Sinbad
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Chapter 198: The Standard Now
🕑 Added 2025-05-08 22:34:26 +0000 UTCSeptember 27th, 2015 — 5:40 AM
The house was dark, save for the pale blue light slipping between the blinds. But Barbara was already awake.
She sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed, with an Ipad balanced on her lap. She was still mostly tangled in the sheets, though one of Tristan’s black shirts hung loose off her shoulders. The sleeves were too long and kept slipping down, but she didn’t bother adjusting them.
Her fingers traced the small promise ring he’d given her last night.
The same ring she hadn’t taken off. Not even to sleep.
She smiled to herself. The memory was still fresh—the park, the necklace, the ring, the weight of his words. One year down. A lifetime to go. She didn’t cry easily. But yesterday she did.
Barbara brushed the back of her wrist against her eyes, more from habit than need, and refocused on the tablet.
The birthday list.
It had started as a simple note. Names typed one after another. Now, at five-forty in the morning, it had turned into an entire plan.
Julia and Ling.
Of course. His parents were practically her family now too.
Anita, Mama and Papa.
Her sister and parents would be flying in from Hungary.
Sofia.
Her manager. More like family at this point.
Close Friends:
Stella Maxwell
Sara Sampaio
Hannah Ferguson
Gigi and Bella (if they weren’t booked out)
Her old friends from Budapest (just two—childhood friends who had stayed close)
Tristan’s friends:
She kept it small here. Not because he didn’t have many—but because he didn’t really want many at events like this. Danny Drinkwater and his girlfriend. Mahrez if he was free. Vardy had already said he’d probably be busy but wanted to stop by. Ben as well if he wanted to come. She included Kante as well just in case he wanted to come.
That was it.
Barbara chewed lightly on her thumbnail, glancing at the half-empty "male" column.
Not that Tristan would complain.
She tapped the screen, adding one more note: No extra plus-ones. No agents. No press.
This wasn’t going to be some circus. It wasn’t about networking. It was about people who she loved and cared for in some way.
Her gaze softened at the thought.
Yesterday had been overwhelming. In the best way. Watching him collapse into the grass at full-time. The way his teammates had mobbed him. The way the crowd had sung his name until the final whistle faded into celebration.
And then, after the noise had settled—the two of them, alone in the park. Just like the first date. Except now, with promises. Rings. Plans.
Barbara exhaled quietly. She still felt the soreness in her legs and hips from last night. The proof of what their anniversary had become once the door had closed.
She brushed her fingers over the promise ring again, letting it ground her.
A few more weeks, and then America. Then the Victoria’s Secret show. A month apart.
Her chest tightened at the thought. But they’d handled distance before. They always had rules. Always had their ways to stay connected.
Still. Leaving after October 8th made the most sense. She’d at least have her birthday with him. After that, he’d be off with England anyway. It wouldn’t feel so harsh.
Barbara adjusted the tablet slightly. Just as she did, a warm hand slid around her waist from behind.
Tristan.
Sleep-warm, curls messy, and entirely hers.
Barbara felt his breath against the curve of her neck.
"You’re up early," he murmured, voice still rough with sleep.
"Couldn’t sleep." She leaned back slightly into his chest. "Planning my party."
Tristan blinked once, slowly, like the words were still finding their way through his sleep-heavy mind. "It’s not even six."
Barbara smiled. "I know."
His fingers brushed over her hip, under the oversized shirt. He felt the promise ring beneath his touch. A quiet hum of approval.
"You still wearing it?" he asked, pressing a kiss just below her ear.
"I told you. I’m never taking it off."
Tristan smiled against her skin. "Good."
Barbara turned slightly, the iPad shifting on her lap. "Want to see the guest list?"
"Only if I’m allowed to veto." He dropped down beside her, the sheets pooling at his hips. The marks from last night still visible across his chest and along the curve of his neck.
"You’re not vetoing anyone," Barbara teased.
She handed him the tablet. Tristan scanned the names quickly. His brow lifted when he saw the male column.
"That’s it?"
"That’s it."
