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Chapter 205: Camp Hale
🕑 Added 2025-05-16 22:47:32 +0000 UTCOctober 6, 2015 – 6:26 PM
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The wipers squeaked across the windshield every few seconds, clearing just enough drizzle for Tristan to see the dying daylight stretch along the motorway. The One-77 purred beneath him — smooth as a baby.
His phone buzzed in the cup holder.
Lingard calling.
He pressed the wheel control.
“Yo, mate. How’s it going? Been a while since we talked.”
It really had. Between matches, travel, and physio sessions, they hadn’t caught up in weeks. Last time they spoke, Lingard had been ranting about FIFA and how he’d somehow ended up on the UK cover.
“Mate,” Jesse said, voice already sharp. “Are you at St. George’s?”
“I’m ten minutes out. We Leicester lot were allowed to be late — the Rome injured just came back yesterday, and the whole club went to visit them today.”
Tristan flicked on the right blinker, taking the turn.
Lingard let out a soft curse, his voice calming. “Shit... how is everyone? I still can’t believe what those Lazio fans did. Disgusting bastards.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. Most of the people are okay. No serious danger.” Tristan paused before changing the topic. “Anyway, what’s up?”
Lingard let out a long breath. “Fair enough. Just… I don’t get it, man. I’m back at United, I’m fit, I’m training well. And I’m still not getting a proper look.”
Tristan blinked. “You thought you’d be starting?”
“Course I did. They told me preseason I’d get minutes. Said it was a fresh slate. But I’m sitting on the bench like I’m back on loan, watching Mata jog around like he’s allergic to direct passes.”
A lorry thundered past in the opposite lane. Tristan signaled and took the junction toward St. George’s.
“You sound rattled.”
“I’m not rattled. I’m confused,” Jesse said. “Like how are you meant to get a national team call-up if your club won’t even play you? Feels like I’m training just to sit in expensive coats.”
Tristan nodded. “And they’ve got you back with the U21s?”
“Yeah. Like being sent back to detention. Same drills, same jokes, same Pereira talking about Brazil every five minutes.”
Tristan turned off the A-road and onto the winding approach toward the training complex. Trees lined both sides, tall and dripping, the road narrowing like a tunnel.
“By the way,” Jesse said, shifting gears, “which Martin are you driving today? Don’t say Vulcan.”
“I’m driving the One-77. The Vulcan isn't even street legal."
“If you’re not using the Vanquish, let me have it. I’ll give it a proper home.”
“Barbara’s claimed it. Off limits.”
“Well, she’s got more sense than you.”
There was a beat. Then Tristan added, more seriously, “I put in a word with Hodgson. Told him you’ve got the quality. Just need a real run.”
Lingard was quiet for a second. “Appreciate it, mate. Means a lot.”
The call ended with a soft beep just as the gates of St. George’s Park came into view — rising out of the dusk like a clean, corporate temple. The Vulcan eased forward.
Ten minutes later, he’d be walking through the lobby.
.
St. George’s Park
The glass doors slid open with a soft hiss.
Tristan stepped into the main lobby of England’s national training centre. Rain still slicked the hood of the Vulcan outside.
A security guard looked up from his clipboard. “Welcome back. Good to see you again, Tristan.”
Tristan gave him a nod, still halfway shrugging off his coat. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re the first Leicester player here.”
Tristan blinked. That was a first. He usually arrived last — being the only one who didn’t live in town.
“Huh. Cheers.”
He moved down the long polished corridor. Somewhere ahead, he could hear boots scuffing on tile, voices laughing, someone shouting over a FIFA match.
He pushed open the door to the players’ lounge.
Ross Barkley looked up from the sofa, one leg draped over the armrest. “Look who finally shows.”
“Thought you bottled it,” Sterling added from the other end of the room.
Tristan unzipped his coat. “We were at the hospital.”
The room shifted slightly. Less noise. A few glances exchanged.
“Rome lot?” Barkley asked.
“Yeah. Whole club went.”
Jordan Henderson stood. “Everyone alright?”
