Sinbad
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Chapter 183: Let Them Play
🕑 Added 2025-04-21 19:57:42 +0000 UTCAugust 25, 2015 – Morning
The house was quiet except for the distant clink of cutlery and the soft hum of a muted TV in the background — One Piece. Tristan stood barefoot in the kitchen, nursing a cup of juice with one hand and lazily flipping through his phone with the other. His curls were still half-damp from the shower, and he wore a loose grey shirt with the sleeves pushed to his elbows.
Sofia sat across the island table, laptop open, glasses on, and a half-eaten protein bar on the napkin next to her.
“Alright,” she said, scrolling through an email, “your mural has officially gone global. Hungary picked it up. Brazil posted it. There’s a Chinese fanpage doing time-lapse edits with dramatic piano music.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow without looking up. “The dramatic piano makes it art.”
“You are art,” she deadpanned. “Just ask the three fan accounts that said they’d lick your boots if they could find them on eBay.”
Sofia tapped her keyboard again. “Nike’s buzzing, by the way. They want to finalize the deal before the international break. They’re already planning the press release to drop right after.”
Tristan set his mug down.
“Let’s do it after Bournemouth.”
Sofia looked up. “The event?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Mural’s done, team’s reset, pressure’s back. Feels right.”
“You sure?” she asked, more softly now.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll sign it.”
Sofia gave him one last look, then nodded.
“Alright. I’ll let them know — Saturday it is.”
She turned her laptop slightly and started typing again, fingers flying across the keys like she’d been waiting for that green light all week.
“They’re gonna be thrilled,” she said, half to herself. “Might even push to open it up more now.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Open it up how?”
Sofia didn’t stop typing. “More press. Bigger space. And a few bigger names.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Names?”
She glanced at him from above her screen, like she was deciding how much to reveal. She didn’t want to get his hopes least it be crushed. “One of the Nike reps floated Ronaldo. Maybe Neymar. I heard Kobe as well.Depends on flights and timing.”
Tristan blinked once. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” she said. “They know what you mean to this market. If the numbers keep trending like this, they’ll turn it into a full Nike athlete summit.”
He let out a quiet breath. “That’s a lot.”
“You asked for it,” Sofia replied, closing her laptop with a soft click. “Mural’s done. Deal’s almost done. Now it’s just one more thing.”
She looked at him.
“Deliver again.”
Tristan exhaled, letting the words settle.
Kobe doesn’t sound that bad, he thought. He’d wanted to catch a Lakers game when they were in L.A., but there hadn’t been any home fixtures.
He’d already met Ronaldo. Neymar too. But Kobe?
He met plenty of football stars, but outside of that, he really didn’t meet any; he made sure to stay out of parties and events filled with them unless it was needed like for his sponsors and for Barbara.
Outside of that, zero. So meeting Kobe and having him be there for his own event was pretty nice to hear.
..
Later that Morning
His phone buzzed on the counter.
Love ❤️
📸 1 Image
Tristan tapped the screen. It was a photo — split down the middle. One side showed the Wembley mural, the other the new one: him, arms stretched wide, blue kit catching the morning light, gold letters shining like a crown.
He stared at it for a second.
Then came the FaceTime call.
He wiped his hand dry on his shirt and picked up.
Barbara’s face filled the screen, framed by sunlight through gauzy hotel curtains. She was curled up on white sheets, one shoulder bare, hair loose and messy. She looked like she’d just woken up — and didn’t care to hide it.
“Hi,” she said softly, voice still scratchy.
Tristan blinked. “Did I wake you?”
“No,” she said, stretching. “Anita sending me a hundred texts about your mural did…”
He smiled.
Barbara held the phone higher, showing herself properly. “It’s everywhere. I opened Instagram and it was the first thing on three different pages. Hungarian fans are translating the quotes into memes.”
“I told you not to go looking for that,” Tristan said, leaning against the counter.
“I didn’t,” she said, smiling sleepily. “It found me.”
There was a pause. Her eyes softened.
“You really did it,” she said.
Tristan exhaled. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”
“No,” she said. “It feels right.”
He didn’t say anything for a second. She filled the silence.
“You looked so young in the first one. The Wembley one. It hit me a little.”
“I still am,” he said. “Did you forget I was twenty?”
She nodded. “And the second one? You don’t look young anymore.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of saying I got old in one season?”
She laughed, low and throaty. “No. That’s my way of saying how much you accomplished in so little time.”
