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Chapter 206: The Leash at Wembley
🕑 Added 2025-05-18 17:51:06 +0000 UTCOctober 9, 2015 – 5:42 PM
Wembley Stadium
.
The corridors beneath Wembley were still — just the hush of rubber soles on polished tile and the soft echo from empty rows above.
Two hours to kickoff.
Tristan walked beside Gary Neville, half-zipped in his England warm-up top, a ball tucked under his arm. Sweat cooled beneath his base layer, fine and itchy along his ribs, but the adrenaline hadn’t faded. Not here. Not at Wembley. It never did.
They emerged from the tunnel into the towering seats wrapped in early-evening light, untouched.
Gary cracked his neck, scanning the pitch like an old captain returning to sea. “Warm your hips up. Start from the corner.”
Tristan jogged toward the flag, glancing back. “You’re getting bossy in retirement.”
“I was bossy in boots,” Gary shot back. “Now I’ve just got better posture.”
Tristan laughed before he planted the ball with one hand, stood back, and started whipping in low crosses. Left foot. Tight angle. He could feel the sweet spot with every strike — that crisp, split-second snap as the ball came off the laces and spun hard across the box.
“One,” Gary called.
“Three.”
“Two — hit it flat.”
“Now curl.”
Tristan adjusted each strike like he was tightening screws. The ball moved sharper with each hit, skimming the grass like it had a brain of its own.
From the sideline, Gary’s voice faded. He just watched.
Tristan didn’t notice at first — the way Gary had stopped calling numbers. But by the fifth or sixth hit, he caught the silence. Glanced up. Gary was standing still, arms crossed, his brow slightly raised. He looked amazed as Tristan chuckled at the reaction. He got that a lot now whenever someone watched him train.
They switched. Tristan pulled back to twenty-five yards, clipped a pass with the outside of his boot. The ball arced inward with that slow-draw spin, kissed the turf once, and landed on a sixpence near the penalty spot.
Gary gave a low whistle. “That’s not a normal foot,” he muttered. He meant it as a joke, but the tone didn’t quite land.
He trapped the next ball and volleyed it back, a little late. Tristan noticed the delay. The weight in Gary’s eyes.
“You know,” Gary said, jogging a few steps closer, “meant to ask — Barbara’s party the other night. Did you drink?”
Tristan looked up. The question carried a tone he didn’t love — not judgment, exactly, but something observational, maybe. He didn’t know how to describe that tone Gary was using.
“Do I ever drink?”
“I mean… It was her birthday. That Porsche in the driveway looked tipsy.”
Tristan’s jaw flexed once. “You know I don’t.”
“I know,” Gary said. “Had to ask. Media’s always circling, hoping to catch you blinking.”
Tristan reset the ball, this time nudging it a little farther out. His boot tapped once against the turf, adjusting the angle.
“If I have a bad night, headlines will say: Supermodel Girlfriend Too Distracting?”
“Or: Is Tristan Losing Focus? — because you helped pass out quiche at her birthday.”
He struck the ball flat and clean, letting it race across the grass like a razorblade.
“They’ll write anything.”
“They did it to Rooney. Did it to David.” Gary’s tone softened, more to himself now. “The only difference is — you don’t give them anything real to chew on.”
Tristan watched the ball settle against the far post and just… stay there.
“They think I’m boring,” he said.
“You are boring,” Gary said, completely straight-faced. “Exceptionally. It’s brilliant.”
Tristan looked over, eyebrow arching a little. He didn’t smile, but a brief, subtle spark touched the corner of his mouth — there and gone.
“You don’t party. Don’t drink. Don’t cheat. You go home after training and cook for your girlfriend or walk your dog.”
“I’m a menace,” Tristan muttered.
Gary pointed at him with the toe of his boot. “You’re a PR manager’s dream and a tabloid’s nightmare. But that doesn’t mean they’ll stop waiting for the fall.”
Tristan didn’t answer.
He picked up a new ball and placed it with deliberate care, adjusting the angle. The same way he always did before free kicks.
Gary stepped back, arms crossed again.
“I’ve played with legends,” he said. “Beckham’s cross. Gerrard’s drive. Scholes’ mind. Lampard’s finish.”
Tristan inhaled, then struck — low, curling, a perfect skim off the grass that nicked the inside of the post and whipped into the side netting.
Gary didn’t speak right away.
Just exhaled, like someone watching a magic trick from six feet away. Damn, yeah that kid was already better than all of England’s best midfielders. By the time he retired, he would be the greatest of all time for England.