"Most of them are your family. Or my teammates."
"Exactly." Barbara rested her chin on his shoulder. "You should be happy. No random guys. No awkward model-boyfriend types."
Tristan grinned. "That’s because most guys aren’t really ‘friends.’ They’re just waiting."
Barbara rolled her eyes, laughing softly. "Now you know that just isn't true." She said although she didn’t fully believe it herself.
His thumb skimmed down the list. Julia and Ling. Anita, Mama, and Papa. Sofia. Stella. Sara. Hannah. Gigi and Bella—if they weren’t booked out. A few childhood friends. Danny, Mahrez, Vardy, Ben, and Kanté.
"You nailed it," Tristan said. "But..."
"But?" Barbara asked.
"I don’t see any mention of cheese on this list."
Barbara snorted, swatting at his arm. "You’re not allowed to veto guests or dessert."
He kissed her temple, pulling her closer into his lap. "Alright. I surrender."
Barbara smiled against his bare shoulder, her hand sliding over his chest. "After my birthday..."
"You leave." Tristan’s voice softened.
"For the US. November tenth. Victoria’s Secret."
"I know."
They sat in silence for a moment. Barbara’s fingers tracing lazy circles on his skin.
"I was thinking..." she continued. "Maybe I’ll leave after my birthday. October 8th. That way, it won’t feel like I’m gone longer. You’ll be off with England duty anyway."
Tristan’s arms tightened around her, "I hate it," he muttered. "But... you’re right."
Barbara tilted her head to catch his gaze. "We’ll still FaceTime every day. And the rule stays. If we’re apart more than two weeks, one of us flies out."
"Deal," Tristan agreed. Though he already knew he’d end up flying to the US the second he got three days off. It’s always been Barbara flying around for him so he figured it was his turn now.
Barbara kissed his jaw softly. "I’m proud of you, you know."
"For what?"
"For yesterday. For every day. The headlines are insane."
She picked up the tablet again and swiped through a few saved posts.
“Tristan Hale isn’t just breaking records. He’s breaking every team in his way.”
“Tristan Hale, 20 years old: Already has more career goal contributions than some strikers have in a decade.”
TRISTAN + BARBARA = TRABARA. The Premier League’s new power couple. 🦊💙 #HappyAnniversary
Tristan groaned softly. "Trabara? Seriously?"
Barbara giggled, showing him more. "Some of them aren’t so bad."
Tristan shook his head, amused. "I’m still not accepting Trabara, though." He stretched lazily, muscles rippling under her touch. "C’mon," he said, voice still thick with sleep. "Shower?"
Barbara grinned. "You just want another excuse to touch me."
"Yep," Tristan said shamelessly, already lifting her up against his chest.
She squealed softly as he carried her toward the bathroom, the tablet forgotten on the bed.The door swung shut behind them. The faint sound of water running filled the room. Steam curled out from under the crack of the door.
Time slipped past.
.
Four Hours Later
The smell of roasted tomatoes and fresh bread filled the kitchen.
At some point after the shower—and everything that came with it—Felix had started cooking, letting them have their morning while he worked in the background.
Barbara perched on the marble countertop, one knee pulled up, the other swinging gently. One of Tristan’s older shirts hung loose on her frame. Tristan leaned against the opposite counter, sleeves of his grey shirt pushed up, barefoot, watching Felix work. His curls were still a little wet, and there were a few faint scratch marks near his collarbone.
Biscuit sat directly between them.
Not just sitting.
Watching. Head tilted. Ears perked. She let out a low wuff, almost like a question.
Then a sharper, small bark. Yip!
Tristan looked down. "You’re already getting impatient?"
Biscuit’s tail wagged wildly, thumping against the cabinet with soft, rhythmic whaps. Her nose lifted, nostrils twitching at the scent of the eggs.
Felix plated the food with a flourish. "Simple. Protein. Carbs. Soma approved."
"I more than approved," Soma added from her usual spot at the island, scrolling through her iPad. "I forced it." She didn’t even look up. "Considering the... activities of yesterday. Football and otherwise."