“Also,” she added, “your curls are tragic in the painting. They could have done it better. But it still looked so nice.”
She leaned her chin on her hand, smile lingering.
“You ready for Bournemouth?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to try to score earlier so Ben and Harry can play.”
Barbara nodded slowly. “That’s very captain of you.”
“I’m not captain.”
She tilted her head. “You are, though.”
Then she exhaled and shifted under the covers. “Alright. I need to shower. Sophia’s dragging me to another fitting.”
Tristan gave a mock salute. “Stay strong.”
“Play smart,” she said, already leaning to hang up. “And score something beautiful.”
She paused, just for a breath.
“I’m proud of you, you know?”
“I know,” he said. “Love you.”
.
The FaceTime call had ended.
Tristan sat on the edge of the sofa, phone still in hand, thumb brushing the edge of the case. The photo Barbara sent — the two murals side by side — lingered in his mind more than on the screen. He hadn’t looked away from it until a notification popped out.
His phone buzzed again.
Ben: You home? Wanna get out for a bit? It’s too nice to waste.
Another message followed half a minute later.
I was thinking of going to the park. Bring the bodyguard. It’s so funny seeing you with one
Tristan smiled to himself. He leaned forward, set his cup down on the coffee table, and cracked his neck left to right.
He typed back: yeah Im done got nothing going around today
.
Later that evening - Victoria Park
The weather was, against all odds, behaving itself.
The sun was out — actual sun, not the half-hearted English kind that disappears the moment you notice it. No wind. No grey clouds gathering like they were about to start a family meeting overhead. Just clean blue sky and that sun’s light,
Naturally, the entire city had collectively decided to be outside. The park was packed.
Families had taken over the grass with picnic blankets and folding chairs. Dogs ran off-lead in chaotic circles. One toddler tried to chase a pigeon while holding a melting Cornetto. Couples strolled hand in hand.
And in the middle of it all: Tristan and Ben.
They walked side by side along the main path — takeaway cups in hand, hoodies on, sleeves rolled, trying to blend in. It would’ve worked too, if not for the fact that every twenty steps, someone would recognize Tristan.
“Excuse me, could I—”
“Are you—”
“Sorry to bother, but my son—”
“Just one photo—my nan loves you—”
Tristan stopped every time, polite and patient, one arm around someone new. He really loved his fans, but he just wanted some peace, but it is what it is. You took the good with the bad being one of the most famous sports athletes in the world.
Ben? Ben was dying inside.
They’d passed six people with dogs and three with kids wearing Tristan jerseys. Not a single glance in his direction.
He muttered, just loud enough for Tristan to hear, “One bloke asked if I was your security.”
Tristan kept signing. “You do look like you’d take a bullet.”
“I’m not even wearing black,” Ben groaned. “I look like a budget youth coach.”
John walked a few paces behind them, sunglasses on despite the shade from the trees
A golden retriever barked once at John and immediately stopped when John looked back.
“See,” Ben said, gesturing. “Even the dog knows who’s in charge.”
Tristan chuckled, finally finishing the last photo and handing the phone back to a smiling teenager.
Ben dropped onto a nearby bench like he’d just played ninety minutes.
“You alright?” Tristan asked, sitting next to him.
“I’m fine,” Ben sighed. “Just mourning the death of my public presence.”
Ben kicked a pebble at his feet, watching it skip across the dirt path.
“Honestly,” he said, “I thought by now you’d be driving your dream R8. And a couple Ferraris. Maybe a gold-plated Bugatti, just to flex. I still remember talking about our dream cars as kids.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “You want me to show up to Belvoir in a gold Bugatti?”
“I mean,” Ben said, dead serious, “if anyone’s earned it, it’s you.”
Tristan chuckled, leaning back. “Not gonna lie, I’ve thought about the R8.”
Ben perked up. “Blacked out?”
“Of course,” Tristan said. “Custom wheels. Something low. Maybe a quiet matte grey if I’m feeling subtle.”
“You? Subtle?” Ben snorted.
Tristan smiled, then added, “I’m still under the Range Rover deal for now. Mendes is sorting everything with the new contract. Might re-sign, might move to something else. Got a few offers from English and German brands. So I’m waiting on that.”
Ben whistled. “Germans want you too, huh?”
“They all want the mural now,” Tristan said dryly.
Ben grinned. “So what—you waiting for the deal to go through before you fill your garage?”
“Kind of,” Tristan said. “Not just for me though.”
Ben turned his head, eyebrows raised.
