Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 180: Brick by Brick
🕑 Added 2025-04-18 13:12:46 +0000 UTCThe final whistle had gone, but the match still lingered on the pitch.
Boots dragged over torn grass. Shirts clung to backs, soaked and heavy. Thirty-five thousand voices softened into quiet applause. Just the sound of a stadium catching its breath.
Schlupp was the first to move. He bumped knuckles with Kyle Walker near the touchline, both of them too winded to speak. Walker exhaled and gave him a half-shrug.
“Didn’t expect that from you,” he muttered.
Schlupp gave a tired smile. “Didn’t expect that goal either.”
Fuchs tapped Eriksen on the shoulder as they crossed paths. “That ending, yeah?”
Eriksen nodded, still dazed. “What do you even do against that?”
“Hope it’s not you on the highlight reel,” Fuchs said, shaking his head.
At midfield, Huth clapped Dier on the back — hard enough to make the younger man wince.
“You alright?”
Dier breathed through his teeth. “He made me dizzy, what a bastard.”
“Don’t worry,” Huth said. “That just means you’re human. Tristan isn’t like the rest of us.”
Kanté jogged across the pitch with the same energy he’d started with, shaking hands with everyone. Alli slowed him with a hand on the arm.
“How do you move like that?”
Kanté paused, tilted his head slightly. “I run.”
Alli huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Not normal, mate.” He offered a quick handshake. Kanté took it.
On the sideline, Mahrez waited with Simpson and Albrighton, watching Tristan move toward Kane.
“Here he goes,” Albrighton said.
“Careful,” Mahrez muttered. “You know he’s gonna say something reckless.”
Simpson scratched his neck. “Please just let it be off-camera.”
Tristan stepped up to Kane.
They shook hands.
Then Tristan leaned in slightly — hand raised to cover his mouth, voice low.
“Bro,” he muttered. “You can’t win shit here. Leave Spurs. Come to Leicester. Or somewhere. Just not here.”
Kane’s eyebrows barely moved. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. But he didn’t pull away either.
“You’re not serious.”
Tristan tilted his head. “Dead serious. You’re wasting your prime. And I’m tired of embarrassing you.”
He really was serious; he wanted to help Kane leave Spurs earlier in his career; he didn’t want England’s best striker wasting his years at a club like the Spurs. Hell, he would win more trophies coming to Leicester.
Kane’s expression didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes flickered.
Tristan gave a glance toward Alli, now stretching and sipping water near the sideline.
“And your boy over there?” he added. “Tell him to keep training. He’s special. Just don’t let him get comfortable.”
Kane nodded once. “You’ve got nerve saying that. But Ali, he’s different, man; talent just comes to him.”
Tristan grinned behind his hand. “You’ll thank me later. But when you two get called up for the national team, I'll see what I can do, who knows what he can do under train me.”
Kane shook his head, smiling.
Across the field, Pochettino and Ranieri met near the halfway line.
Ranieri extended a hand first. “Your boys were sharp. Well-organized.”
Pochettino took it with a tired nod. “Not good enough. Honestly…” He let out a breath. “Whatever you’ve done to this Leicester side—it’s not the same team we prepped for. We had a plan, and by the end, it was rubble.”
Ranieri chuckled, shaking his head. “You and me both, my friend. I’m still figuring out who we are some days.”
Pochettino gave a small smile. “Well, if that’s the case, I hope you don’t figure it out too soon.”
..
Tristan stood near the touchline, boots still crusted in grass, the bottom of his kit soaked through with sweat. A small blue cylinder — Man of the Match — was already in his hand, thumb tracing over the etched Premier League logo without thinking.
Behind him, the Sky Sports board stood tall. Mic clipped to his collar. Hair damp, curls stuck to his forehead. The crowd was still humming in the background — not full volume anymore, but loud enough that it felt like they hadn’t really left.
Geoff Shreeves stepped into frame with a smile and a practiced nod to the cameraman.
“Full-time here at the King Power — Leicester City 2, Spurs 2,” he said, tone steady. “A game full of grit, fire, and one flash of absolute brilliance.”
He turned slightly toward Tristan.
“And I’m joined now by tonight’s Man of the Match — Tristan Hale.”
Tristan nodded once. Jaw set. Hands behind his back.
Geoff didn’t wait.
“Let’s start with the obvious,” he said. “Eighty-eighth minute. Two defenders. Tight angle. No backlift. Walk us through it.”
Tristan looked down for a second. The kind of pause where your mind still sees it — frame by frame. Then he looked back up and let out a short breath of a laugh.
“I saw Dier step,” he said. “He’d been on me all game, so I figured… bait him. Then Vertonghen tried to block the line, but I just dragged it across and let it go. I didn’t think. Just did it. Heard the net. Heard the crowd.”
Geoff nodded.
“You’ve scored from distance before. But that one — the way you moved through the box, the finish — that felt different. Did it feel different?”
