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Chapter 204: The Fast, the Foolish, and the Faithful
🕑 Added 2025-05-15 16:58:28 +0000 UTCOctober 4, 2015 — Belvoir Drive
.
Rain slid down the window in fine, unbroken lines. It streaked across the glass like someone had drawn stress marks over the car park — grey puddles, crooked cones, and a bib plastered to the fencing like a casualty. Inside, the radiator hissed.
Ranieri sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, collar open, tapping the end of a pen against a printout of the league table. Across from him, Benetti stood with arms folded, glaring out at the drizzle like it had insulted his mother.
“Questo paese,” Benetti muttered. “Piove anche quando non piove.”
Ranieri didn’t look up. “È pioggia inglese. Sembra triste, ma ti rovina piano piano.”
(It’s English rain. It looks sad, but it ruins you slowly.)
Benetti snorted. “Poetic. I preferred when you just called it shit.”
Ranieri cracked half a smile. “I’ve been here too long. I’m starting to romanticize misery.”
He slid the papers aside — fixture lists, medical notes, training reports — and reached for the espresso mug that had gone cold two hours ago. Still drank it.
“Twenty points,” Benetti said, walking over to the whiteboard. “Second in the league. Undefeated. Most goals scored. Top five in defense.”
“Twenty-nine goals in eight games,” Claudio said, ticking off his fingers. “Nine conceded. And zero in Europa.”
Benetti raised his brows. “Not bad for a team that was supposed to be ‘lucky’ last year.”
Ranieri leaned back, arms behind his head. “Dio mio. When I took this job, I thought I was here to babysit a miracle team before the magic wore off.”
“And now?”
Ranieri smiled faintly. “Now I’m afraid to wake up.”
Benetti chuckled. “You didn’t think Tristan would be this good, did you?”
Ranieri tilted his head like a man about to confess. “When I got here, he was what… the fourth best player on the pitch?”
“Fifth, on a bad day.”
“I thought he was brilliant,” Claudio admitted. “But raw in some aspects.”
Benetti snorted. ““Yeah, but there were very few things you could fault him for in a match. Maybe except when he opens his mouth in front of a camera.”
“But now…” Ranieri tapped the table once. “Now he’s the best player in England. Maybe the world. Maybe ever.”
“Ever?”
“Let me exaggerate. I’m Italian. It’s in my blood.”
They both laughed.
Ranieri stood up, walked over to the window, and looked out across the wet training pitch. “You know what scares me?”
Benetti raised an eyebrow. “You finally realized Mahrez doesn’t actually track back?”
“No,” Ranieri said. “What scares me is... they’re still improving. Tristan’s not done. Vardy looks faster than he did in August. And N’Golo… N’Golo might be the closest thing I’ve seen to a player who can teleport.”
“He just got called up to France.”
Ranieri grinned. “About time.”
Benetti nodded. “Whole squad’s getting snapped up now. We have four for England. Riyad with Algeria. N’Golo. Kasper. We’re going to be a skeleton crew this week.”
Ranieri sighed and rubbed his face. “We should bubble-wrap them all. Keep them safe. Put Mahrez in a sensory deprivation tank.”
Benetti folded his arms again. “You hear that?”
They paused.
No shouting. No laughter. No speaker blowing out bass. No Vardy yelling about FIFA ratings.
“They’re being quiet,” Ranieri murmured. “That’s either very good… or very bad.”
“Want me to check the sauna?”
“I want you to check the kitchen. If we’ve run out of Red Bull, we’re calling in a crisis team. How can one man love a drink so much?”
They’d tried banning Red Bull from the facility once. It lasted 48 hours. Vardy threatened to chain himself to the vending machine and started sneaking them in under cones.
Now it was “regulated” — which meant no one had any clue how many he actually drank.
Ranieri sometimes jolted awake in the middle of the night, heart pounding, visions of headlines swirling:
“LEICESTER STAR SUFFERS CARDIAC EVENT AFTER 7TH RED BULL — SAID HE WAS JUST THIRSTY.”
The physio had once found an empty can inside a foam roller. No one was sure if it was a joke.