Barbara flushed, pulling her damp hair over one shoulder. "Soma."
Tristan just chuckled, biting into a piece of toast. "She’s not wrong."
Biscuit let out another sharp yip, then gave a tiny, frustrated huff. Her nails clicked softly against the tile as she shifted from paw to paw.
Tristan leaned down and scratched behind her ears. "You’re too young for innuendos, Biscuit. Don’t listen to them."
Barbara laughed softly, slipping down from the counter. She padded barefoot across the tile, kissed Tristan’s cheek, then settled into her chair. As soon as she sat, Tristan casually pulled her chair closer to him.
Biscuit immediately trotted over to her side, sitting with a hopeful little whine.
Soma finally looked up, passing Barbara a separate dish. "For you. Low sugar. Your VS diet starts soon."
Barbara made a face. "It’s my birthday month. That should cancel out the diet."
"It doesn’t," Soma replied flatly.
Tristan forked a piece of egg off his plate and bent down, holding it just above Biscuit’s nose.
"She gets flexible diets year-round," he noted.
Biscuit didn’t even wait for permission. She snatched the egg delicately, tail thumping twice more.
Felix chuckled under his breath, wiping down the counter. "Can’t argue that."
Halfway through the meal, Barbara slid her phone closer. "Want to see what your fans are doing this morning?"
Tristan glanced at her over his coffee. "Should I be scared?"
"You should always be scared." Barbara teased, tapping open Twitter. "You’re trending worldwide. Tristan Hale. Panenka Pen. Leicester 4-3 Arsenal. Happy Anniversary. And..." She paused, grinning. "Fans arguing about our ship names."
Tristan leaned back, already bracing himself. "Oh no."
Barbara started scrolling, reading aloud. "‘Tristan and Barbara are giving Beckham and Posh a run for their money.’"
Tristan shook his head. "That’s a high bar."
Barbara kept going. "‘That Panenka wasn’t just for Leicester — it was for Barbara. You can’t change my mind.’"
Felix chuckled quietly from the stove.
Barbara scrolled further. "We’ve got Trabara, Barstan, BlueRoyals, Halevin, and..." She paused, trying not to laugh, "HaleBara."
Tristan made a face. "Trabara sounds like a budget airline. Barstan sounds like a midfielder from the 1960s. And HaleBara... we are not doing that one."
Soma didn’t even look up from her tablet. "BlueRoyals is too Chelsea. Halevin sounds like an accounting firm."
Barbara tapped her lip, thoughtful. "So... none of the above?"
Tristan leaned in, mock serious. "None."
Barbara scrolled again, eyes lighting up. "Here’s another one. BlueHearts. Because of Leicester. And... well." She twirled the promise ring on her finger.
Tristan smiled softly. "That one’s not bad."
"It’s clean. Not cringey."
Soma nodded without looking up. "That’s the one."
Biscuit let out a sharp yip from under the table. Her tail wagged furiously. Whump-whump-whump.
"She votes BlueHearts too," Barbara announced proudly.
Tristan shook his head in mock defeat. He grabbed Barbara’s phone, opened Twitter, and typed:
"#BlueHearts it is. People, we are using this ship name if we must.”
He paused, then added a second tweet:
"P.S. Biscuit demands royalties."
Barbara burst out laughing. "You’re such an idiot."
Biscuit, hearing the laughter, stood on her hind legs and planted her front paws on Tristan’s thigh. Her tongue lolled out, tail still going strong.
"I’m not giving you more eggs," Tristan warned.
Biscuit barked again trying to look cute.
Tristan sighed. "You negotiate like your mum."
He forked down a small piece of egg. Biscuit snatched it delicately from his hand, then gave a proud little wuff and settled back down, clearly victorious.
Soma sighed from her spot. "You’re setting a terrible precedent."
Tristan shrugged, unbothered.
Just as Barbara was about to pull up another post—
Ding dong.
The doorbell.
Biscuit’s head snapped up instantly. Wuff! Wuff! She bolted toward the hallway, nails skittering against the tile.
