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Chapter 185: Too Much, Too Soon
🕑 Added 2025-04-23 20:33:37 +0000 UTCAugust 30, 2015 – 7:46 PM, London Road (Post-event)
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The stage was half-cleared. The crowd had thinned. Most of the press had packed up. But no one had left yet.
The mural glowed in the evening light. Streetlamps flickered on. The LED screen was off, but the memory of it still hummed in the air.
Kobe stayed.
He was leaning against the stage edge now, talking with Mahrez and Morgan like it was any other day. Kante stood two feet away, pretending not to listen — but didn’t move either.
Vardy had already taken a selfie with him. Then another one.
Someone handed Kobe a Sharpie. He signed the back of Chilwell’s event pass. “Keep that,” he told him. “It’ll be worth something when you make England’s starting XI.”
Tristan was off to the side, sipping from a water bottle when Kobe found him again.
“Yo,” Kobe said. “That was crazy.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “You’ve played in front of presidents.”
“Yeah,” Kobe said. “But none of them had murals this good.”
That pulled a laugh out of him.
Kobe reached into his jacket, pulled out a small black notebook — not a phone — and tore out a page.
He handed it to Tristan.
A number, written clean. LA area code.
“My direct,” Kobe said. “If you’re ever in California — hit me.”
Tristan blinked once. “Seriously?”
Kobe nodded. “Yeah. And if you bring your team out — I’ll comp the game. Front row. Locker room access. Just don’t wear boots to the court.”
Behind them, Vardy shouted, “Did he just give you his number?! Nahhh, I need one too!”
Kobe turned without missing a beat. “Yours starts with 404 — just call the team line.”
Everyone cracked up.
Tristan folded the paper, tucked it in his wallet.
Kobe gave him a final nod. “Keep building, kid. You’re already there — but don’t let ‘there’ be the finish line. You can be just like Messi.”
And then he was gone.
The next day the internet was on fire.
Everyone had something to say.
@BBCSport
“Was it too much?”
A mural. A Nike contract. Kobe Bryant. Two ads.
And one 20-year-old at the center of it all.
🔗 [Full article]
@TheAthleticUK
“Forget the ads. Forget the hype. Tristan changed the blueprint. Nike didn’t lead this. He did.”
@DailyMailUK
“Arrogant? Or just early? Tristan Hale mural divides fans.”
🔗 [Opinion section open — 11,000 comments]
@B/RFootball
“Who is Tristan Hale?”
[Swipe to learn about the 20-year-old behind Nike’s wildest launch since CR7]
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Whilst people who somehow never heard of Tristan before were just finding out about him.
@BaldRhaegar: “If Messi had a baby with Beckham and raised it in a Leicester pub, you’d get this guy.”
@Mandel D Laboon: “Tristan Hale might’ve just pulled off the most ambitious marketing rollout football’s seen in years.”
👟🔥 #NineRegnants #CrownTheStreets
Top reply — @Torrent: “Ambitious = delusional when it’s not your player.”
Reply — GhostHas: “Keep crying. If he played for United, you’d be calling him the second coming of Christ.”
The replies were an all-out war.
Thread locked in less than an hour.
@MlungisiMguni: “Still only one season.”
Most-liked reply — @EthanBrown_17
“That ‘one season’ is top 10 all-time, bro. And looking at your Brazil flag — it’s already better than Neymar’s best. So what does that make Tristan, huh? He’s 20 and he’s already clear.”
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Then came the Americans, because of course they had something to say.
@BleacherReport
“Who is Tristan Hale?”
A quick primer for U.S. fans after Kobe Bryant’s surprise appearance at a Nike football event in England.
📲 [Swipe for clips]
Top reply — @ImFrom808: “Y’all making this much noise for a dude with one season? 😂”
Reply — @Sbhat Asfaha
“One season. 75 G/A. Trophy. Shoe line. Kobe cameo. America wouldn’t understand greatness even if it was presented to them. They only understand guns and burgers.
@SportsCenter
🎥 “Kobe flew out for this kid.”
👟🔥 #NineRegnants #StormAndSilk
Reply — @LETSGOO: “We don’t even know this dude. Nike really trying to force a star lmao.”
Reply — @ZaWarudoOH: Stop it, Tristan is already more famous than any American athletes in the world, it’s a fact. Nike isn’t making a star, Tristan was already one of the biggest names in the world before that.
