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Chapter 184: Crown the Streets
🕑 Added 2025-04-22 20:54:44 +0000 UTCAugust 30, 2015 – 9:14 AM / En route to London Road
The car rolled slowly through Leicester’s morning traffic. Roads were cordoned off. Police were already redirecting side streets. Temporary metal fencing lined the pavement in a half-circle around the mural site. People were packed in behind the barriers, necks craning, phones already raised.
Tristan sat in the back seat, one leg crossed over the other. His dress shirt was crisp — collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled. His blazer sat folded beside him, untouched. Sunlight spilled through the window, cutting clean across his face, warm and quiet.
His phone buzzed.
Incoming FaceTime — Love ❤️
He didn’t even think. Just answered.
Barbara’s face filled the screen — half-asleep in a robe, curled sideways on a massive hotel bed in Los Angeles. Curtain light behind her. One shoulder bare. Hair messy. Biscuit barely visible under her arm.
“Mmm,” she murmured. “There’s my movie star.”
Tristan leaned into the headrest, one arm over his knee. “You look like you haven’t moved in six hours.”
“I haven’t,” she yawned. “Biscuit’s using me as a mattress.”
He smiled faintly. You could just make out the top of Biscuit’s head, buried under her elbow.
“You look good,” Barbara said, voice soft now. “Are you nervous?”
He glanced out the window — once, long — before answering.
“No,” he said. “It’s just... weird.”
And it was.
He didn’t even know how to name what he was feeling. These moments — when an entire city turned out for him — left his thoughts scrambled. Pride. Anxiety. Gratitude. A strange sort of weight in his chest. All of it at once.
In his first life, Vardy had done this on his own. Fought through every wall, every setback. And he’d still made it to the top. Premier League champion. Leicester legend. No shortcuts. No second chances.
Tristan never got close.
He’d needed death. A restart. A system. Someone else’s talent. All of it just to reach this far.
Sometimes it felt like he’d stolen the light. That he was standing in the spotlight meant for someone else. Maybe that’s why he kept feeding Vardy every match — why those first four games, he kept giving him everything. As if handing the spotlight back might make the anxiety a little easier to carry.
This was supposed to be Vardy’s season.
That’s what Tristan told himself, anyway.
Because deep down, he knew what was really happening.
He wanted the Golden Boot. He wanted the trophies. All of them. But not at the expense of the people around him. Not at the expense of his team. So he pulled back. Let them shine. Gave them space.
But something shifted over the last few days.
To be the best — the best — you had to be selfish.
You had to steal the light. From everyone. Even from the people you loved.
From Vardy, from his best friend, big brother, and mentor all in one. From Mahrez. From Kanté, Danny, Morgan. From Ranieri.
That’s what being the GOAT meant. Not just brilliance — but taking more than your share of brilliance. Owning it.
He hadn’t wanted that truth.
But he understood it now.
And he was still trying to come to peace with it. Even if he didn’t want to.
.
Barbara didn’t say anything at first. She just looked at him. She could tell he was down with whatever he was thinking. Randomly every once in a while, Tristan would just get all down as if the entire world’s weight was on his shoulders. During these moments, she could never understand, so all she could do was be a support for her love.
“That’s because this isn’t just another match. It’s your name. On a wall. Forever.”
Tristan glanced down, then back at the screen.
“You’re making it sound dramatic.”
Barbara smiled — slow, like she meant it.
“Because it is.”
Up front, Julia shifted in her seat without turning around — trying not to listen but failing. Ling was focused on the folded event schedule, glasses low on his nose, reading it like it was a state briefing.
“You in the car?” Barbara asked, adjusting slightly on the bed.
“Yeah. Five minutes out.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Full security?”
Tristan tilted the phone just enough for her to see John in the front passenger seat — black suit, sunglasses, still as ever.
Barbara laughed under her breath. “Of course.”
There was a pause. Then she leaned forward a little, her voice dipping with something quieter.
“Promise me something?”
He met her eyes. Raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t downplay it. Not this. Not today.” She bit her lip, like she wasn’t sure how to word the next part.