“I want to buy something for my mum,” Tristan continued. “Something nice. Maybe a white Bentley. She doesn’t drive much, but I think she will enjoy it.”
Ben laughed. “And your dad?”
“Ferrari,” Tristan said instantly. “Red, obviously. My dad would never drive it — just polish it and show it off to the neighbors like a trophy.”
Ben nodded, “Sounds like your dad.”
“And Barbara, maybe some for her family too,” Tristan added. “She’ll say no. Loudly. Repeatedly. But I’ll buy it anyway.”
“What are you thinking?” Ben asked.
“Porsche, maybe. Maybe a Mercedes as well. I would just buy her a bunch of cars, to be honest, if she would let me. But she’s really not into sports cars; she likes the Range Rover. it’s perfect for the family, with plenty of space whenever her sister comes over. Not to mention the countless memories in it.If I don’t re-sign with them, I’ll still buy it — just for the memories.”
Ben leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You’re disgusting.”
Tristan blinked. “What?”
“You’re going to end up with your name on a stadium and still be giving your mum the keys to a Bentley like it’s no big deal.”
Tristan shrugged. “If I’m not doing it for them… what’s the point?”
Ben looked at him for a second, then gave a nod.
They sat like that for a moment, the noise of the park humming around them — dogs barking, bikes squeaking, kids laughing somewhere far off.
Then Ben said, “When you do get the R8 though…”
Tristan looked over.
“I’m driving it first,” Ben said. “Just to make sure it’s safe. For you. Out of love.”
“Right,” Tristan said. “You’re definitely the responsible one.”
“I’d do burnouts outside Vardy’s house.”
“Now that,” Tristan said, “I’d pay to see.”
.
Meanwhile, over at the Leicester City Council offices, news of Nike’s interest in hosting a Tristan Hale event had just reached the mayor’s desk.
The mayor’s office wasn’t flashy. Beige walls. Grey carpeting. A slightly tilted painting of Leicester lifting the FA Cup at Wembley hung behind the desk — one of the few decorative flourishes. The rest was all policy binders, coffee rings, and agendas.
A knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Sir Peter Soulsby, glancing up from a spreadsheet detailing bus route restructuring.
The door opened, and Priya Sharma stepped in — thirty-two, sharp as glass, head of press and communications for the city. She carried a folder in one hand, a phone in the other.
“Please don’t tell me this is about the cycle lane complaints again,” the mayor said, sitting up straighter.
“No,” Priya replied. “It’s about Tristan Hale.”
That name alone gave Sir Peter pause. Not from doubt. Just from sheer weight — the kind that had grown rapidly over the last twelve months.
Priya placed the folder on his desk and flipped it open.
“Tourism’s up. Mural traffic is up. Footfall in the city centre rose sixteen percent in the last seventy-two hours. Retail along the Victoria Park corridor reported record afternoon sales yesterday.”
Soulsby raised his eyebrows. “All from a painting?”
“Not from a painting,” she said. “From a person. The mural’s just the symbol. Tristan is the magnet.”
She slid a printed email across the desk. “Nike’s planning a major event here. Likely Saturday evening. Still early-stage planning, but their reps floated some names, big ones. Even Kobe Bryant, schedule permitting.”
There was a long silence. Then:
“In Leicester?” Soulsby asked.
“In Leicester,” Priya repeated. “Because Tristan doesn’t want to leave. And because Nike wants to be wherever he is.”
A beat.
Sir Peter leaned back in his chair, letting it sink in.
“You know,” he said, “when he first broke through, I thought—talented lad. But who knew what he’d become in two seasons?”
“Everyone thought that,” Priya said. “Now his mural’s pulling more visitors than the Guildhall.”
Soulsby tapped a pen idly against his notepad. “What do we need?”
“Logistics, mostly. If the Nike event happens, we’ll need full coordination—security, traffic closures, press zones. They may request an iconic backdrop, maybe Victoria Park or the mural itself. Possibly even city centre access for crowd flow.”
Soulsby nodded slowly. “Loop in Rory and Andy. Get the event team ready. Let’s stay ahead of it.”
He looked back at the mural image in the report, then out the window at the late-afternoon sunlight spilling over rooftops.
“He’s not just a footballer anymore, is he?” Soulsby said quietly.
“No,” Priya replied. “He’s Leicester’s identity right now.”
There was a pause.
Then a smile tugged at the mayor’s mouth.
“Remind me to send him a thank-you letter. And maybe a traffic map—just in case.”
Priya smiled, already flipping to the next page. “Of course.”