Reply — @Marijn Segers: More than half that world doesn’t even know who Kobe or Tom Brady is. No American athlete can compete with football megastars.
@Aee:“Respectfully... who tf is Kobe?”
Top reply — @Matias Arce:“81 POINTS. TWO GOLD MEDALS. FIVE RINGS. APOLOGIZE TO THE MAMBA.”
@SG: “Nike didn’t sign a player. They signed a marketing cheat code.Half-Chinese, speaks five languages, model-tier face, supermodel girlfriend, has better talent than anyone else in the world.He’s the main character, and Nike knows it.
@PremierPints:“Still think bringing out Kobe was overkill.”
Reply — @Solitarius Lupus
“It’s called market domination. Europe is his. Asia is his. Now America’s next. Kid’s playing chess, y’all are playing Fantasy Draft.”
@TheRinger
“Hale is what happens when generational talent meets generational branding.”
“Europe’s mad. America’s confused. Asia already made a documentary.”
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Chinese Twitter — Weibo — was a different beast altogether.
Barbara had shown him that one the night before whilst FaceTiming phone shaking with laughter.
“They love your ankles,” she said. “It’s a thing.”
He wasn’t going to ask.
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@KicksReview
“Storm Pulse and Lions’ Pride drop sold out in 2 hours. Nike’s biggest UK football launch since CR7.”
“Resellers already marking up pairs 100%.”
@TheAthleticUK
“Forget the launch. He’s changed the blueprint. Ads. Name. Creative. Nike’s not leading. He is.”
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Somewhere between all the screenshots, memes, hot takes, and angry old men on Facebook, Tristan put the phone down. Face first.
He sat there. Hands tucked behind his head.
It was too much.
It was perfect.
And it was only Monday.
Fuck him
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En route to St. George’s Park
John didn’t say much.
The Range Rover cruised down the motorway, windows slightly cracked, radio low. Sky was soft and grey, depressing as normal.
Tristan sat in the passenger seat, hoodie up.
He hadn’t said much either. That’s what he liked about John so much; the dude knew when to be quiet.
He was missing Barbara a lot but with the International Break, he just told her to enjoy her vocation in LA. What she’s gonna do whilst he’s not home, playing games for England.
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Inside the England Camp — August 31, 2015 – 11:17 AM, St. George’s Park
The room was quiet except for the sound of clipped boots on grass.
Roy Hodgson sat with his arms folded. The monitor in front of him flicked through match clips. Leicester in blue. Tristan in motion. Gary Neville was to his left. Ray Lewington leaned forward with a tablet balanced on his knee.
They weren’t skimming.
They were watching.
Tristan again — drifting off the striker. Dropping deep. Pulling markers. Then turning and breaking like a forward. And not just once. Patterns. Repeats. The role had changed.
The system had bent around him. Not the other way.
“He’s not a pure ten anymore,” Gary said. “Look here. That’s a striker’s run.”
He tapped the screen. Froze it. Tristan cutting in behind Vardy. Mahrez hanging wide. A gap in the line. Exploited.
“He’s playing like a shadow nine now. Half-midfield. Half-forward.”
Ray nodded. “More aggressive, too. Not forcing passes. Just going for it. He’s a lot more confident dribbling now. He might just try to dribble through 10 players one of those days. Shoots whenever there’s space too.”
Roy didn’t say anything at first.
He let the clip run again. This time from the top angle.
“He’s going to want that for us,” Gary said. “Same freedom.”
Roy exhaled through his nose. Quiet. Thinking.
“That’s not how we play,” he said finally. “We’re still running a 4-4-2. Two banks. Structure. We don’t rip the shape apart for one player.”
Roy tapped his fingers on the table. Once. Twice. Watching the replay again.
“He starts,” he said. “We just need to decide where.”
Gary looked over.
“Wherever he wants.”
That made Roy pause.
“He’s still a midfielder,” he said. “We don’t abandon structure just because a player wants more freedom.”
Gary sat back. Expression unreadable for a moment.
Then:
“Roy… this isn’t just any player. This is Tristan.”
Roy stayed silent.
Gary went on. Voice lower. Controlled.
“You don’t restrict a player like him. You don’t ask Messi to ‘sit in shape.’ You let him shape the match.”
Ray shifted in his chair.
“He’s right,” Gary said. “You know I’m United through and through — and even I know he’s the one. He’s England’s shot. The best one we’ve had since… I don’t know when.”