Barbara frowned, sliding off her chair. "Who’s at the door this early?"
Tristan checked his phone. No texts. No deliveries scheduled.
Before either of them could react, the doorbell rang again—this time longer.
Then a familiar voice, slightly muffled:
"It’s Sophia. And you two better not still be naked."
Barbara blinked. "Oh."
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "What now?"
The front door swung open with a soft click.
"Morning," Sophia called out, heels tapping lightly against the hardwood. Phone in one hand, sunglasses pushed up on her head. "Please tell me you’re not just waking up."
Barbara smiled sheepishly. "It’s not even nine."
"I know." Sophia stepped into the kitchen, glancing between them. "Just making sure you didn’t forget. Elle UK cover shoot’s at ten."
Barbara froze for half a second. "Right. No. We didn’t forget."
Sophia’s eyes flicked to Tristan who was looking away. "Did she sleep?"
"Yes, we slept," Tristan replied, looking down at his plate.
Sophia gave a noncommittal shrug, then glanced toward the hallway. "Is John here yet?"
"Not yet," Tristan said, texting John to hurry up. "But he’s coming.”
Sophia didn’t argue. "Good. I like having him around. Keeps the creepy assistants in line."
.
From the hallway, Biscuit gave another bark. Wuff! Then trotted back into the kitchen, tail wagging like she agreed.
Barbara chuckled, brushing her hand along Biscuit’s back as the little dog circled her feet.
Sophia leaned against the island. "Anyway, we’ll head out once John gets here. Driver’s waiting."
Barbara nodded. "I’ll grab my bag."
As she turned toward the bedroom, Tristan caught her wrist gently. "You’ll text when you’re on set?"
Barbara smiled. "Yes." She said, leaning up to kiss him quickly.
Sophia pretended not to watch, though her lips twitched. "Alright, lovebirds. Wrap it up. We’ve got work to do."
A minute later, Barbara disappeared down the hallway with Biscuit trailing behind her. Tristan grabbed his phone again, double-checking John’s ETA. The man was rarely late. Which Tristan liked. Especially now.
Sophia gave him a quick glance. "You worry too much."
Tristan shrugged, not denying it. "She’s got a lot on her plate. I like knowing she’s safe."
Sophia’s eyes softened. "She’s in good hands."
The front door buzzed again. Biscuit let out a small, excited yip! and ran back to the hallway.
Tristan opened the door. "John."
John nodded in his usual calm way. "Morning. Ready?"
Barbara appeared a second later, pulling on her jacket. "Now we are."
Tristan leaned down, scratching Biscuit behind the ears. "Be good. No runway debuts today."
Biscuit gave a soft, unhappy whuff, ears flattening slightly.
Barbara smiled. "She’ll survive a few hours without me."
Tristan wasn’t so sure.
Sophia gathered her things. "Alright. Let’s move."
Barbara kissed Tristan one more time at the door. "See you soon."
With that, she disappeared out into the morning with Sophia and John.
As the door closed, Tristan exhaled slowly. The house felt quieter now. Even Biscuit seemed to notice. She wandered back to his side, pressing her small head against his ankle.
"I know, girl," Tristan murmured, scooping her up. "I miss her already too."
He carried Biscuit back to the kitchen, setting her gently on the chair Barbara had been sitting on.
"Alright," he said, stretching his arms out with a groan. "Let’s check the damage."
He grabbed his phone.
Group chat already blowing up.
Vardy: GOALS IN SEVEN CONSECUTIVE GAMES. KING VARDY. 🔥
Mahrez: calm down mate 😂
Ben Chilwell: Someone tell Tristan he’s slacking.
Danny Drinkwater: Captain Hale, you’ve been outscored by Vardy. Thoughts?
Kanté: 👀
Tristan chuckled, typing quickly.
Tristan: I deliver iconic moments, not just numbers. You can’t make edits out of tap-ins.
Vardy is typing…
Vardy: A tap-in is still a goal, buddy
Biscuit gave a soft bark, tilting her head like she wanted in on the banter.