Tristan gave a small smile — not wide, just enough.
“They’re all different,” he said. “But yeah. That one… I might watch that one back later.”
Geoff let the pause breathe.
“And after full-time, we caught you speaking to Harry Kane. Looked like something serious. Anything you want to share?”
Tristan raised his hand, swatted the air lightly.
“Just footballer stuff,” he said. “You know how it is.”
Geoff chuckled.
“Of course. Last one — this result, this fightback… does it feel like Leicester are turning a corner this season?”
Tristan didn’t answer right away.
He looked up — not at Geoff, but at the crowd. At the flags. The kids leaning over barriers. The ones still singing.
Then he turned back.
“We’re not turning anything,” he said. “We’re laying bricks. Building something new. Game by game. Moment by moment. That’s the plan.”
Geoff gave a quiet nod.
“Well said. Congratulations again. Man of the Match — Tristan Hale.”
..
Tristan stepped off the Sky Sports platform. A few fans above the tunnel were waving — kids mostly, voices cracked from shouting all match. One of them yelled his name again.
He raised a hand in reply.
Inside the tunnel, the noise dropped — the kind of silence that rang in your ears after ninety minutes of chaos.
Players were already peeling off into their respective dressing rooms. Trainers waiting.
Media crew shifting past. Security directing the flow.
A voice echoed behind him.
“You looked like Torres for a second there.”
Tristan glanced back.
Schmeichel.
Tristan smirked. “Was aiming for Henry, actually.”
Schmeichel laughed and clapped him on the back. “Then remind me never to let you take a shot at me in training.”
Whilst the players were enjoying their freedom, the two managers were out dealing with the media.
..
The media room wasn’t full, but it buzzed. Fingers tapping. Phones recording. A few mutters between seats. Cameras were already fixed to the podium before Mauricio Pochettino even walked in.
He stepped through the side door, blazer still crisp, but the weight under his eyes said everything. No fury. No excuses. Just the look of a man still replaying a goal in his head.
He sat, adjusted the mic slightly, and nodded once toward the front row.
The press officer didn’t bother with introductions. Just leaned in and said,
“Questions for Mauricio, please raise your hand.”
First hand up, second row. “Mauricio, that equalizer — is that a breakdown from your side or just one of those moments?”
Pochettino took a breath.
“Both,” he said. “That goal… you don’t coach that. Tristan Hale — the way he took it, the footwork, the strike — it’s instinct. Pure instinct. One of the best goals I’ve seen live.”
He paused.
“But we lost control before that. We sat too deep after we scored. Tried to protect the lead instead of finishing the game. That’s something we’ll need to fix.”
Another voice near the aisle.
“Do you think your players underestimated Leicester?”
Pochettino gave a tired smile.
“I think they learned fast. That midfield — Drinkwater, Kanté, Tristan — it’s a machine. It’s not just athleticism. It’s chemistry. They don’t panic. They keep moving, they keep asking questions.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“And Kanté… he was everywhere. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone cover that much ground and still look fresh after 90 minutes. He was a massive reason we couldn’t find rhythm.”
Another hand.
“Dier vs Tristan. Thoughts?”
Pochettino shrugged lightly.
“Dier worked. He followed instructions. Pressed high, stayed close. But you can’t hold Tristan for ninety minutes. He doesn’t just move — he waits. He watches. You step wrong once, he’s gone. That goal — Dier did everything right. It didn’t matter.”
A pause.
“Same with Vardy. Mahrez. They move like they’ve played together for ten years. When that ball went to Tristan… they already knew where he’d go. That’s hard to stop.”
Last one. “If you were rating players tonight — who stood out?”
Pochettino exhaled through his nose, then gave a small nod.
“For us? Kane. Scored. Worked hard. 7. Dier — gave everything. Another 7. Lloris — made two massive saves. Maybe an 8. Eriksen… not his best today but I can’t fault him for it.”
He sat back, arms folding across his chest.
“Leicester?”
He smiled faintly. “Vardy, 8. Schlupp made a difference off the bench — maybe a 7.5. Kanté, 9. Just unreal.” Then he shook his head slightly. “And Tristan? Even if he didn’t score that… still a 10.”
He glanced around the room once more.
“That’s all.”
Then he stood up, gave the table a polite tap with his hand, and left the room without another word.
..
By the time , Tristan made it back home, it was already quite late,
Tristan stepped inside, dragging one boot off with the other before he even reached the hallway.
He tossed his bag by the bench. Kicked the second boot off. Then just stood there for a moment.
Quiet.
Not even Biscuit’s usual bark or paws skittering on the floorboards.
Right. She was in L.A.
Barbara too. And Sofia.
Gone for five days now — final photoshoots, final appearances, the end of a long and stubborn contract.
They FaceTimed after the game but she was busy and he was busy after the game.