.
August 29, 2015 – Vitality Stadium
The walls were concrete — damp, shadowed, humming with the low, muffled noise of 11,000 voices vibrating just beyond the other side of the stadium.
The players stood in two lines. Leicester in blue. Bournemouth in red and black. Boots tapped against the rubber flooring. Shirts tugged once more into place. Final stretches done out of habit more than need.
It wasn’t loud. Just breathing. The occasional sniff. A referee checking his watch. Laces double-knotted for the third time.
The mascots playing around some looking nervous, a few looking excited to be next to the players.
Tristan stood near the front, next to Vardy, eyes half-lowered, letting the noise bleed away.
Behind him, he could hear Mahrez shifting from heel to toe, whispering something under his breath in French. Kanté was further back, quiet as ever, hands folded together like he was about to pray. Fuchs yawned. Ben Chilwell exhaled sharp through his nose.
Shinji was last in line, shoulders tense but upright.
None of them had said anything. No big speeches. No calls to arms. Just that shared awareness:
Get ahead early. Give them their shot.
A steward passed through the tunnel with a clipboard and a walkie. “Two minutes,” he called.
The referee turned. “Let’s go, gentlemen.”
And then the door opened.
The players stepped out into the tunnel light — Leicester in blue, Bournemouth in red and black. Voices from the stands began to rise, tight and local but louder than expected. The camera followed the teams out. And then it cut — up into the Sky Sports booth.
Rob Hawthorne’s voice came through first.
“Welcome back to Dean Court. It’s a packed Saturday evening on the south coast, where an undefeated Leicester side arrives with momentum.”
Andy Hinchcliffe followed, tone steady.
“It’s not just belief, Rob. It’s structure. They press in threes, break in twos, and control the middle with a pair of midfielders who never stop moving. Drinkwater’s the engine. Kanté’s… everything else.”
The lineups flashed on screen.
🦊 Leicester City – 4-3-3 (flexing into a 4-2-3-1)
Schmeichel in goal. Simpson, Huth, Morgan, Fuchs across the back.
Kanté and Drinkwater holding.
Tristan just ahead of them. Mahrez on the right, Albrighton left. Vardy alone up top.
“On paper it’s a 4-3-3,” Hinchcliffe said, “but in possession it looks more like a 4-2-3-1. Tristan plays so high he’s practically a second striker. And Mahrez has the freedom to drift. But I’ll be honest — the one I can’t take my eyes off is Kanté. He’s so good.”
Then came the hosts:
🍒 Bournemouth – 4-4-1-1
Boruc in goal. Francis, Elphick, Cook, and Daniels at the back.
Ritchie, O’Kane, Surman, and Gradel across midfield.
Marc Pugh tucked just behind Callum Wilson up front.
“Eddie Howe’s stuck to the 4-4-1-1 all season,” Hawthorne said. “And why not? They play front-foot football. But this Leicester side punishes mistakes in transition. One heavy touch, and Tristan’s already away.”
“Speaking of Tristan,” Hinchcliffe added, “three goals and three assists in his last three. Seventy-five contributions last season. Twenty years old.”
The camera cut to Tristan adjusting his wrist tape.
“Still doesn’t look like it’s gotten to his head.”
“And Vardy?” Hawthorne added. “Five goals in three. A hat trick at West Ham. Their press starts with him. Their chaos ends with 22.”
A pause.
“And this,” Hinchcliffe said, “is the first game since the mural. One side shows Leicester lifting the FA Cup. The other — Tristan, alone, surrounded by the trophies he won last year.”
“He’s not just in form,” Hawthorne said. “That entire team is different compared to last season.”
And just like that, the referee glanced at both benches, stepped forward—
And blew the whistle.
Vardy took the first touch, rolling it back to Drinkwater. The ball skipped across the surface like it knew what it was doing — dry, fast, no excuses.
“Let’s go,” Vardy muttered, already sprinting ahead.
Bournemouth pressed early. Tight shape. Fast feet. For the first five minutes, Leicester barely stitched two passes together. Wilson chased like a man possessed. O’Kane caught Drinkwater twice — and Mahrez let him know.
“Welcome back,” he muttered, jogging past.
But Leicester didn’t flinch.
They bent. Never snapped.
By the seventh minute, the rhythm returned.
Simpson slid it into Kanté. Kanté turned — once, twice — then fed Tristan in stride.
And then it began.
He was in the left channel, drifting between lines. One shoulder dip shed Surman. Another touch pulled Cook toward him. A third touch drew Elphick too close.