.
Tristan fired another diagonal across the box, watching it skip off the turf into the far corner. He didn’t bother chasing it.
Gary raised a hand near the D. “You’ve hit that same line seven times in a row.”
“Because you’re still not volleying it clean,” Tristan called, walking toward the cone stack with a quiet grin.
Gary chuckled and bent to grab a spare ball. “Alright. Your touch is sharper than my knees. Happy?”
Before Tristan could answer, the sound of shoes approached from the tunnel — a younger staffer, probably media team, windbreaker zipped high, phone in hand.
“Sorry to interrupt,” the guy said, skidding slightly to a stop at the edge of the grass. “Just broke — Liverpool announced Klopp about fifteen minutes ago.”
Gary raised a brow. “Really?”
The staffer nodded. “Press conference just wrapped. Figured Tristan might want to see it.” He held out the phone.
Tristan hesitated for half a second, then stepped forward and took it. He had honestly forgotten it was this week. He couldn’t remember when managers were hired and fired from his first life.
The screen lit up. Klopp sat behind a table, hair slightly windblown, eyes bright.
“I am the Normal One,” he said with a grin, a jab at Mourinho’s infamous intro. The room laughed.
“It’s not so important what people think when you come in,” Klopp went on. “It’s much more important what people think when you leave.”
He leaned forward.
“We have to change from doubter to believer — now.”
Tristan watched. He didn’t smile, but something in his posture shifted — the way a runner might tilt forward before the starting gun. He handed the phone back without a word.
Gary eyed him. “Thinking of making a move to Liverpool, are you?”
Tristan’s lips barely moved. “Just appreciating the man’s energy.” He didn’t say anything else before heading back inside to take a shower.
.
Liverpool – Anfield – Executive Lounge, Second Floor
The press conference ended twenty minutes ago.
The flashbulbs, the scarf-holding, the photos in front of the This Is Anfield sign — all done.
Now it was just Jürgen Klopp, still in his suit, sleeves rolled to the elbows, sitting in a leather chair like he’d already pulled three all-nighters. His glasses had slid slightly down his nose, but his eyes were still awake.
“Right,” he said, clapping his hands once. “Before I finish my staff planning — I need to know something.”
Ian Ayre, Liverpool’s Chief Executive, sat across from him, one hand resting on a thick file folder that hadn’t been opened yet.
Klopp leaned forward.
“Are we already in contract with any players? Anyone whose name hasn’t reached me?”
Ayre hesitated. Then gave a slow nod.
“One.”
Klopp tilted his head. “And?”
Ayre opened the folder, slid a single page across the table.
“Not official. But we’ve been in contract with his agent. Jorge Mendes.”
Klopp blinked. “Mendes?”
“Yeah. The player’s name…” He tapped the page once. “Tristan Hale.”
Klopp stared.
Then slowly leaned back in his chair.
His mouth opened just a little.
“You’re joking.”
“Nope.”
Klopp blinked twice. “No, no — no, come on, you’re joking—”
“I’m not.”
“You’re serious.”
“I am.”
There was a beat.
Then Klopp let out a breathy, stunned laugh and actually slapped both hands on his face.
“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, voice muffled behind his palms. Then he pulled his hands away and pointed. “You’re telling me— you’re actually telling me— we’re in contact with the Tristan Hale? Our club?”
Ayre nodded, calm as ever.
Klopp stood.
Actually stood.
“NEIN!” he barked suddenly, half-laughing. “You’re messing with me. This is a prank. Where’s the camera? Is this a British thing?”
Ayre just smiled and leaned back.
“He’s the chosen one,” Klopp said, quieter now, eyes wide. “Er ist der verdammte Auserwählte… He’s the one.”
“I figured you’d be happy.”
“You don’t understand,” Klopp said, already pacing, hands cradling the back of his head. “I thought he was going to Madrid. Or Barça. Or Bayern, even. Everyone wants this kid. Everyone.”
He turned again. “He’s twenty. And he’s already better than Gerrard ever was! I love Stevie — you know I love Stevie — but this kid…” He gave a slow, spiraling whistle. “This kid… is football’s future.”
Ayre let him go on. Let him vent his astonishment. The grin hadn’t left his face. He couldn’t blame Klopp for his reaction. Imagine you’re a new manager signed to an old giant that's begging for revival and you just got told there’s a chance we can buy the best player on the planet better than Messi and Ronaldo.
“We’re just in talks,” he said after a moment. “Mendes is playing it close. But the owners—”
“They’ll back it?” Klopp asked immediately, stopping mid-step.