Benetti nodded solemnly and walked toward the hallway — the door clicking shut behind him just as thunder rolled faintly in the distance.
Outside, the storm kept drawing lines across the sky.
.
Recovery Room
The bikes hummed in the corner. Hydrotherapy jets bubbled from the cold tub. Someone had put on Robbie William, low enough to be ignored if needed.
Tristan lay stretched out on one of the benches, arms folded behind his head, one sock half-off. His eyes were closed, not sleeping — just waiting for the day to decide what it wanted to be. His phone buzzed on the table beside him.
Vardy lay flat on a yoga mat, chewing gum with the exaggerated jaw rhythm of a man trying to solve a tactical equation through force. “This place smells like minty regret,” he mumbled.
Mahrez was perched on the massage table stirring his protein shake. “That’s just you,” he said. “You smell like liniment and broken promises.”
Kanté was hunched in the cold tub. His arms floated beside him. He blinked slowly, like the water had put his brain into airplane mode.
Maguire kept bouncing a physio ball off the ceiling with surprising precision.
Marc sat beside him, towel draped around his neck, still pink from the sauna. “If that thing comes down and hits me,” he warned.
“It’s never missed,” Harry said.
“That’s not the same thing as it never will.”
Inler lay on a foam roller, staring at the ceiling like he was thinking about insurance fraud in Switzerland.
Vardy threw out his gum and opened a Red Bull from god knows where. “So… N’Golo’s famous now, yeah?”
Kanté blinked again. “Pardon?”
“France call-up,” Mahrez said. “Big time. Big baguette energy.”
“You’ll be verified by next week,” Maguire added. “Better start posting sunsets. Maybe one of you eating a croissant.”
“No use Instagram,” Kanté said, alarmed.
“Exactly,” Marc said. “That’s why we trust you.”
Tristan’s phone buzzed again. He flipped it open lazily and read the message from Sofia.
SOFIA: All three Aston Martins are arriving in three hours. Delivery crew’s on the way.
He let out a nose-breath laugh and dropped the phone back down on his chest.
Vardy sat up instantly. “That was it, wasn’t it? The Astons?”
Tristan didn’t reply. That was enough.
“Mate,” Vardy said, eyes wide. “Can I just borrow one? Just for the night. Just to pick up a curry. One drive. One meal.”
“No.”
“I’ll fill the tank.”
“No.”
“I’ll bring back poppadoms.”
“No, Jamie.”
Ben wandered past holding a smoothie. He stopped mid-sip. “Wait — the Astons are today?”
Tristan nodded.
“No way. What models?”
“Wait and see.”
Ben narrowed his eyes. “Even for us?”
“Especially for you,” Tristan said dryly.
Ben sat down cross-legged on the floor. “We should go. For quality control. Someone has to make sure they’re safe to drive.”
“You crashed the physio cart into the door last week,” Inler said, eyes still on the ceiling.
“That was one time.”
“You reversed into the vending machine.”
Ben shrugged. “Minor damage.”
The wall monitor flicked. League table.
“Wait—” Maguire squinted. “Are we second?”
“Feels photoshopped,” Marc muttered.
“Feels good though,” Tristan replied, sitting up now.
King walked in, toweling his neck. “That graphic’s fake news. Someone hacked the Premier League website.”
Vardy nodded seriously. “Yeah, I checked it this morning to make sure it wasn’t an email scam.”
“You can’t even log into your email,” Mahrez muttered.
“Exactly. Bulletproof.”
Then Vardy turned to Tristan. “Hey, by the way. The club said the thirty-one fans are being flown back on the 6th. Medical escort and all. I was thinking… we go see ’em?”
Tristan blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t drive.”
“Good.”
“I’ll let you drive the Aston.”
“Absolutely not.”
The others chuckled. Then Marc leaned back, squinting at Tristan like he was doing algebra. “Wait. Isn’t Barbara’s birthday this week?”
Tristan didn’t answer. He glanced at the ceiling, calculating whether he could fake a phone call and walk out.
“Oh my God,” Mahrez whispered. “He forgot.”