“You’re not just showing up, babe. You are the event. Don’t lower what you achieved, okay?”
Tristan didn’t respond right away.
He just held her gaze through the screen — his expression unreadable, thoughts running too fast to catch.
Guilt. Hope. Something in between.
But he nodded, once.
“I’ll try.”
Barbara studied him a second longer. Her voice softened again.
“I wish I was there.”
“I know,” he said.
Then she pulled her robe a little tighter, eyes warm again.
“Alright. Go be a movie star.”
Tristan exhaled through his nose, gave her a lazy half-salute.
“You’re the one who stirred in one.”
“Obviously,” she said, already shifting in the sheets. “Now hang up. I’m FaceTiming you later with notes.”
“If you call during my speech, I’m blocking you.”
Barbara smirked. “You’d crawl through customs to answer.”
She leaned in toward the camera — close enough to blur.
“Go do your thing.”
He tapped the screen. Paused. Then said it:
“Love you.”
Her voice dropped, low and honest.
“Love you more.”
The screen went black.
Outside the window, the mural site came into view — but it wasn’t just a mural anymore.
The entire block was transformed. Flags lined the perimeter. Metal barricades. Speakers mounted on risers. LED screens being tested under the sun. A dozen press vans double-parked across the road. Police, event crew, locals — everyone orbiting a single centerpiece.
A wall. A painting.
Him. Arms stretched wide. Blue kit glowing.
Crown lettering above it all.
.
The car slowed to a crawl.
From the inside, it felt like the world outside had shifted overnight. What used to be a quiet block along London Road — a strip of uneven sidewalk and red-brick terraces — had been completely transformed.
Barricades wrapped around the site in a wide arc. Speakers mounted on trusses. Banners draped from light poles. Camera crews perched on temporary risers, adjusting lenses and tapping earpieces. At least two dozen photographers stood bunched in a taped-off media zone, elbow to elbow.
The two murals themselves towered over it all.
Julia leaned forward slightly in her seat. “They are bigger in person than in the pictures you sent.”
The car pulled up to a private entrance tucked behind a black security gate. Three staffers in earpieces waved them through, one of them holding a clipboard against their chest like it might blow away.
John turned in the front passenger seat. “You ready?”
Tristan nodded.
“Then let’s go.”
The door clicked open.
A wall of sound met him — not stadium-level.Phones immediately raised. Flashbulbs started firing like a soft drumline. One kid in a Leicester shirt near the fence started shouting his name over and over until the whole front row joined in.
“Tristan! Tristan! Tristan!”
He stepped out slowly.
Julia stepped out next, adjusting her purse strap. Ling followed, checking his watch, then folding the event schedule back into his pocket. John walked a few paces ahead, clearing the path with just his presence.
The crowd leaned in. A few hands reached forward.
The Nike reps were waiting by the small stage setup to the right of the mural.
The mayor stood nearby — Sir Peter Soulsby, in a navy suit with a red tie — shaking hands with someone off-camera.
One of the event managers jogged up to Tristan’s side, slightly out of breath.
“They’re ready whenever you are,” she said as Tristan nodded.
.
John stayed one step ahead, parting the path. The Nike reps met them halfway — blazers, lanyards, wide smiles that were trying not to seem too eager.
“Tristan,” one of them said, stepping forward. “Welcome.”
He shook their hands, murmured greetings.
Just behind the Nike line stood Leicester’s staff — Ranieri, Benetti, Walsh. The club’s higher ups as well.
Then came the players.
Mahrez in sunglasses. Morgan in club colors. Kanté half-hiding behind Vardy. Albrighton. Drinkwater. Even Matty James, still on the recovery trail. One by one, they dabbed him up — no dramatic gestures. Just presence.
“’Bout time,” Vardy muttered. “Whole bloody city’s been waiting.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “You good?”
Vardy gave him a light nudge with his elbow. “I’m just here to see if you trip on stage.”
That pulled a laugh out of him. He needed that.
A few more handshakes. A few hugs.
.
Sir Peter Soulsby took the podium first.