Tristan nodded. “Home now. Some stitches. Scars. But yeah — they’re alright.”
Sterling raised a bottle of water in salute. “Fair play.”
From near the window, Kane’s voice cut through. “Oi! Is that your car out front?”
Tristan turned. Kane was craning his neck, squinting through the glass.
“That thing looks like it belongs in Forza Horizon.”
Tristan shrugged. “It’s just a car.”
Laughter rippled around the room.
“Lad pulls up in a Vulcan and says just a car,” Sterling said.
Before Tristan could reply, the doors slid open again.
Vardy strolled in like he was crashing his mate’s barbecue — damp hair, hood down, bag of snacks in one hand, Gatorade in the other. Danny and Marc trailed behind him, both looking knackered and slightly underdressed.
“There he is,” said Henderson. “You lot stop off for a roast?”
“Fuel,” Vardy said, casually tossing a protein bar at Tristan. “Mental fuel.”
“You left without us,” Marc said, shaking rain off his jacket.
Tristan caught the bar. “I asked if anyone needed a ride. You said ‘I got it’.”
“I thought you were joking.”
Tristan sat down in the nearest chair, stretching his legs out.
Danny flopped beside him. “This place still smells the same.”
“Like antiseptic and broken dreams,” Vardy muttered.
A few more players filtered in behind them, just as the main doors to the lounge opened again. The chatter quieted a bit.
Roy Hodgson stepped inside, flanked by a staff member carrying a clipboard.
He gave the room a brief scan. Eyes lingered for a second on the four Leicester players.
“Right,” he said. “Now that everyone’s finally here — yes, I’m looking at you, Mr. Vardy — I’d like to officially welcome you all to camp.”
Some light laughter.
Hodgson went on, dry as ever. “You’ll find your schedules in your rooms. Dinner’s in ninety minutes. No one’s allowed to injure themselves playing ping pong or FIFA this time.”
More chuckles.
“Alright. Stretch, eat, hydrate. Training starts early tomorrow. We’ve got Estonia first. Let’s make it count.”
He turned and walked off, clipboard man trailing behind.
As soon as the door shut:
“Anyone else feel like we’re back at boarding school?” said Barkley.
Sterling pointed at Kane. “I saw you unpack a PlayStation.”
“That’s for recovery,” Kane replied. “Mental recovery.”
“Right. Who’s getting smoked in FIFA first?” Vardy said, tearing into a bag of crisps like it owed him money.
“You’re not playing me again,” Kane replied. “Last time you tried that five-at-the-back nonsense and still lost 7–1.”
“I was experimenting.”
“You were flailing.”
Vardy pointed at Sterling. “Talk to me when you don’t sub on yourself in career mode.”
“I have range, mate,” Raheem said, grinning. “Some of us create. Some of us spam sprint and pray.”
Tristan eased into a seat, stretching his legs out.
Henderson plopped down nearby, tossing a football gently between his palms. “By the way,” he said, “you seen what Messi said about you?”
Tristan groaned before answering. “Nope. Haven’t looked.” He said lying through his mouth.
“Oh, we’ve all looked,” Barkley chimed in. “Whole group chat’s been roasting it.”
“I’m not even in that group,” Tristan said.
Sterling leaned forward. “That’s because you’re in the VIP one now. Messi said you’re the best player in the world — you don’t hang out with us peasants anymore.”
“Elite-tier praise,” Vardy said through a mouthful of crisps. “Didn’t even know he spoke English.”
“He doesn’t,” Marc added. “He just said ‘Tristan Hale es el mejor del mundo’ and the internet exploded.”
Rooney shook his head. “Mate, my missus asked if you were actually that good or if it’s just the hair and the accent.”
Tristan smirked, eyes half-lidded. “What’d you say?”
“I said it’s mostly the boots.”
“Boots and branding,” Vardy said. “Lad’s a walking GQ cover.”
“Don’t act like you wouldn’t switch lives with him tomorrow,” Danny said.
“I’d switch cars with him tomorrow.”