“I didn’t forget,” Tristan said.
“Then what did you get her?” Ben asked.
“I’m not saying.”
“He forgot,” Vardy repeated, with theatrical grief. “Our boy’s done for. One year anniversary and no present.”
“It’s not one year,” Tristan muttered. “It’s just her birthday. And we already celebrated our anniversary. I’m sure you are aware with how much shit you send of us in the chat.”
“Even worse!” Marc said. “You’ve used up your gift card quota.”
Mahrez gasped. “Did you get her socks?”
“Custom socks,” Ben added. “With your face on them.”
“She’d burn the house down,” Vardy said.
Tristan leaned back, grinning faintly. “You lot are all idiots.”
“We know,” said King from the treadmill. “We just want details.”
The screen flicked again — news ticker now. Something about West Ham’s away form. No one read it.
Vardy clapped his hands once. “Alright. That settles it. We’re all going to Tristan’s.”
“Why?” Inler asked.
“To inspect the cars,” said Ben.
“And check on his mental wellbeing,” said Mahrez.
“Because if he really did get her socks,” said Marc, “he’s gonna need support.”
Tristan groaned but he knew he wouldn’t win the argument.
Three hours later — Tristan’s house
The living room looked like a team retreat disguised as a casual Sunday. Ben was on the floor, trying to balance a bowl of popcorn on his knee while also teaching Biscuit how to high-five. She wasn’t interested in anything but the crumbs.
Vardy was halfway into a beanbag chair that had no structural integrity, eating some homemade chips.
"John, mate, whatever’s in this dip? You should bottle it. Sell it to clubs. Say it boosts pace."
"It’s hummus," John called back from the kitchen.
"Still. There’s potential."
Shinji sat beside Kanté on the couch, sipping sparkling water politely while watching Danny Drinkwater and Maguire argue about whether one of the Aston Martins would be matte black or spy-movie silver.
Mahrez scrolled through his phone with the expression of a man who was both bored and too invested to stop.
Barbara and Sophia were at the kitchen island with Sofia, sipping wine and occasionally side-eyeing the living room like they were observing a wildlife documentary. Sofia was the first to say it aloud.
"They’re children," she muttered.
"Hungry children," John added, sliding in a tray of fresh-baked sliders.
Tristan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching it all unfold. Barbara caught his eye.
"You nervous?"
"About what? The cars or the fact that Vardy just asked John if he could grill marshmallows indoors?"
She smirked. "Yes."
Outside, the sun was finally beginning to pierce through the clouds with the rain finally stopping.
The doorbell rang.
Seven players stood up at once.
.
The driveway echoed with low thunder — but not from the sky. The rain had stopped. The air smelled like wet pavement and roasted hummus from the kitchen.
Then came the truck.
It pulled up slow. Black, polished. The kind of transport normally reserved for F1 paddocks or stolen nuclear warheads. A Aston Martin logo glinted off the side.
Everyone was already gathered outside, squinting toward the gate. Seven players, three women and one dog
Sofia clapped her hands once. “Alright, eyes covered!”
“We’re not six,” Mahrez grumbled, covering his eyes anyway.
Barbara did the same, elbowing Tristan playfully. “You’re weirdly quiet.”
“I’m letting the moment build.”
Biscuit barked at the truck twice. Then once more for emphasis.
The back of the transport truck hissed open. Hydraulic lifts engaged. A suited Aston Martin rep stepped out — unnecessarily well-dressed, like he was about to sell the cars to MI6.
“Mr. Hale,” he greeted with a bow more suited for royalty. “As part of your contract, you are required to post promotional images of these vehicles at least once a month — one candid, one campaign-quality. We’ll be in touch about shoots.”
“Right,” Tristan said. “Can I drive them, or are they just for looking?”
“Of course. These are fully operational showroom models. Serial coded to your name. And as discussed, each was customized to your spec—”
“They’re coming out,” Vardy shouted. “Somebody hold me.”
The platform began to lower. First down the ramp: a deep forest green Aston Martin One-77, the same shade as Tristan’s eyes under stadium lights. The leather seats were a warm walnut tan. Subtle embroidery on the headrest: a small number 22 in gold thread.