The mayor’s voice echoed slightly through the speakers, bouncing back off buildings. He spoke warmly, touching on history, pride, and Leicester’s cultural moment.
He mentioned tourism spikes, economic impact, football as a unifier.
But most of all, he talked about Tristan.
“...and in just over a year, this young man has not only become one of England’s most gifted athletes but one of Leicester’s own. His story, his rise, his connection to this city... it’s more than football.”
He paused.
“He has become an identity of this city just like the other greats of this game.”
The crowd responded with soft applause.
“And today,” the mayor said, glancing back at the mural, “we honor that connection — and everything it’s meant to this club, this city, and this new generation of fans.”
“Ladies and gentlemen... Tristan Hale.”
.
Phones rose. A hundred red lights blinked. Even the players shifted to attention near the stage edge.
He looked up first — at the wall. The blue kit. The gold lettering. His own eyes painted eight feet tall.
Then down at the crowd. People everywhere. Kids on shoulders. Fans in Hale jerseys. Flags waving.
He took the mic in both hands. Exhaled once.
Then spoke — quiet, but clear.
“I never asked for a mural.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the front row. Even Mahrez grinned.
“I just wanted to play football. And maybe, if I got lucky... reach the top. But we don’t gotta talk about that part.”
That pulled another laugh. Lighter now. Warmer.
He glanced down, then back up.
“Leicester gave me that. A shirt. A shot. A home.”
Applause again — louder this time. Familiar. Earned.
“I know by now the whole world’s heard how much I love this club. This city. And I’m not just saying that. I mean it.”
He paused. Let it land.
“I know what people expect from me. What the kids watching want. What this team needs. What this city wants us to become.”
He looked out toward his teammates now. Mahrez. Kanté. Morgan. All of them.
“And I’m still trying to live up to that. Every day.”
He took a step back, then back in again. The crowd was still. Waiting.
“So just trust us. All of us. Trust the team. The staff. Everyone behind me.”
He glanced one last time toward the mural.
“Because that miracle I promised last season? I meant it.”
Beat.
“And it’s coming.”
He stepped away from the mic.
Applause didn’t crash in — it swelled. Like a tide. Real. Resonant. Flags lifted higher. Phones dropped as people clapped for real.
.
The applause hadn’t even finished rolling when a new voice came through the speakers.
“Good morning, Leicester,” said the voice — smooth, practiced, American-accented. “My name’s Andre Matthews. I’m the global head of athlete brand partnerships at Nike.”
Tristan turned slightly as the man stepped up to the podium — black Nike suit, fresh white sneakers, lanyard swinging. He moved like he’d done this before. A lot.
Andre reached out and pulled Tristan into a quick hug. Then turned to face the crowd, mic in hand.
“We’re here today not just to celebrate an athlete…”
He paused.
“But a creator.”
He let that breathe. Let it land.
“Most of you already saw the campaign. Some of you probably memorized it by now.”
He smiled and gestured toward the massive LED screens behind him.
“But we’re gonna run it back one more time.”
The crowd stirred.
And then the screen lit up.
First ad.
CROWN THE STREETS.
Tristan — disguised as an old man, hunched with a cane and mismatched socks. Teenagers laughing. Then the moves. A nutmeg. A no-look chip. The wig flying off. Gasps, then chaos.
The crowd at London Road was howling.
Phones up. Laughter everywhere.
CROWN THE STREETS.
Bold on screen.
Then it faded straight into the next.
STORM & SILK.
Barbara. Soft lighting. Tristan in rain-soaked boots. The contrast — the glamour and the grit. The couple. The craft.
When it cut to black, the crowd clapped again — not out of obligation.
Because it hit.
Andre returned to the mic.
“Those weren’t just campaigns,” he said. “They weren’t made in a boardroom. They were pitched — by him.”
He turned to Tristan.
“Concept. Script. Music. Angles. Vibes. All him. He came to us with a vision — not for a product, but a legacy.”
The screen behind him shifted again.
NINE REGNANTS
Latin: Rule.
The name held for a beat. Then two.
Andre looked back at the crowd.