Now it was still.
Tristan wandered into the living room, collapsing backward onto the couch without bothering to turn the lights on.
He set it on the table, then exhaled into the silence.
Tristan sat up slowly, elbows on his knees. The match already felt like it belonged to another day.
He blinked once.
Then called it.
"System."
There was no sound. There never was. Just the familiar flicker — like something sliding into focus behind his eyes.
The overlay appeared, faintly glowing against the living room darkness.
[Name] – Tristan Hale
[Age] – 20
[Team] – Leicester City
Attributes:
SHO: A
PAS: A
DRI: B+++ → ▲
PAC: B++
DEF: C++++
PHY: B+++ → ▲▲
Dribbling: Upgraded again. The last few weeks had built toward it, but that run against Spurs — weaving through Dier, Vertonghen, and Walker like they weren’t even synced to the same frame rate — that sealed it.
Physicality: Two whole pluses. He could feel it too. His balance. His shielding. The way he rode contact without flinching. Those shoulder checks that used to shake him? Now they bounced off.
He exhaled through his nose smiling.
Below the attributes, the second panel blinked open:
[Auxiliary Cards]
• Anti-Injury Cards (x2)
• Minor Injury Prevention (x4)
• Stamina Recovery Cards (x3)
• Training XP Boosters (x1)
[Templates]
• Kevin De Bruyne
• Federico Valverde
• Fernando Torres
• Alisson Becker
• Jadon Sancho
He hovered mentally over the Fernando Torres template for a moment.
That goal? That strike?
That was a page torn straight from El Niño’s prime.
He leaned back again, arms draped over the cushions, eyes tracing the numbers in the air.
He already used 2 of the training XP boosters over the summer, and they just ended a week ago, resulting in the improvements. But he still didn’t feel satisfied.
Tristan stayed on the couch long after the system faded.
The adrenaline was gone. The noise was gone. Now just a slow hum in his chest and the weight of a match that had already been chewed apart by cameras and commentary.
He grabbed his phone off the table. Face ID flicked open. No new messages. Just one from Barbara hours ago — “Landed. All good.Love you.”
He opened Instagram.
Then Twitter.
The app loaded in a blur of match clips, fan edits, and side-by-sides of his goal against Spurs next to a Torres strike from 2008. One had a filter slapped over it with the caption:
TRISTAN HALE IS HIM.
He liked it. Quietly. Then kept scrolling.
Another clip — this one from Sky Sports — showed Ranieri chuckling at the post-match presser. “Still figuring out who we are,” the caption quoted. Tristan smirked.
Then he paused.
A trending topic flicked across the screen:
#MourinhoOut
He tapped the screen.
The video loaded in seconds — grainy sideline footage from Stamford Bridge. Mourinho, coat flying, marching down the touchline and screaming at Eva Carneiro and Jon Fearn as they rushed onto the pitch. His voice was distorted in the clip, but the outrage was still fresh — even now, weeks later.
The match was chaos. Chelsea had gone down to ten. Hazard had gone down injured. The medics had sprinted on. Mourinho had lost his mind.
It had exploded online.
Apparently, it hadn’t stopped.
The feed was still burning.
@LdnJake:Mourinho was actually more mad at his doctors for doing their jobs than his midfield for getting overrun by Swansea 😭
@Aee: “You’re impulsive. You embarrass me.”
This was the quote that made Eva pack her things and never look back. I’d do the same. Glad shes suing the team, get your money, girl.
@SG: Mourinho tanked his relationship with half the dressing room just to flex on a club doctor. Peak José.
@Lucas: Hazard hasn’t smiled since this day. That whole dressing room never recovered.
@Mark_11: Never forget Mourinho suspended her. Not a warning. Not a fine. Suspended. For helping a player.
Tristan’s thumb hovered over a clip — one of José pacing back and forth, barking into the void while the commentary replayed it frame-by-frame like a VAR incident.
“She shouldn’t have gone on,” Mourinho had said in the post-match. “Even if you’re a doctor… you have to understand the game.”
Tristan blinked.
He scrolled.
@Drazna: United board watching this meltdown like: 👀 “Yup. That’s our man.”
Elite chaos. Sign him up.
The club hadn’t officially fired Carneiro yet. But everyone knew it was over. She’d been sidelined, removed from matchday duties, and the PR machine was spinning so fast you could hear the gears cracking.
He’s losing the locker room, Tristan thought. You could always tell when José started blaming the wrong people. That wasn’t leadership. That was insecurity.
And United were actually dumb enough to hand him the keys next summer…
He tapped open his messages as he just had a lightbulb go off in his head.
Scrolled until he found Mendes and typed out a message incase Mendes somehow forgot what he told them. You can never be safe with agents.
“Like I said before, don't talk to United, I have no interest in them.”
..
2600
Sorry for the short chapter, but I have finals coming up so I have to lock in for that.
.