[Image > Here]
Barbara blinked. “That’s gorgeous.”
Maguire whispered, “I didn’t even know that car was real.”
Second came the Vanquish, midnight blue, glossy as ink. The interior was a contrast — matte cream seats with dark navy trim. The same golden 22, tucked just under the headrest like a signature.
[Image > Here]
“Mine,” Vardy declared. “It’s for emotional support.”
“No,” Tristan said, without turning.
“Just to curry. I’ll only floor it in safe zones.”
“No.”
The final car eased down — a silver-blue Aston Martin Vulcan, glowing under the last burst of sun. Pure track design. Seats were black with emerald green stitching. The 22 was etched onto the rear panel.
[Image > Here]
Mahrez stepped forward, arms crossed, head tilted. “Mmm... bold choice. Clean lines. Elegant profile. Interior’s a bit severe, but it works.”
“Thank you, Vogue,” Ben muttered.
Barbara stepped forward, one arm linked through Tristan’s.
“You did good,” she murmured.
He looked at her sideways. “Want to sit in one?”
Her eyes gleamed. “Which one do you think I’ll like?”
Tristan led her to the Vanquish.
Barbara slipped into the driver’s seat, smoothing her hand over the cream interior. “It’s too clean. I’m going to ruin it.”
“You can’t ruin it. It was made to handle you.”
She looked up at him with a slow smile. “Is that your line?”
“No,” he said, leaning in. “This is.”
He kissed her.
Behind them, Vardy shouted, “Oi, don’t fog up the windows! There are children present!”
Shinji tilted his head. “Where?”
“No idea. But it felt right to say.”
Kanté passed Biscuit a bit of slider. She took it gently… then turned and barked once at the Vulcan, as if saying, stay in your lane.
Barbara leaned back in the seat. “I don’t need one of these. My Range Rover does the job. But maybe John could use a new ride. I can’t imagine you taking him everywhere in one of those cars.”
Tristan blinked. “You’re buying my bodyguard a sports car?”
She shrugged. “Tax write-off. If I say he’s a modeling escort.”
“Barbara, we are going to jail.”
“I know.”
The Aston rep stepped back in, a little more relaxed now.
“No posts this month,” Tristan said quietly. “After Rome... we’ll wait.”
The man paused. Then nodded. “Understood. No problem at all.”
The driveway hushed again before the idiots decided to drive them.
.
The engines purred as the last spin around the neighborhood ended. The air smelled like burnt rubber and smug satisfaction. The three Aston Martins sat in the driveway like trophies — a green beast, a midnight cruiser, and a silver-blue menace. Biscuit had finally stopped barking. Barely.
“I still can’t believe we didn’t crash one,” Ben said, getting out of the Vanquish like he was dismounting a spaceship.
“Speak for yourself,” Maguire muttered. “Shinji kept revving like we were in Fast & Furious: Tokyo Drift.”
Shinji shrugged with an apologetic smile. “Fun.”
Mahrez adjusted his sleeves. “We need more road. This block isn’t enough.”
Vardy pointed. “There’s a Tesco car park that gets really empty after eight—”
“No,” everyone said at once.
Then Danny chimed in, leaning against the Vulcan like it was his now. “What about Mallory Park?”
Tristan looked up. “What?”
“Mallory,” Danny said again. “Race track. Half an hour from here. Proper circuit. No speed limits. Legal.”
Mahrez raised his brows. “You mean… we could actually race these?”
“Legally,” Danny said.
Ben looked around. “We have three Astons. Seven players. One dog. I think we qualify for a heist movie.”
Barbara smirked from the steps. “Only if you let me drive one.”
Tristan nodded slowly. “Fine. You’re lead car. Vardy’s in the boot. Ben doesn’t have a license so he can’t drive.”
“I’ll allow it,” Vardy said. “But only if I can scream ‘NOS!’ during corners.”
Sofia had already pulled out her phone. “I can call ahead. Mallory lets you book last minute if it’s quiet.”