“They already said it. If we land Tristan, they’ll fund the rest of the window at double capacity. They see him like a crown jewel. You don’t put a supercar in a garage full of Toyotas. We build around him.”
Klopp laughed again — loud and delighted — and pointed to the ceiling like it owed him something.
“Jaaa! That’s what I’m talking about!”
He turned to the window, stared out at the rain-slick pitch below.
“I didn’t even think we were in the running,” he said.
“Neither did we,” Ayre admitted. “Until we reached out and Tristan’s team responded. Then Mendes asked for a private meeting. No leaks. No press. He asked the right things — about vision, freedom, about whether we were building a project, or just buying time.”
Klopp nodded slowly. This was good. A player with sense. Not just flash.
“And what’s our read on it?” he asked. “Where’s Tristan’s head?”
Ayre folded his arms. “From what we’ve gathered? He doesn’t want Spain. Not yet. He’s not trying to be the next Messi or Ronaldo. He wants to be the first Tristan. One of the reasons he wears 22 — his own era. His own kingdom.”
Klopp exhaled like someone hearing gospel.
“Das ist es… That’s the mindset.”
“So City and Chelsea are the only threats?”
Ayre nodded. “City’s building. Chelsea’s unstable. United are interested — but honestly? Not even close. From what we understand, they’re not even in the final conversation.”
Klopp turned slowly, that manic grin returning — full teeth now, the press-conference restraint completely gone.
“Well,” he said, eyes glinting behind his glasses. “Then let’s make this club worthy of a king.”
He stood at the window for a second longer, watching raindrops gather and streak down the glass. The pitch looked empty. Hungry.
“Get me a meeting,” Klopp said.
“With who?” Ayre asked.
“With Mendes,” Klopp said, turning. “And then — with Tristan, if you can.”
.
Two Hours Later
The hotel room was quiet, save for the low hum of the mini-fridge and the patter of light rain against the window. Klopp sat on the edge of the bed, tie half-loosened, sleeves still rolled up from earlier.
He’d barely eaten. Couldn’t sit still for long. Couldn’t stop thinking.
Tristan Hale.
He picked up the remote, thumbed the power button, and flicked to the match channel. BBC One.
The screen lit up instantly.
Wembley Stadium – London
EURO 2016 Qualifier – Kickoff: 7:45 PM
Wembley pulsed under the floodlights — 90,000 voices rolling through the terraces like stormwind, the arch glowing gold above a black sky.
The camera panned across the stands as the drums kicked in from the south end, and Guy Mowbray carried the weight with his chest.
“Wembley is alive tonight. England, one win away from topping the group — and once again, it’s number twenty-two who leads them.”
The feed jumped to the tunnel.
The players stood shoulder to shoulder.
Jermaine Jenas spoke low, like he didn’t want to break it.
“He’s changed the tempo of this team. Everything runs through him now. Just twenty — and he’s already the axis. Look at him. England’s best and to many of current form in the words of Leo Messi, that best player in the world.”
Then the camera shifted — up to the south stand.
No commentary. Just drums. Then the tifo dropped.
Blue and white. A lion’s head drawn in rubble. Behind it — the cracked outline of the Colosseum, torn in half.
Across the top: WE DON’T FORGET ROME
In the tunnel, boots started shifting.
The anthem was close now.
.
England walked out first — white kits crisp beneath the floodlights. Mascots clung tight to the players’ hands.
The tifo still hung from the south stand like a battle flag.
The stadium roared.
Guy’s voice cracked through the noise, already thick with emotion.
“This isn’t just Wembley rising for a qualifier… A crowd remembering. A nation responding.”
The camera lingered on Tristan. Number 22.
Guy lowered his tone now.
“He leads them tonight once more. As always he will be the difference maker for this team.”
Across the grass, Estonia waited. Their captain quiet. Their eyes wide.
The formations rolled out on-screen, but the tension in the booth never dipped.
ENGLAND — 4-4-2 Formation
🧤 Joe Hart (GK)
🚀 Nathaniel Clyne (RB)
🏰 Chris Smalling (CB)
🏰 Gary Cahill (CB)
🚀 Leighton Baines (LB)
🏃♂️ James Milner (RM)
🛡️ Jordan Henderson (CM)
🎯 Tristan Hale (CM)
🏃♂️ Raheem Sterling (LM)
⚽ Wayne Rooney (ST) — Captain
⚽ Jamie Vardy (ST)
Estonia — 4-4-1-1 Formation
🧤 Mihkel Aksalu (GK)
🚀 Taijo Teniste (RB)
🏰 Enar Jääger (CB)
🏰 Ragnar Klavan (CB)
🚀 Artur Pikk (LB)
🏃♂️ Sander Puri (RM)
🛡️ Konstantin Vassiljev (CM)
🛡️ Ilja Antonov (CM)
🏃♂️ Dmitri Kruglov (LM)
🎯 Sergei Zenjov (CAM)
⚽ Ats Purje (ST)
Jenas raised his voice just slightly, the crowd swelling beneath his words.