Tristan patted her. "What do you think? Should I remind them who assisted five of those seven goals?"
Biscuit yipped once. Definitive.
"That’s what I thought."
Then, almost on instinct, Tristan opened Twitter. Just to see. He couldn’t help himself, he had a hate-love relationship with the app.
Tristan leaned back, scrolling through the notifications now filling his screen. Twitter was twittering with a few stuff trending related to him.
Trending:
— Tristan Hale
— Panenka Pen
— Leicester 4-3 Arsenal
— BlueHearts
— Can Leicester win the league?
He scrolled further. Tweets flying in faster than he could refresh.
@Tanay: Hale’s Panenka wasn’t just for Leicester. It was for Barbara. You can’t change my mind.
@Silvers: Tristan Hale — 10 goals, 8 assists in 7 games. Most goal involvements in Europe. Tristan isn’t chasing history, dude is breaking his own records from last season. What are those numbers?
@TristanXBarbara: That Panenka was cold. But Barbara’s reaction was colder. #BlueHearts supremacy.
@Summerstood: When you realise Hale already out-assisted Hazard’s entire 14/15 season by September.
@BBCSport: Leicester City: 27 goals scored. Tristan involved in 18. Unbeaten. Just wow.
Of course former players and friends of Tristan had to get their reactions out.
@davidbeckham: "Panenka. 96th minute. Just wow.
@franklampard: Kid might break his own assist record from last season. Save some from us, man.
@stevengerrard: 10 goals. 8 assists. 7 games. What I am looking at.
He replied to those three before looking through the memes.
The best meme so far sat pinned to the top of his feed.
"Hale’s numbers this season:
10G + 8A (7 games)
Hazard 14/15 ENTIRE season: 14G + 9A
We are witnessing history. There are levels to this.
Tristan let out a quiet breath, thumb pausing over the screen.
From the chair, Biscuit let out a soft wuff, ears twitching.
He reached down, ruffling her fur. "You’re right," he murmured. "We’re making history, girl."
Biscuit barked softly, tail thumping once against the chair.
"And I’ve still got Vardy to humble in training this week."
Her tail thumped twice more. Like she agreed.
Soma stood, tucking her iPad under one arm. "Alright. I’m off. Your next two weeks are all scheduled. Felix and I already synced it. Call if you have any questions."
Tristan nodded from the couch. She grabbed her bag and paused to pat Biscuit’s head. "Guard the house."
Biscuit gave a quiet wuff — small but proud. A very serious little soldier.
Felix wiped his hands on a dish towel. "I’ll head out too. Market run. Should be back before lunch."
"Thanks, mate," Tristan said before
The door clicked shut behind them.
.
Tristan stretched out across the couch, Biscuit curled against his side like a warm loaf of bread. Her head rested on his arm, tail giving the occasional lazy thump against his ribs.
The TV was running One Piece, they were watching one of the episode of the Skyepia arc.
Zoro and Sanji were shouting at each other.
"You’re team Zoro, aren’t you?" Tristan murmured.
Biscuit gave a low wuff. Agreement.
He smiled, scratching gently behind her ear. "Good choice."
But after a hour or two, he grabbed the remote.
"As much as I love these idiots..." He glanced down at Biscuit. "I want to hear people talk about me now."
Click.
The channel flipped to Sky Sports Super Sunday.
David Jones at the host chair. Gary Neville on his right. Jamie Carragher leaning back, arms folded. Thierry Henry looking good as ever, suit immaculate. And Graeme Souness was just there.
Tristan’s eyes narrowed slightly at Carragher, but his expression softened when he spotted Henry.
"Oh, Henry’s on. We like him," Tristan told Biscuit.
Biscuit tilted her head, ears perked.
"And we’ll ignore Carragher," Tristan added, gripping the remote like he might mute him at any moment. "He talked bad about momma."
Biscuit gave a quiet wuff, tail thumping once in full agreement.
The broadcast music faded out.
David Jones tapped his notes against the desk. "Let’s start with the obvious. Leicester four. Arsenal three. An absolute thriller yesterday."