“You’d switch names if it meant Messi noticed you.”
More laughter.
“Best player in the world,” Vardy repeated, mock whispering. “And he still eats butter chicken like the rest of us.”
Tristan leaned back with a grin. “Can’t argue with the GOAT.”
“Which one?” Kane asked. “You or him?”
“Let history decide,” Tristan said, deadpan.
Everyone groaned.
“Okay, now he’s gone full Zlatan,” Sterling said. “Someone unplug him.”
“Bet he’s got a statue of himself at home already,” Barkley added. “Gold-plated, probably rotates.”
“I’d believe it,” said Kane. “Has ‘humble’ engraved on the base.”
“I am humble,” Tristan replied. “Exceptionally.”
“Tristan Hale: world-class footballer, part-time philosopher, full-time narcissist,” Vardy muttered.
Marc, grinning, raised an eyebrow. “What’s the new chant at away grounds? ‘He scores with both feet, his smile’s elite, Hale’s too perfect, it’s actually cheat’?”
Even Rooney cracked a grin. “That’s horrible. You’ve ruined my night.”
Tristan was about to fire back when the lounge door opened again. A physio poked his head in.
“Tristan, need you for a kit check and hydration review.”
Tristan groaned softly as he stood. “You lot better not touch my controller.”
“No promises,” said Vardy.
“Leave it on pause,” Kane said. “I don’t trust Sterling not to change your tactics.”
Sterling threw his hands up. “I only cheat against cheaters.”
As Tristan headed toward the hallway, Barkley called after him: “Oi — tell Hodgson you’re still grounded until you explain that free-kick against Arsenal.”
Tristan raised a hand in the air without turning back. “I already explained it. I’m just that good.”
Down the hall, the chatter faded into a hum.
The physio led him into one of the side rooms, where a few numbered kits were hung on the wall. England’s white-and-navy looked newly pressed, almost too clean. Tristan spotted his jersey on the end — Tristan 22.
“Any changes to your hydration needs?” the staffer asked, clipboard ready.
“Nope. Same as usual. Double salt tabs on matchday.”
“Noted. You’ll get your tracker unit tomorrow. We’re doing internal load monitoring through all sessions.”
“Brilliant,” Tristan said flatly. “Always wanted to be a science experiment.”
The physio smiled, made a note. “You’re good to go.”
Back in the corridor, Tristan took the long route back toward the lounge, hands in his pockets, boots echoing lightly off the tile. The place was quieter now — some lads had gone to unpack, others probably off getting strapped or massaged.
He passed a TV in the media area. On mute, Sky Sports News was looping through transfer headlines. His face flashed on screen briefly.
“Where is Tristan Hale going?”
He didn’t stop walking.
When he re-entered the lounge, the energy had shifted — more players lying around now, half scrolling, some stretching, others just passing time.
“Yo,” said Henderson, tossing him a banana. “Fuel up. Dinner’s in twenty.”
“Big team meeting first?” Tristan asked.
“Nah. Just dinner. Big team meeting after dinner,” Barkley said. “So they can yell at us on a full stomach.”
“Perfect,” Tristan muttered, dropping into the chair beside Vardy.
Sterling glanced up from his phone. “You just missed Rooney explaining how social media ruined football.”
“Again?” Tristan asked.
“He says it once a day now,” said Danny. “Usually before bed.”
“Man’s got a bedtime philosophy series,” Marc added. “First lecture’s called ‘In My Day, You Had to Earn a Retweet.’”
“Respect your elders,” Rooney grunted, barely lifting his head.
“Only if they’ve got assists,” Vardy said.
Laughter again.
And then the overhead chime sounded — a low, pleasant note through the ceiling speakers.
DINNER – MAIN HALL – 7:00 PM
Long tables. Warm lights. The low hum of conversation echoing off polished floors.
Tristan walked in with Vardy and the others. Some players were already halfway through their plates. Others still hovered near the buffet line — chicken, salmon, pasta, the usual spread.