“Rooney up top. Vardy beside him. But it’s 22 who makes it breathe. He’ll drop between the lines, glide into space, pick out passes no one sees coming — and if Estonia gives him half a second, that net’s rippling.”
Guy followed through, voice rising just a notch.
“Roy Hodgson’s side unbeaten in the group. One win from sealing top spot. But from the sound of this crowd… this is about more than qualification.”
As the players reached the center circle, the anthem began.
The tifo rippled like a flag in slow motion.
.
The whistle blew.
Wembley didn’t explode — it surged. A rising wave of applause and chants that poured down the terraces in perfect rhythm with the ball rolling into motion.
Jamie Vardy tapped it back to Tristan Hale. England’s white kits gleamed under the lights. The tifo still fluttered in the south stand.
Guy’s voice lifted first, carried on the hum of the crowd. “And we are underway at Wembley. England in full voice. Estonia defending deep. But keep your eye on number twenty-two. He’s on the ball already. And look where he’s picking it up — edge of the center circle, eyes up. He’s never static, Guy. Never.”
And he wasn’t. Tristan had barely needed a touch to glide the ball wide to Milner, already moving into space.
England pressed high. A few sharp passes. Clyne overlapping. Sterling cutting inside. Henderson stepping into the half-space.
Within two minutes, Estonia were packed into a narrow wall of eight — five across the box, three screening the top. It looked like a training exercise: attack vs concrete.
Tristan drifted forward again. Instinctive. Without thinking. He ghosted between Sterling and Rooney, easing into a pocket no one filled. Leicester instincts. It was second nature now.
The ball came to him just outside the D.
He turned sharply, wrong-footed Klavan, and darted past — then slipped a soft pass through to Vardy.
The crowd leaned in—
Saved. Aksalu parried with his shoulder.
But the tension wasn’t broken.
Because from the sideline, Roy Hodgson was already waving. Loud. Angry.
“TRISTAN!” he shouted. “GET BACK! STAY IN THE MIDDLE!”
Tristan hesitated. Just a second. Then slowly jogged back toward the center.
He wasn’t thrilled. His face didn’t show much — but the tightness around his mouth said enough.
Jenas caught it first. “That’s not how he plays at Leicester. Look at his body language. You can see he’s biting it down.”
Guy picked up the thread, voice lower now.
“And Roy Hodgson wants control. Wants Tristan deeper, distributing. But this has been a problem since the start of this new season. Since Tristan started going crazy. There have been rumours that Hodgson isn’t happy with how Tristan currently plays. He wants a more traditional number 10 but that’s not Tristan anymore. He’s never been the traditional 10 that Hogdson wants even in his debut for England.”
On the bench, Gary Neville and Ray Lewington were already trying to calm Roy. Gary leaned over, murmured something about shape. Ray added a hand motion — relax, it’s early.
Tristan didn’t argue. He dropped deeper. Played cleaner. One-touch switches. Diagonal floats to Sterling. Overloads with Henderson.
But the itch was still there.
Fifteen minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Then—
Minute twenty-six.
Sterling danced down the left. Quick turn. Ball in. Cleared halfway by Klavan — but not wide enough.
It dropped, center of the pitch, outside the box. A bad clearance. A spinning nothing.
Tristan didn’t think.
He stepped forward and hit it.
Left foot. Volley. Full-body swing.
The connection was vicious. Pure. The kind of strike that pulled every ounce of silence from a crowd for just a breath—then detonated.
Top corner. No chance.
Wembley exploded.
Jenas shouted first.
“OH MY GOD! That is unreal! Tristan Hale! That is a statement!”
Guy followed, the volume chasing the echo.
“It dropped, and he lashed it! Sweet as you like — twenty-two with the technique of a lifetime!”
The replay rolled. Slow-mo. Contact. Rotation. The net bulging like it had been punched.
Klopp stood up in his hotel room. Not clapped. Stood.
“Scheiße,” he whispered. “We give him freedom. Total freedom. Don’t box this.”