Thierry Henry leaned forward, fingers laced together. "It had everything. Goals. Drama. Quality." His tone was calm but you could still hear the disappointment. "Arsenal didn’t play badly. But Leicester were fearless. That was the difference."
He nodded slightly toward Carragher and Neville. "And Tristan…" A faint smile. "Didn’t just have a good game. He had a historic one."
Tristan’s lips twitched. "Good start."
David nodded. "Two goals. One assist. Including that Panenka in the 96th minute."
Henry smiled wider now. "Ice-cold. Most young players—ninety-sixth minute, tie game? They pick a corner and hope. He went for the Panenka. That’s not arrogance. That’s confidence. Mature confidence."
Neville crossed his arms. "It’s not just big moments now. It’s consistency. That’s what separates young talent from world-class players."
Carragher leaned forward slightly, hands open. "Brilliant player. No question."
His eyes flicked toward Henry. "But let’s be fair—Arsenal’s defending was poor. Mertesacker got burned. Monreal lost his shape. That helped."
Henry shook his head firmly. "No. Leicester made them look that way. That’s what top teams do."
Souness added quietly, "Movement. Tempo. Leicester played like a team expecting to win. Not hoping to."
David tapped his tablet. The graphic filled the screen.
Leicester City — 2015/16 Premier League (7 Games)
Goals Scored: 27
Goals Conceded: 7
Undefeated — 6 Wins, 1 Draw (vs Spurs)
Top Scorers:
Tristan — 10 Goals / 8 Assists (Average Rating: 9.1)
Vardy — 10 Goals
Mahrez — 2 Goals / 5 Assists
Kanté — 1 Goal / 1 Assist / 89% Tackle Success
Man of the Match Awards:
Tristan — 5
Vardy — 1
Kante — 1
Neville gave a soft whistle. "That’s elite. Not just for a 20-year-old. For any player."
Carragher nodded. "I’m not doubting Tristan. I’ve said it before—he’s the real deal. My worry’s always been the squad depth, not him. You can never question Tristan’s talent and ability.”
Henry grinned, looking between them. "That’s a first, Jamie."
Carragher smirked. "I’ve been wrong before. Not about Leicester yet, though."
Neville leaned forward, tone cautious. "We have to talk about the consistency. Last season was a breakout. This?" He shook his head. "This is dominance."
David clicked another stat screen.
All Competitions — September 27, 2015
Messi — 6 Goals / 4 Assists
Cristiano Ronaldo — 8 Goals / 2 Assists
Tristan — 17 Goals / 13 Assists
Henry let out a breath. "He’s outproducing Messi and Ronaldo. In a Leicester shirt. At twenty years old."
Neville nodded. "And he’s not riding a superteam. He’s carrying a very good one."
Carragher, softer now: "To be honest, he’s doing things we’ve not really seen at this age. And he’s done it two seasons running."
Souness tilted his head. "And don’t overlook the others. Vardy’s lethal. Mahrez is unpredictable. Kanté..."
He pointed to the stats. "That man’s a machine."
Henry’s face brightened. "Kanté should already be in the French squad. His numbers don’t tell the story. He’s everywhere. Starting attacks. Cleaning up. He’s their heartbeat."
Neville smiled faintly. "He’s made Leicester’s midfield stronger than some of the traditional ‘big six.’ I don’t say that lightly."
Carragher shrugged. "My worry’s still the depth. One or two injuries, things can fall apart."
Henry leaned back. "You’ve said that since last Christmas, Jamie."
Neville chuckled. "And January. And August."
Carragher grinned. "And I’ll keep saying it. It’s a valid concern."
David raised a hand. "Alright. Ceiling time. Thierry—what’s possible for Tristan if he stays healthy?"
Henry didn’t even pause. "Forget this season. Forget next season. If he continues like this, we’ll stop comparing him to current players. We’ll start comparing him to history’s best."
He counted on his fingers. "Zidane. Ronaldinho. Messi. Ronaldo. Madonna. Pele Not just for numbers. For how he changes games."