As Tristan grabbed a tray, Wilshere leaned over from a few spots down.
“So are all Leicester boys like... annoyingly noble now?”
“We were always like this,” Vardy said, piling rice on his plate. “We just hide it behind chaos.”
“Chaos and questionable haircuts,” said Danny, ruffling Vardy’s fringe.
Raheem turned to Tristan. “What was it like? The hospital?”
Tristan hesitated. “Quiet. But heavy. But it felt good seeing back home and safe.”
A pause again. Then Henderson, softly: “They’ll remember it. That you showed up.”
“We needed it too,” Tristan replied.
Down the table, Kane was explaining something about free kick technique to Barkley using salt shakers.
Vardy reached for a bottle of water and held it up. “To the thirty-one,” he said.
Everyone paused.
Even those who hadn’t seen Rome — who hadn’t lived it firsthand — knew what that meant.
Tristan raised his bottle.
A clink of bottles and glasses.
Then, true to form, Vardy added, “And to our FIFA ratings finally reflecting our brilliance by Christmas.”
“Dream on,” Sterling muttered.
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Next Morning
Fog hung low over the pitches like a blanket someone forgot to shake out.
Tristan walked out with his boots slung over one shoulder and a half-eaten banana in his hand. He was dressed in full England training kit — navy top, compression tights under shorts, GPS tracker already buzzing faintly under his base layer.
“Oi, Hale,” Vardy called from across the pitch. “You look like you slept in a freezer.”
“I slept next to a fridge of electrolyte packs,” Tristan replied. “Soma’s orders.”
Danny jogged past, doing high knees. “He did try to feed me chia seeds before bed.”
“You ate them?” Marc said, horrified. “He offered me a clay mask and a peppermint tea like I was at a spa.”
Laughter echoed across the near touchline as the squad filtered onto the turf in groups — some already stretching, others still rubbing sleep out of their eyes. Hodgson stood with a folded clipboard under his arm, deep in quiet conversation with Gary Neville and Ray Lewington.
Further down the line, Henderson had already started leading the warmup lap with Rooney, Sterling, and Clyne behind him. Kane was messing with his shin pads, muttering to himself.
“Let’s move, boys,” bellowed Lewington. “Tight circles. Mobility into reaction sprints. No slouching.”
Tristan slid his banana peel into a bin and jogged to join the group, falling in beside Barkley and Smalling.
Across the pitch, the keepers were already doing their drills — Butland and Heaton bouncing off resistance bands, coaches shouting numbers and lobbing one-touch volleys at chest height.
Hodgson clapped once, sharply. “Right. Pair off. Short touches to start. Move it sharp — match tempo.”
Tristan paired with Henderson, the two snapping quick passes back and forth. Hendo kept his touch clean, firm, no nonsense. Tristan let his foot do more of the talking — rolling, trapping, clipping, switching feet mid-stride.
“You still playing like this at Leicester?” Hendo asked, eyebrows raised.
“Trying to. Don’t always have the time.”
“Feels like you’ve got a whole second more than everyone else.”
“Comes from being chased by Vardy in training every week,” Tristan said.
Henderson smirked. “Whatever you’re doing — keep doing it. We need goals tomorrow.”
“Just keep the middle open and don’t let me get kicked.”
“No promises.”
The first part of training blurred by — short sequences, transition drills, then a tactical walkthrough with Roy on the whiteboard near the sideline.
He pointed at the magnet shaped like Tristan. “I want you operating between here and here,” he said, dragging it slightly wider. “Estonia sit in deep. They’ll press you with the fullback and the eight. If you stay fluid, you drag their line. That opens Vardy’s channel.”
Tristan nodded. “I can float if Hendo stays back.”
“I’ll stay back,” Henderson confirmed. “Just don’t ghost on me.”
Roy glanced up. “That goes for everyone. No passengers. No flicks for flicks’ sake.”
“Looking at you, Ross,” muttered Clyne.
“Mate, it came off.”
“Once.”
As the coaches reset cones for the next drill, Sterling jogged up beside Tristan.