Still no reaction.
“He’s already carrying Leicester,” Gary said. “You don’t cage that. You build around it.”
Roy didn’t argue. But he didn’t agree either.
He just watched the next clip.
Tristan again. Surging forward. Not waiting for permission.
“We play the system,” Roy said eventually. “He fits into it. Not the other way around.”
“It’s safer,” Roy added quietly.
Gary leaned back in his chair.
Right. Safe.
But part of him was still watching the screen, seeing exactly what was being wasted.
Because whether they liked it or not — the boy was already bending the national team the same way he’d bent Leicester.
It was just a matter of when.
Not if.
And if changes are to be made at the expense of Roy Hodgson because of his conservatism, then so be it.
He just hoped it wasn’t too late at that point.
Ray tapped at his tablet again, switching clips. The feed jumped from Leicester’s last league game to footage from Tottenham’s opener.
“Harry Kane,” he said, as if the name needed reminding.
Kane on the screen — dragging defenders, holding up play, slipping passes into gaps no one else saw.
Roy watched without blinking.
“We should’ve called him last season,” Gary said.
“We didn’t,” Roy replied, flat.
“Because you thought he needed to prove it again,” Gary said. “Well… he did.”
Ray gave a short nod. “He’s earned it. And he’s ready.”
“He’ll slot in next to Rooney,” Roy said, already thinking ahead. “That’s simple.”
Gary almost commented — but didn’t. Not the time. Not yet.
Ray swiped again. The screen split. Drinkwater on the left. Albrighton on the right. Both in Leicester blue. Both chasing shadows, dictating tempo, fighting like every match was life or death.
“Two more from Leicester,” Ray said. “Danny’s been unreal. Breaks lines, doesn’t overplay. Proper engine.”
“Marc’s been just as good,” Gary added. “Most underappreciated winger in the league right now. Works hard. Great service.”
Roy squinted at the clips. “Are we sure it’s not just Hale pulling them up with him?”
Gary raised an eyebrow. “Or maybe they’re pulling with him.”
Silence for a second.
Then Roy spoke, almost to himself.
“Three new names. Kane, Drinkwater, Albrighton.” His tone unreadable. “Let’s see how they handle it.”
Gary sat back again. “Let’s hope we don’t waste them.”
And the screen kept playing.
The screen kept playing.
Clips of Leicester. Spurs. United. Arsenal. England’s present. And maybe, just maybe — its future.
The list had already been submitted.
🗒️ England National Team — September Euro Qualifiers Squad
Goalkeepers: Joe Hart, Jack Butland, Tom Heaton
Defenders: Gary Cahill, Chris Smalling, Phil Jones, John Stones, Leighton Baines, Nathaniel Clyne, Kieran Gibbs
Midfielders: Jordan Henderson, James Milner, Michael Carrick, Danny Drinkwater, Ross Barkley, Marc Albrighton, Tristan Hale
Forwards: Wayne Rooney (captain), Raheem Sterling, Theo Walcott, Jamie Vardy, Harry Kane*
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August 31, 2015 – 9:14 PM, St. George’s Park
The canteen buzzed low — not loud, not dead. Just England at night. Machines hummed near the coffee bar. Plates clinked in the sink. Sky Sports rolled on mute from the corner screen.
Tristan sat near the back. Hoodie on. Feet up on the chair across from him.
Harry Kane was in that seat now — socks on, boots off, hoodie still zipped to the chin. First England camp. First real call-up
Throughout the entire day, he looked pretty nervous to Tristan. Couldn’t blame him for that. “Congrats, by the way.”
Kane blinked. “For what?”
“First call-up,” Tristan said. “You earned it.”
Kane paused, then smiled. “Appreciate that, mate.”
From two seats down, Drinkwater looked over.
“Oh, now he gets congrats.”
Tristan leaned back. “You want balloons too?”
Danny snorted. “Nah, nah. Just funny how no one said anything to me or Marc when the list dropped.”
Albrighton, seated next to him, nodded once but didn’t say a word.
“You’re welcome,” Tristan added. “Because I definitely did. Texted both of you.”
“True,” Danny muttered. “But an hour later, after it was announced,. Where’s Vardy, by the way? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“In his room, I think, he got a call from his girlfriend about something.” Tristan replied thinking back on it, that call sounded pretty serious. He really didn’t like Vardy’s girlfriend to be honest but what could he do about it.