Back at Wembley, Hodgson was on his feet too — not celebrating. Gesturing.
“TRISTAN! STAY BACK! CONTROL THE MIDFIELD!”
But Tristan was already jogging to the corner flag.
He pointed.
Not at the fans. Not at the cameras.
At the tifo.
He kissed his fingers, tapped his chest, and pointed again.
Then he turned back toward halfway smiling as Vardy rushed towards him.
1–0 England.
.
Back at the hotel, Klopp hadn’t moved.
He leaned forward on the bed, elbows on knees. No smile. Just focus.
On the screen, Tristan dropped into midfield again — picked it up — turned — and launched a ball blind into the channel.
Right idea. Wrong timing. Vardy hadn’t read it.
The ball skipped harmlessly into touch.
Another pass came to Tristan. He took two touches — too many — because the movement up front wasn’t sharp. He ended up laying it sideways to Henderson.
“Why is he playing in a cage?”
He wasn’t asking the television.
He was asking the idea of Roy Hodgson.
If he had Tristan at Liverpool? He wouldn’t anchor him. He wouldn’t hold him with a leash between the lines.
He’d let him roam.
He’d build the system around him.
Forget a number six. Forget rigid shape. Tristan Hale didn’t belong buried between two banks of four. He belonged in the chaos. Between the lines. Ghosting into the final third where players don’t track, where defenders panic.
Klopp scratched the back of his head, eyes still locked on the screen.
“You don’t tell Messi to stay in the middle third,” he muttered. “You don’t ask a lion to sit still.”
On the pitch, Tristan glanced toward the dugout. Hodgson was already waving him back. Hands wide. Voice lost in the noise — but the message was clear.
Stay deeper.
Hold shape.
Klopp made a face. “Idiot,” he muttered. “He has a weapon and wants a metronome.”
“He wants to move forward. It’s instinct. That’s how he’s been playing all season. Leicester built around it. England are still trying to fit him into the system.”
By the 38th, the rhythm had died.
England had possession, yes. But it was sterile.
Tristan dropped deep again. Strung six passes. Got it back. Feinted right, slipped left — then chipped a perfect ball into Rooney’s path.
Should’ve been a goal.
Rooney skied it.
The crowd groaned. Hodgson shouted.
Tristan turned, walked back. Didn't say a word.
Klopp dragged a hand down his face. He looked at the screen like it was a chessboard.
If he had Tristan?
He’d stick him right behind a front three. No midfield chains. No tactical anchors.
Just freedom.
“He’d tear teams apart,” Klopp whispered. “Put two ball-winners behind him. Let him do the rest.”
Ayre had said it — he wants his own era.
Klopp could give him that.
He wouldn’t just be a number at Anfield. He’d be a dynasty.
Back on screen — another moment. Tristan tried a reverse volley chip into Sterling’s path. It nearly worked. It should’ve worked.
But Sterling misread the drop. Collision with the keeper. Chance gone.
Still, Wembley cheered.
Finally, the whistle blew.
Halftime.
1–0, England.
.
The floodlights at Wembley hummed louder as the players stepped back onto the pitch. A soft mist hung over the grass, catching the beams in a hazy glow.
Back on the pitch, Tristan jogged into position.
High up in the hotel suite, Jürgen Klopp leaned forward with elbows on knees and eyes locked on the screen. Tea forgotten. Lips pressed.
From the commentary box, Guy carried the moment.
“No changes from either side — but England will want more. This is Wembley. And when you have a player like Tristan Hale on the pitch, you don’t settle for one.”
The whistle blew.
The second half began.
From the first touch, it was clear: Estonia hadn’t come for a fight — they came to survive. Ten men behind the ball, narrow lines, every step backward.
But England pressed. Tristan danced deeper into the rhythm now — flicks to Henderson, a cut-back to Sterling, long diagonal to Baines that nearly stretched too far.
Still, Estonia held.
By the 53rd, Wembley began to groan.
Then — finally — a break.
Minute 58.
A flash of chaos near the box. Milner looped a hopeful ball toward Vardy, who collided mid-air with Klavan. The ball bounced high. Dropped awkwardly.
Rooney stepped forward.
And didn’t wait.
Outside of the foot. Half-volley. Driven low.
Net.
Wembley exploded.
“Wayne Rooney with the finish!” shouted Jenas. “Vintage strike from the captain — and just like that, it’s two!”
Minute 72.
Another chance.
This time it came from Tristan. A short combo with Sterling on the left — then a disguised backheel into the pocket. Rooney sprinted onto it, flicked it wide in stride.