“You reckon we go full force against Estonia or save legs for Lithuania?”
“Can’t afford to coast,” Tristan said. “We mess up tomorrow, Lithuania won’t matter.”
Sterling grinned. “Did Messi say that too?”
Tristan didn’t reply. Just turned and jogged back toward the half-line, where the rest of the team was forming into shape.
.
The cones were reset. Bibs were thrown out. The air had warmed slightly, fog lifting to reveal the crisp outlines of the training facility in the distance.
“Right, split into two elevens,” shouted Ray. “Blue bibs, you’re Estonia. Whites, England.”
Tristan pulled on a white bib. He was already sweating through his base layer, chest rising and falling just slightly faster than usual. Kane stepped beside him and muttered, “Let’s show 'em what world-class looks like.”
“You trying to win golden boot in a training match?” Tristan replied.
“Yep. Let me have something since your going to win everything anyway.”
The ball pinged into play.
Tristan drifted between the lines, building around him — one-twos with Henderson, quick diagonals to Barkley, a dummy run that opened space for Sterling to cut inside.
Across the sideline, the coaches watched. Gary had his arms folded, not saying much — just tracking movement, eyes narrowed, occasionally leaning toward Hodgson and murmuring something under his breath.
Thirty minutes in, Roy blew the whistle.
“Water. Five minutes. Then we go again.”
Tristan jogged to the sideline and grabbed a bottle. As he unscrewed the cap, Gary stepped beside him.
“Nice movement out there,” Neville said. “Especially between the eight and ten. Clean rotations.”
“Cheers,” Tristan said, catching his breath. “And... hey — I meant to say thanks. For what you said on SkySports. About me.”
Gary blinked like he’d forgotten, then nodded once. “Don’t mention it. Everything I said, I meant.”
“You said I was the best player in the world.”
“Yeah,” Gary said. “And you are.”
Tristan let the silence sit a moment before replying. “That means a lot. Seriously.”
Gary clapped Tristan once on the shoulder and stepped back.
“Back in shape!” barked Lewington.
As Tristan jogged back into position, Henderson passed by and whispered, “That your TED Talk for the day?”
“Private seminar,” Tristan muttered back.
.
The players filtered in slowly — tired from the day, some still wearing base layers, others with wet hair from post-training ice baths. The room was cool and softly lit. A digital whiteboard glowed at the front. The scent of protein shakes and mint muscle rub clung faintly to the air.
Roy stood at the head of the room, flipping through slides.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s settle.”
The screen changed:
EURO QUALIFIER — OCT 9 — ENGLAND vs ESTONIA
Kickoff: 7:45 PM | Venue: Wembley
“This is not a team to underestimate,” Hodgson began. “They defend narrow. They’ll sit in a 4-4-1-1. If we don’t break that early, it becomes a scrap.”
He clicked the remote. New screen:
Key Threats – No. 9 Anier / No. 6 Klavan (Captain)
“They’ll look to frustrate. Time-waste. Hit long balls off our mistakes. We need control and composure.”
He looked up. “I’m not worried about talent. We’ve got that. We have the best players in the world.”
Another click — tactical diagrams. One showed movement in the final third. Another showed where Estonia conceded most of their goals.
Gary Neville stepped up now, laser pointer in hand.
“If we do this right, Hale floats in the pocket between their midfield and back line. That’s our overload zone. From there, he’s triggering our wings. Fullbacks overlap. Hendo holds.”
A few nods.
Tristan sat forward slightly.
Gary continued, pointing to the clipped footage now playing on-screen. “Estonia’s left side leaves space when they transition. We punish that. But only if we move early — not after they’ve reset.”
He clicked the video off.
Roy returned to the front.
“You all know the system. You know the job. Tomorrow, we make sure the table shows it too.”
“Let’s be sharp,” Gary added. “No sloppy first halves. This team won’t chase a game. You’ve got to make them chase us.”
Hodgson closed the remote and looked around the room.
“Questions?”
No one spoke.