Neville nodded slowly. "And he’s doing it already. Not in flashes—every week."
Souness leaned forward. "And without a safety net. No Barcelona. No Madrid. Just Leicester City."
David smiled slightly. "Speaking of teams. The FIFPro ballots went out last week."
Neville chuckled. "Still get mine. Players are voting soon."
Carragher raised an eyebrow. "You’re voting for him, aren’t you?"
Neville nodded. "Without a doubt. And from what I’ve heard at Carrington—and a few Liverpool lads, sorry Jamie—he’s on every ballot."
Henry leaned in, grinning. "He should be. Not just in the Team of the Year conversation. He’s the first name on the list."
Souness added, "And if he keeps this up? He’ll sweep Player of the Month again. At this rate, he could take all of them."
Carragher huffed but smiled. "I won’t argue that."
Neville, almost serious now: "And honestly? The question isn’t if he’ll keep it up. It’s which teams can figure him out."
David nodded. "City? United? Spurs?"
Carragher scratched his chin. "City’s depth could slow them down. United’s defence has been better this year. But none of them have stopped him so far."
Henry shrugged. "Because he’s unstoppable. Simple."
David leaned forward. "So. Final thoughts. What can Leicester really win this season?"
Henry: "Premier League title."
Neville: "Top four minimum. Title’s possible, but they’ll need to stay healthy."
Souness: "If they’re still leading at Christmas—I’ll back them fully."
Carragher: "I back Tristan. But I still think Leicester will fade. Not him. The team."
Henry smiled coldly. "You’ve doubted them since last year. Since last month. Since last week. You’ll doubt them in May too."
Neville laughed under his breath. "And every time, he proves you wrong."
David sat back. "Whatever happens, we are watching something special. Tristan isn’t just playing. He’s changing the league."
On the couch, Tristan stretched his legs out. "Listen to Thierry, Biscuit. He’s the only one who knows what he’s talking about."
Biscuit’s tail thumped softly.
The screen faded to highlights of the week.
.
September 28th, 2015 — Belvoir Drive
The squad had trickled in after recovery. The big room smelled faintly of grass and eucalyptus from the ice baths. Most were in training kits or casual wear now, scattered across the couches and armchairs.
Ben Chilwell was flipping through a copy of FourFourTwo. Danny Simpson and Christian Fuchs were trading banter by the coffee machine. Schmeichel had his legs up on the table, reading over his notes from Arsenal’s match. Mahrez and Albrighton were playing FIFA quietly in the corner.
Tristan sat near the center, Biscuit curled by his feet on a blanket someone had thoughtfully laid out. She was with him as Barbara was busy in London again. Wes Morgan, Drinkwater, and Andy King sat close by, stretching or scrolling their phones. Vardy had a protein shake in one hand, phone in the other.
"Right," Vardy started, looking around. "Before we talk about anything else... Morgan, you owe us dinner for that defensive header you bottled."
Laughter went around.
Wes sighed. "If I bought you lot dinner every time I made up for your missed tackles, I’d be bankrupt."
"Fair," Simpson called from across the room.
But the mood wasn’t just jokes. Fuchs set down his coffee. "Jokes aside—we did let in three yesterday. We have to tighten up. Especially on set pieces."
Wes nodded. "We’ve been saying that. We’re good at chasing leads, but if we stop conceding, we don’t have to chase at all."
Mahrez paused his FIFA game. "And we need to keep rotations tighter on the press. First half, we left Kante too exposed."
Kanté, sitting quietly with his arms folded, just gave a small smile. "Don’t mind. But it’s true."
Tristan leaned forward, elbows on knees. "I want us to work on the quick restart passes too. Couple times yesterday, we had them on the back foot, and I think we hesitated."
"Agreed," Schmeichel said immediately. "Especially second balls. If you and Riyad are on the break, I’m pushing the ball out quicker."
Ben finally spoke up, setting down his magazine. "And while we’re all talking about improvements..." He grinned. "FIFPro ballots are out."
Vardy groaned. "Ugh. Don’t remind me."