“Now, rule can mean a lot of things,” he said. “Dominate. Lead. Set the standard.”
He pointed gently toward the mural.
“But for us? It means what he already is. The Crown Jewel of English football. The face of a generation. The one we believe — and this isn’t just marketing — is going to rule next.”
The applause began again. A ripple through the front row.
“He dropped 75 goal contributions in his first season in the Premier League. At nineteen. If that doesn’t give you the right to name your own shoe line... what does?”
He turned back to the screens again. One final flash.
The first two colorways.
The Black and Blue. The England White.
Then a fade-in of what was coming next — just a flash of the heel tabs:
More crowns. More drops. More to come.
Andre nodded once. Final line.
“And the best part? We’re just getting started.”
“Trust me on that.”
Andre smiled, letting the final slide fade behind him — the gold-lettered crown still hovering over the words: More to come.
He stepped forward again, adjusting the mic just slightly.
“And before we close out… I want to hand this over to someone very special.”
He didn’t rush it.
“Someone who doesn’t need an introduction — but I’ll give one anyway.”
The crowd started stirring. Phones lifted. Anticipation rising.
“A five-time champion. A two-time Olympic gold medalist. An icon not just of sport, but of obsession. Of excellence.”
Andre paused, eyes scanning the crowd.
“And someone who wanted to be here, for this. To welcome the next one.”
He stepped back, smiled wide — and gestured off-stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen… Kobe Bryant.”
The crowd erupted.
And then Kobe stepped out.
The crowd at London Road lost it.
Tristan watched from the stage, surprised. Sofia didn’t tell him if they were any guest speakers and he forgot to ask in the moment.
Kobe waved once. Raised his chin at the fans. Then made a beeline straight for him.
“Tristan,” he said, pulling him into a quick hug.
“I honestly thought you weren’t coming,” Tristan murmured, just loud enough.
Kobe pulled back, hands on his shoulders, smiling.
“You look taller on the boot ads.”
“You look taller on TV,” Tristan shot back.
Kobe laughed. “Touché.”
Then he turned — greeted Mahrez with a dap, Vardy with a handshake and shoulder bump, even pulled Morgan into a half-hug like they were old friends. A few of the lads looked stunned, especially Kanté, who just bowed slightly.
“Man,” Kobe said, turning to the mic now. “This is wild.”
The laughter in the crowd was instant. Phones back up. Someone in the front shouted, “We love you!”
Kobe nodded once. “Love you too. And Leicester — man, I gotta say — you got my attention last year.”
He glanced toward the mural.
“I’m a big football guy. Always have been. Grew up watching World Cups, Champions League. But last year? I watched the FA Cup Final. Watched you boys beat Arsenal.”
A few cheers burst out. Mostly from the Leicester supporters near the front.
Kobe grinned. “I didn’t even know that was possible. I texted Beckham like, ‘Yo, what the hell’s going on in England?’ And he goes, ‘Tristan Hale. That’s what.’”
Another wave of laughs rolled through.
“I’m not gonna lie. Every time I met Beckham after that, I swear — the man wouldn’t shut up about this kid. Stats, clips, free kicks, goals, and assists. His World Cup was then against United. It was just so easy to fall to become a fan of him. And I love his personality.”
Kobe handed off the mic and turned back to Tristan.
“Congrats, man. You earned this.”
Tristan nodded once. “Means a lot coming from you.”
Kobe pulled him into one last half-hug, then gave a small wave to the crowd.
Tristan turned as one of the Nike reps stepped forward again with a folder Inside, the contract.
Tristan stepped forward.
The crowd hushed.
He took the pen, flipped to the marked page, and signed.
Flashbulbs lit up.
The pen clicked.
And just like that — it was official.
..
A/N: Not going to lie, I was cringing writing this chapter, I honestly got stuck in this chapter so many times, and I was dealing with a headache and homework. This is probably not my best work, but this is the best I could with my situation today.
Also Chapter 5 of Naruto has been posted, check out that if you guys haven't yet.
Update I was just informed Kobe wasn't that popular in England like I thought he was so uh I might have fucked up with the reaction but it is what it is.