“Good. Dinner in fifteen. Get fuelled. Recovery protocols after. Then sleep.”
The players stood and filtered toward the hallway in clumps.
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10:07 PM – St. George’s Park
The room was dim, lit only by the glow of his phone screen. Tristan lay on his back, pillow propped behind him.
Barbara’s name rang once. She picked up immediately.
Her face filled the screen — hair up, hoodie on, Biscuit in the background licking peanut butter off a spoon Sofia was holding like it was an Olympic torch.
“You look half-dead,” Barbara said, voice soft.
“I feel half-dead,” Tristan replied. “You look… smug.”
She grinned. “Cake tasting. I picked the winner. It has six layers and two kinds of ganache.”
“Lots of calories, babe.”
“It’s delicious.”
A beat passed.
“Tomorrow,” she said, stretching the word.
“I know.”
“Do you?” she teased. “You sure?”
“If you say socks—”
“Socks would be helpful.”
“Barbara.”
“But only if they’re cashmere,” she said, deadpan. “With little crowns stitched in.”
“Would you actually wear those?”
“I’d burn them. But I’d wear them first.”
He smiled.
Then: “Camp’s alright. Bit quiet. The older lads… I think they know. Might be their last run.”
Barbara’s expression changed — still soft, but more focused now.
“End of cycles,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Just don’t act like you’re in one.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You trying to retire me already?”
“Obviously.”
They fell into a warm pause. Familiar silence. Neither trying to fill it.
“I’ll be home,” he said. “For the party. For all of it.”
Her face softened. “You’d better be. I already told Anita you’re cooking the first course.”
Tristan blinked. “Wait—what?”
“Sleep well, chef.”
She hung up.
Tristan stared at the screen.
“…course?”
He couldn’t help but laugh before going to sleep.
.
The house smelled like cinnamon, champagne, and something rich and buttery Felix refused to name — but was definitely French, and almost certainly a heart attack in disguise.
Tristan checked his watch again. Then again. The Porsche was still twenty minutes out. He’d told Sofia to delay the delivery. Now he regretted it — like a lazy back pass to a keeper stuck tying his laces.
Guests were already gathering — some familiar, some towering, all impossibly dressed. Barbara’s modeling friends floated in with a blur of air kisses, glossy coats, and glassware. They hugged her like it had been years, even though one of them was still on a billboard with her in Milan.
Tristan recognized a few from shoots and campaign parties. He nodded politely, then busied himself with something to refill or adjust — posture, picture frame, perception.
In the living room, the moms had claimed the velvet sofa near the fireplace. Julia and Ágnes sat shoulder to shoulder, phones in hand, translating across languages with the urgency of a summit.
A few feet away, Bálint leaned against the mantel with a glass of wine, deep in conversation with Ling — neither fluent in the other’s language, but communicating perfectly somehow.
Anita sat nearby, legs crossed, prosecco balanced in hand, catching maybe every third word but smiling like she was in on the joke.
Felix was over by the hors d’oeuvres, adjusting canapé trays like they were surgical equipment. He wore a tie. Barely.
Tristan stood just beyond the archway, watching Barbara laugh at something a model was showing her on their phone. She wore a black dress — simple, long-sleeved. But when she turned beneath the ceiling lights, the threads shimmered a faint, uncanny blue. Like silk with secrets.
He crossed the room and slid an arm around her waist.
Barbara leaned in slightly, eyes on him now. “You’re nervous.”
“Maybe.”
“The speech?”
“No.”
“The cake?”
“No.”
“The part where you bought me something ridiculous and now regret not hiding it better?”
He let out a slow breath.
Barbara grinned. “You’re sweet when you panic.”
Then the doorbell rang.
Tristan’s pulse jumped.
It was time.
“Keep her distracted,” he murmured, already turning toward the hallway.
Sofia was on it. “Barbara,” she called smoothly, “the girls want a photo in the kitchen.”
Barbara turned, suspicious. “Why the kitchen?”
“They said the light’s not aggressive.’ I didn’t ask.”