"I already saw the forms this morning," Ben went on. "Coaches want them done by tomorrow. And before anyone says it—we’re all voting Tristan."
Danny Simpson pointed. "Called it. Knew someone would bring it up."
Mahrez laughed. "Obviously voting Tristan. No discussion."
Andy King nodded. "He’ll win Player of the Month again anyway. Might as well start stacking the FIFPro votes now."
Schmeichel raised an eyebrow. "Anyone not voting for him?"
Silence.
Vardy shrugged. "I thought about voting for myself, but then I remembered the Panenka."
Even Fuchs chuckled at that.
Chilwell leaned over to Tristan. "The academy lads are asking how they can vote too. I told them they have to wait a few years."
Inler shouted out. "If Biscuit could vote, she would."
Tristan rubbed his face. "You lot are ridiculous." But his voice was warm. "Don’t vote for me just because we’re teammates."
"You think we’re voting for you out of pity?" Vardy said, mock offended. "Mate, the whole dressing room would riot if you didn’t make the World XI this year."
Mahrez leaned back. "You out-assisted Hazard last season. Now you’re out-producing Messi and Ronaldo. No one’s being biased."
Drinkwater grinned. "We’re biased. But we’re also right."
Laughter rippled again.
Biscuit gave a small yip, tail thumping gently against Tristan’s foot like she agreed.
Just as the laughter started to settle, the lounge door swung open.
Paolo Benetti stepped in, tablet in hand, training jacket zipped up halfway. "Alright, enough joking. We’ve got work to do."
The room quieted. Even Biscuit perked up, head lifting from Tristan’s foot.
Paolo glanced around, eyes sharp. "Europa League. Lazio away. October first. Three days." He raised the tablet. "Video analysis starts after lunch. Defensive shape is the priority."
Vardy groaned, flopping back against the couch. "More defending? I thought we were attackers now."
"Everyone defends," Paolo shot back smoothly. "Even you, Jamie."
"We’ve done brilliantly," Paolo continued, eyes scanning the squad, "but this is where teams start adjusting to us. Lazio will press. They’ll target the midfield."
Mahrez nudged Vardy. "They’ll also be busy trying to stop Tristan."
Vardy grinned. "Good luck to them."
Ben Chilwell added, "They might want to stop you and Riyad too, you know."
"Don’t flatter him," Drinkwater muttered.
Mahrez raised both hands. "Hey, if anyone’s getting FIFPro votes besides Tristan, it’s me."
Vardy snorted. "You? It’s obviously me. Seven in seven, remember?"
"Ten in seven," Tristan corrected, voice dry.
The whole room laughed—again.
Paolo just shook his head, smiling faintly despite himself. "Keep the ego for the pitch, boys. See you all in the video room."
He turned, but before he left, he nodded at Tristan. "Oh—and congrats again on the Player of the Month. We all know how that’s going to end."
As the door swung shut behind him, Biscuit gave a soft, satisfied wuff.
Tristan leaned back, stretching his legs out. "You hear that, girl? More videos. More running."
Her tail thumped once. Unimpressed.
He rose slowly, tossing his water bottle into the nearby bin. Most of the lads were still lounging, but a few were starting to gather their things.
From across the room, Mahrez called out with a grin, "You ready for Lazio?"
Tristan shrugged one shoulder, casual as ever. "Yep. They should be fun unless they pull another Newcastle.”
Vardy looked up from his phone. "You gonna stat-pad again or give someone else a chance?"
Tristan smirked. "Maybe. Depends how many they send to mark me."
"Three minimum," Drinkwater muttered. "And it still won’t be enough."
Tristan glanced at the whiteboard, where Lazio – Oct 1 (A) was already circled in red.
"Good," he said, more to himself than anyone else. "Let 'em come."
Biscuit trotted beside him as he walked off toward the hallway, her little paws tapping quietly against the tile.
The conversation behind him faded into the usual hum.
.
Hope you guys like this chapter
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks for the chapter
Cobalt
Trabara sounds somewhere between an Asian holiday and the next kaiju godzilla and kong have to curbstomp