Tristan met her eye. “Do it.”
Mahrez looked at the cars, hands on hips. “I hope you all know — if I lose, I’m blaming tire pressure and colonialism.”
They laughed.
And just like that, it was settled.
.
Mallory Park — Late Afternoon
The gates of Mallory Park slid open with a quiet mechanical hum. No press. No fans. Just three Aston Martins and seven footballers behaving like teenagers who had just found the keys to their dad’s garage.
The track was empty. No stewards. No marshals. Just asphalt, silence, and adrenaline waiting to happen.
Tristan pulled the deep forest green One-77 into pole position. He wore a custom racing suit — dark with gold trim — and a matte green helmet that matched the car. He glanced sideways at Barbara, already buckled into the passenger seat, her own helmet tugged low, visor up. She stared at the dashboard like it was ticking.
“If you make me scream,” she said, deadpan, “I will haunt your mirrors. Every one. Forever.”
“You’d be the most beautiful jump scare I’ve ever had,” Tristan replied, flipping the ignition.
Behind them, the Vanquish purred to a halt in second. Midnight blue. Vardy at the wheel, chewing gum and tapping the wheel with gloved fingers like he was drumming before war. Ben sat beside him, helmet slightly crooked, arms folded in betrayal.
“This is how we die,” Ben muttered.
“No,” Vardy said, lowering his visor. “This is how legends are born.”
The Vulcan pulled into third. Silver-blue. Track-built. Loud even while idle.
Mahrez adjusted his grip. “This car knows me,” he muttered.
Kanté didn’t respond. He sat motionless in the passenger seat, already praying with both hands braced against the dash.
At the fence, Danny, Maguire, Shinji, and Sofia stood watching. Biscuit was at Sofia’s feet chewing her own leash.
Sophia held her phone. “Oh god. Mendes is going to have a heart attack.”
Sofia sighed. “The club’s going to rewrite every contract clause after this. No skydiving. No scuba diving. No breathing.”
Maguire leaned forward. “I feel like I should be stopping this.”
Danny shook his head. “I feel like I should be filming it.” And he did start recording it.
Track lights turned amber.
Barbara’s hand gripped the side handle. “Tristan,” she warned.
Red.
“If I die—”
Green.
They launched.
The One-77 surged forward with a shriek. Barbara screamed, head slamming back against the seat. Tristan was already laughing.
“I HATE YOU!”
“I KNOW!”
The Vanquish peeled off next. Vardy howled, “THIS ONE’S FOR THE POPPADOMS!”
Ben shrieked, “WE’RE NOT EVEN GETTING CURRY!”
The Vulcan ate the tarmac behind them, Mahrez sliding into the first turn like he was born on the Nürburgring.
Kanté’s scream was high-pitched screaming.
The wind roared through the trees. Biscuit barked and took off along the barrier.
“Look at ‘em!” Danny yelled. “Like actual kids!”
“They’re gonna total those things,” Maguire said with eerie calm.
On the track, Barbara had stopped screaming. She was laughing now — wild, hair loose beneath her helmet, the rush pure.
“You SAID you’d be careful!”
“I LIED!”
“YOU’RE DEAD TO ME!”
The Vulcan veered up the inside. Mahrez shouted in French. Kanté yelled something that might’ve been a prayer.
Lap two. The cars tore into the back straight. Ben’s voice cracked over the headset.
“IF I THROW UP IN THIS CAR, DOES IT VOID THE WARRANTY?”
Vardy was grinning like a man who had lost all sense of consequence. “We’re in the safest car on the road, Benny. We’re invincible!”
“That’s not how physics works!”
Lap three. Mahrez overtook both cars in a perfectly timed drift. The Vulcan hissed past.
Tristan narrowed his eyes. “Alright.”
Barbara grabbed the side again. “Oh no.”
He floored it.
The green One-77 surged forward, engine screaming, tires clawing at the edge. Barbara let out a mix between a laugh and a scream.
“If we crash, I’m haunting your next girlfriend.”
“There won’t be one.”
“Good answer!”
Final turn.