Sterling didn’t break pace.
One touch.
Slotted under the keeper.
3–0?
No — flag went up.
Wembley sighed.
Replay showed it was tight. Too tight.
“Unlucky,” said Guy. “Sterling’s finish was calm, but the timing was just off.”
Hodgson turned from the sideline, shouting instructions — most of them at Tristan.
Minute 83.
It came again.
Tristan dropped between the lines, feinted wide, then chipped the most delicate ball over Estonia’s back line.
Rooney didn’t chase.
He knew.
Sterling ghosted in from the blindside and met it on the half-volley.
This time — no flag.
3–0.
“That,” Jenas said, “is vision on a canvas. England with the brushstroke, Sterling with the finish. One of the best England moves all night.”
Rooney jogged over, bumped Tristan’s shoulder, said something with a grin.
Tristan nodded — but didn’t smile back.
On the sideline, Hodgson folded his arms.
Still not thrilled.
He turned to Gary. “He’s drifting again. Too far up.”
Gary sighed. “He created the goal.”
“I don’t care. We’re exposed.”
Behind them, Ray muttered, “We’re three-nil up, Roy.”
Estonia were done. Every step was survival now. England just passed it around — slow, surgical.
Tristan dropped deeper. Just enough to pull the strings again. His eyes moved faster than the ball — checking lines, scanning the shift.
He didn’t score again.
Didn’t need to.
He owned the space.
When the final whistle blew, the roar wasn’t explosive.
It was complete.
England 3 — Estonia 0.
Job done.
The players clapped toward the crowd. A few fist bumps. Baines tossed a shirt into the stands. Hart lifted his gloves and pointed skyward.
But Tristan?
He didn’t move at first.
He looked toward the tifo one last time. The lion’s head. The words:
WE DON’T FORGET ROME
Then he turned.
Applause rained down. Loud but not euphoric. Routine. Expected. The kind of victory that didn’t lift anyone off their seats, just brought polite satisfaction. Like finishing a job.
Tristan exhaled once through his nose, hands on hips, before slowly walking toward the halfway line. Rooney’s goal had sealed it. Sterling’s tap-in made sure. But the moment everyone would talk about was still the volley. The one that made it 1–0.
The one he wasn’t supposed to score.
He turned back toward the tunnel, scanning the edge of the technical area.
Roy Hodgson was already waiting.
Tristan wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. His legs were light, body calm—but his chest? Tight. That buzz again. Not nerves. Not pride. Frustration.
The kind he’d felt watching England lose to Iceland in his first life. All that talent, shackled by fear. By systems built to avoid losing instead of to win.
It was happening again.
The leash.
He jogged toward the sideline. Henderson caught his eye briefly and gave a look.
As Tristan reached the tunnel entrance, Roy stepped forward. One hand raised—not to greet, but to signal. A point. A circling motion. Like saying: Now.
Tristan didn’t slow. Just fell into step beside him.
They walked into the tunnel together.
Roy spoke first.
“You didn’t listen,” he said, low. Tight. “I told you to stay in the midfield.”
“I came back, didn’t I?” Tristan replied, matching the tone.
“You scored because you were out of position.”
“I scored because no one else was in position.”
That made Roy stop walking.
He turned, fully now. “You’re not at Leicester here. You’re not free to roam and leave gaps. This is England. Structure matters.”
Tristan’s jaw flexed.
“So structure’s more important than momentum?”
“We need control.”
Tristan looked ahead, toward the tunnel’s end, where the hallway dimmed. He let the silence sit a moment, then quietly said:
“Control doesn’t win you tournaments.”
Roy exhaled. Frustrated. “You’re twenty. Still learning. There’s a reason players your age don’t run international midfields.”
Tristan finally turned to face him.
“I’m not like other players my age. I’m the god damn best player in the world!”
It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t arrogance. It was a fact. Stated plainly. As if Roy already knew it—he just didn’t want to admit it.
Roy didn’t reply.
They started walking again.
Boots echoing. Nothing loud. But not warm either.
Just a young player who’d stepped out of the system…
…and a manager desperate to pull him back in.
They disappeared into the tunnel, still talking.
And that’s where it ended.
At least for tonight.
.
4590 word count
I wanted to continue writing but I'm too tired to continue but I still hope you guys liked this chapter.
Sorry if that match feels meh, I honestly didn’t care that much about it. I’m gonna start skipping some of the matches that don’t matter from now on. I can’t be bothered anymore.
