield passes sloppy, rushed.
And when the 64th minute rolled in, they paid for it.
Westwood tried to switch the play and shanked it straight into Kanté's path.
Kanté didn’t even break stride — one touch to settle, second touch into Mahrez’s feet.
Mahrez danced past a tackle, flicked it to Tristan at the top of the box.
Tristan’s first touch slid him away from Veretout.
Second touch wrong-footed Clark.
Third touch — without even looking—he whipped a cross with the outside of his right boot.
It curled perfectly into the six-yard box.
Vardy didn’t even have to jump.
He just leaned into it, snapping a header straight past Guzan into the roof of the net.
The crowd burst to life as fans started to cheer.
The bench exploded.
The whole stadium moved like one giant wave.
Mahrez sprinted to Tristan first, grabbing him in a tight hug. Shinji crashed into them next..
Full-time.
Leicester City 4 — 1 Aston Villa.
.
A/N: Holy fuck, I just had one of the worst days in college, fuck me. I hate finals with a raging passion. And I hate lockdown browsers; fuck whoever came up with that shit. I hope you have a miserable life.
Anyway, for those worrying, don’t worry; there won’t be that much Barbara this season, like I said at the start. I just wanted to write cringe and happy. I needed it before I broke something. Barbara will still play a part but more in the background; she has her own thing going on right now. This season will focus 95% of it on football for the majority that were asking.
Anyway I hope you guys like this chapter.
And have a good day cause I sure fucking didn’t.
Comments
Surge1301
It’s great that Barbara is trying to ruin my racism app with fluff, cause that’s what insta comment section is now lol