Tristan came inside the Vulcan, wheel tight, edge perfect. Mahrez held the line.
Too close.
The finish line blurred.
Then — brakes.
The three cars squealed into the pit.
Smoke curled off the hoods. Heat shimmered off the metal. The scent of speed filled the air.
Barbara yanked off her helmet. Her hair was chaos. Her face was flushed. She stumbled out.
“Barbara?” Tristan asked, stepping around.
She turned slowly.
And started laughing.
“You are so dead.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Ask me after my pulse returns.”
Vardy launched out of the Vanquish like a rock star. “THAT WAS AWESOME!”
Ben dropped out after him, looking like a man who had seen God. “My soul left my body on that third lap.”
Mahrez stepped out and casually inspected the Vulcan’s reflection. “I want my own team. Call it Riyad Racing.”
Kanté didn’t move for ten seconds. Then quietly:
“I didn’t like that.”
Tristan helped him out.
“You were brave, mate.”
“I closed my eyes after the second corner.”
Shinji approached with water bottles. Sofia walked over, still filming.
“Someone needs to destroy the SD card before Mendes sees this.”
Sophia nodded. “Too late. I already sent him a teaser.” She lied of course, she didn’t even have his number.
Danny whistled. “We need to do this again.”
‘Nope, nope, nope.” Barbara shouted looking like she was about to throw up as Tristan helped her, giving her water.
“Come on, let’s go again. Maguire and Shinji, get in the cars, you two.” Vardy said, ready for another race.
.
October 6, 2015 — Queen’s Medical Centre, Nottingham
The Leicester City team bus rolled to a soft stop outside the east wing of Queen’s Medical Centre.
There was no media. No PR handlers with clipboards. Just Leicester City F.C in its entirety.
Jon Rudkin and Susan Whelan stood nearby — not to be seen, just to be present.
Inside the bus: Tristan, Vardy, Mahrez, Kanté, Danny, Marc, Maguire, Ben, Inler, Schmeichel, Fuchs, Albrighton, that entire squad. Everyone wore club gear — crest sharp, zipped high.
The mood was muted. Like a funeral that wasn’t one.
The visits began.
Room after room.
Fans in casts. Eyes lit up in disbelief. Parents in tears. Some kids still too dazed to understand who was sitting beside them.
Schmeichel took time with the parents. He knelt. Listened. Promised them that the club would stay in touch.
Mahrez gave away his own hoodie to a kid.
Ben signed every card he could find, even one that said Happy Retirement. “You’re retiring from the hospital, innit?” he joked.
Kanté didn’t talk much — but he sat. He stayed. He held one elderly fan’s hand until her grip relaxed.
Marc’s voice cracked when he saw the twelve-year-old. He stepped outside afterward. Vardy followed him and didn’t say a word.
Inler sat with a young woman whose jaw had been wired shut. He handed her a notepad and let her write questions. They spoke in scribbles for fifteen minutes.
Ranieri didn’t go room to room.
He stayed in the hall. Hands behind his back. Greeting every doctor. Every nurse. Thanking them each by name. He didn’t have the courage to face them.
Tristan stayed longer than most. His hand had gone tight around the strap of his bag. He didn’t notice until Vardy quietly reached out and gave his wrist a tap.
“You alright?” Vardy murmured.
Tristan didn’t answer. He was watching the ceiling. Then the floor. Then the wall.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just taking it in.”
Outside, the clouds had broken just slightly. Sunlight slid down the brick walls like light through stained glass.
As they returned to the bus, Jon Rudkin placed a hand on Tristan’s shoulder.
“We’ll be sending letters out tomorrow,” he said. “Follow-ups. Gift packages. This wasn’t a visit just for the sake of PR, you know.”
Tristan nodded once.
And that was the end of it.
.
Bit of filler chapter reading through this but fuck it, I’m too sick and tired to continue. Original idea was to make this around 12k, including the England camp, and that birthday party than Barbara leaving than some other stuff. But I have no energy for all of that.
Anyway I’m going to the ER today cause fuck me, I don’t feel good at all.
I do still hope you guys liked this chapter and peace.