Barbara narrowed her eyes at Tristan. “What did you do?”
“Go,” he said. “I’ll be right behind.”
When she returned, the room had shifted.
The guests had turned. The curtains were pulled back. Out front, under soft gold driveway light — sat a Sapphire Blue Porsche 911 Turbo S.
Barbara paused in the doorway.
She stepped forward slowly, heels ticking across the stone floor like punctuation.
She circled the car. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Hands hovering like she wasn’t sure whether to stroke the paint or strangle her boyfriend.
They’d just gotten three Aston Martin. What was she supposed to do with another car?
God help her.
“You didn’t,” she whispered.
“I did.”
Barbara opened the door, leaned in slightly. The cream leather glowed softly under the interior lights. Navy stitching. Minimalist detailing. And on the door sill:
Barbara Palvin
Tristan Hale
Okay, that just made the car perfect. Everything she said about having too many cars just went out the window.
She turned back to him. Her voice caught just slightly.
“You got the trim right.”
“Your eyes,” he said.
“I don’t even care about cars.”
“I know.”
“I drive a Range Rover.”
“You do.”
“But this… this is—”
“Happy birthday.”
She crossed the space between them and folded into him, arms wrapped tight around his waist, her forehead tucked just under his chin.
“God, I love you.”
They kissed — the kind of kiss that made the room lean back without being asked.
Even Biscuit sat still at the window, tail flicking once, approving.
.
October 9, 2015 – 7:45 AM
East Midlands Airport
The sun was low and gold across the tarmac — the glowing light that made even airports feel cinematic. Too beautiful for a goodbye, but here they were.
Barbara stood by the security entrance, her luggage stacked neatly beside her. Her coat was belted, her passport poking out of a worn leather wallet. Biscuit sat patiently at her feet in a travel carrier, tail thumping once every few seconds.
She’d insisted on bringing the dog.
“You’ll be too busy,” she’d said last night. “Matches. Press. Meetings. She’d get bored and eat one of your boots.”
Tristan had argued, half-heartedly. But she was right. He wouldn’t even be home to feed himself properly, let alone walk Biscuit twice a day.
He’d brought her to the airport in the Vanquish — less flashy, more space for luggage. The Porsche stayed parked at home.
“You’re sure you’ve got everything?” he asked, though he knew she did. Barbara packed like a stage manager prepping a touring ballet.
She nodded, adjusting her coat. “I even brought the necklace.”
“Not the car?”
“Tristan, I can’t even drive in the US. I got Sophia for that.”
He smiled. She did too. But it didn’t last.
They moved in together at the same time. The hug was tight. He kissed the side of her head. Then again, slower.
“I’ve got Estonia tonight,” he murmured.
“I’ll try to catch the stream.”
“You’ll be asleep.”
“I’ll dream it.”
He brushed a loose strand of hair from her forehead, his thumb grazing her cheek in that slow, reluctant way.
“It’s gonna be a long month.”
“You’ll survive,” she said, but it didn’t sound like a joke this time.
Tristan looked at her, taking in every line of her face. “You’re sure about that?”
Barbara didn’t answer — not with words. She kissed him instead. Once. Then again. And a third time, short and sharp like a punctuation mark.
When she finally pulled back, she rested her hand on his chest. “Don’t fall apart without me.”
“I won’t.”
“You might.”
He smiled faintly. “You’ll have Biscuit.”
“She’s already judging you for not coming.”
Biscuit let out a soft sneeze like it was on cue.
Barbara turned, grabbed her suitcase handle, and took the carrier in her other hand.
She didn’t look back until she passed the scanner line. Then she turned, blew him a kiss and disappeared through the gate.
Tristan stood there until she was out of his sight.
Then he turned.
Back to England duty.
Back to the pitch.
.
God I can’t write, I don’t know why but it just feels like the last two days, I have been writing a lot but also nothing at the same time. I’m having a hard time focusing on certain aspects of the story.
I can’t tell if that’s me or just because I’m sick.
But anyway I hope you guys like this chapter.