Good thing Barbara isn’t close to any of the player’s wife much less Vardy’s otherwise god knows how much information would be leaked.
.
Sterling was in the far corner, whispering with Walcott while pretending not to record another Snapchat story. Foosball clacked between Smalling and Gibbs. Milner was reading something on his tablet, headphones in.
You could see the lines, if you looked close enough.
The senior table. Rooney. Cahill. Milner. Guys who’d been here long enough to call it theirs.
Then the socials — Sterling, Walcott, Wilshere whenever he was fit.
The new crop — Kane, Tristan, the Leicester lads — didn’t quite belong anywhere yet.
And Tristan? He belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.
He was the most important player on the team, after all, but at the same time he was still 20.
Albrighton scrolled through his phone. “You’re trending again.”
Tristan looked over. “For what?”
Marc shrugged. “Doesn’t say. Just a video clip of you tying your boots and a bunch of people calling it aesthetic.”
“Jesus,” Danny muttered. “You can’t even bend over without going viral.”
Kane laughed softly.
“Welcome to the circus,” Tristan said, sipping again.
“Bet Nike makes a perfume next. ‘Eau de Hale.’” Danny shouted laughing.
Butland cracked a grin. “Scent of miracles.”
Milner, still reading, muttered without looking up.
“Only miracle I care about is a World Cup.”
It wasn’t mean. Just… there.
Because that was the thing: last season, Tristan had been the kid with promise. Now he was something else. Something bigger.
Last season Tristan already broke all the records but that was the end of the season with no England games as such they didn’t have to deal with the new level of fame.
Too big, maybe. For some of them.
Tristan didn’t mind it, it was better than the first time he joined, but now at least he could help with the locker room situation with his status.
He just leaned toward Kane again.
“Stick with me this week,” he said. “If anyone gives you shit, tell ‘em I said you’re with me.”
Kane blinked. “Why would they give me shit?”
Tristan smiled — not unkind.
“Because they always do. Just trust me.”
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Most of the lads had already turned in. The lounge had emptied down to a few murmurs and the soft hum of a vending machine in the corner.
Tristan had just stood to stretch when Rooney called out softly from the side.
“Walk with me.”
Tristan glanced at Kane, then followed.
They stepped into the hallway.
Rooney walked ahead a few steps, then stopped. Folded his arms. Looked over.
“You alright?”
“Yeah,” Tristan said, though his voice gave away a hint of tiredness.
Rooney nodded like he knew anyway. Then looked past him, toward the end of the corridor.
“Some of the lads are talking more than they’re working,” he said. “You know how it is. Big boots, big lights. Makes people squint harder.”
Tristan didn’t answer.
Rooney looked back at him.“You ever get the feeling they’re just waiting for you to fall?”
Tristan met his eyes. “All the time.”
Rooney didn’t smile. But something in his face relaxed.
“Well, fuck ‘em.”
That made Tristan snort quietly. Rooney stepped a little closer.
“You’re not too big for this team, Tristan. You’re just what it needs. Don’t let anyone make you doubt that.”
Tristan blinked once, quietly.
“I won’t.”
Rooney reached out, gave his shoulder a quick slap.
“Good. Because I trust you. And you should trust yourself. Just ignore that media; that's my best advice to you. I know at this point everyone probably says it to you every day, but that’s because it’s the most important. Once you let the pundits and everyone else into your head, it’s game over. You lose confidence in yourself.”
Tristan nodded; he already knew that, but he still listened whenever Rooney had to say something to him. He’s the only player on the team who went through the same thing he’s going through right now.
Rooney gave him one last nod and walked off.
The hallway emptied.
Tristan stood there alone for a second before heading to his own room.
God, England was one complicated team.
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A/N: 3000 word count. I wanted to write about the three England matches, but I’m tired. My finals are here. I’ve got a few days of that, and then I should be able to relax for a while—at least a few days.
It may look a little weird how conservative Roy Hodgson was in the chapter to the point he wouldn’t even think of changing it a little, but according to the English folks, he’s like that; the dude doesn’t change at all; he will stick with the 4-4-2 to the bitter end. Now I do have some plans for that; there was a reason I wrote it in. I go more in depth next chapter with the matches.
Now I would love some feedback on how you guys are liking the current story; you can just leave a comment. Also, your thoughts on the Naruto story as well would be appreciated too.
Thank you