And still, Tristan didn’t pass.
He turned.
And ran.
The crowd lifted.
“Back up, back up—” someone shouted from the Bournemouth bench.
Too late.
At the top of the D, Tristan chopped once, split the center-backs with a lean, and opened up his hips like he was curling far post.
Boruc bit early.
And Tristan punished him.
Left foot. Near side. Inside netting. A soft finish with surgical intent.
Leicester 1–0 Bournemouth.
No celebration. Just a quick point to the bench.
“Let them play,” Tristan mouthed.
The restart was a blur.
Gradel tried to lift Bournemouth — won a corner, drew a foul, buzzed through Fuchs once. But Leicester just absorbed it.
By the 13th minute, it flipped.
Kanté intercepted. Mahrez switched the play. Fuchs overlapped. Tristan ghosted between the lines again.
By the 17th minute, Bournemouth were pinned.
Albrighton floated in a low cross — Vardy nearly reached it. Francis cleared for a corner.
Tristan jogged over. One scan. Two.
Short ball to Mahrez. Flick back.
Tristan curved in a cross with his weaker foot.
Vardy rose.
A flick. A glance.
Back post.
Boruc moved.
The ball didn’t care.
Leicester 2–0 Bournemouth.
By the 22nd minute, it was starting to look familiar.
Ranieri stayed seated. Just tapped his fingers once on the bench and said to Benetti, “After halftime.”
From then until the 28th, Bournemouth tried to respond.
Gradel had a half chance from range — blocked by Morgan. Ritchie flashed a shot wide. Pugh tried to slip Wilson in but Schmeichel was off his line quick.
Then came the mistake.
In the 34th minute, Christian Fuchs — usually composed — mistimed a challenge. Let Pugh inside. A quick burst toward the box. A trailing foot from Fuchs clipped him just on the edge.
Free kick.
Ritchie stood over it. The stadium hushed.
He bent it right-footed, curling over the wall — and straight into Schmeichel’s gloves. No bounce. No second chance.
Leicester cleared.
Fuchs didn’t speak. Just shook his head once.
Tristan jogged over, calm.
“You dove in,” he said, eyes soft.
Fuchs exhaled, hands on hips.
“Trust your angle next time,” Tristan added. “You’re better than that.”
Fuchs nodded, once.
“Appreciate it.”
And then — 38th minute — Leicester pushed again.
Kanté skipped a pass forward. Mahrez danced between two. Albrighton found space. Vardy peeled left.
This time the shot clipped the post.
By the 45th minute, the referee glanced at his watch.
And just like that first half was over.
.
Leicester made three changes after half time.
Chilwell on for Fuchs.
Maguire in for Huth.
Ulloa up top for Vardy.
The camera caught them taking their places .
Still in blue.
Still ahead.
“Rotations already?” Hinchcliffe said, voice low. “That’s not rest. That’s trust. He’s giving them the stage.”
Hawthorne added, “Especially for Chilwell. Nineteen. You don’t get those minutes unless the match says you’ve earned them.”
And the match had.
Leicester led 2–0.
Tristan dropped a little deeper now, closer to Kanté and Drinkwater. Mahrez stayed wide. Albrighton stayed working. Ulloa took the line.
Within the first ten minutes, Bournemouth pushed.
Wilson tried to turn Maguire near halfway.
Did once.
Not twice.
Free kick.
Quick one. Reset. Nothing changed.
The camera cut to Ranieri on the touchline — arms folded, expression flat.
No yelling. No panic. Just a calm expression, more than satisfied with what he was watching.
Mahrez had the ball, just past midfield. Body straight, pace slow — a little lull to bait the trap. Then came the shift. He cut inside, drew two, and slipped a no-look pass down the line.
Chilwell ran onto it.
He reached the byline, took a final touch, then pulled it back across the box with his left.
It skipped past Ulloa’s boot.
Straight to Tristan.
He shaped to shoot.
Then let it run.
Mahrez arrived in full stride.
Low finish. Far post.
Leicester 3–0 Bournemouth.
The away end roared.
Tristan turned and rushed towards Ben, celebrating.
.
Harry Maguire’s first real test came just after the hour mark. A low cross skidded in from the right, flat and awkward, deflecting twice through a mess of bodies in the box.
It looked like trouble.
Maguire stepped forward with a wide base, let it come to him, and took it clean on the chest. No panic. No rush. The bounce died at his feet. One controlled touch, then a firm pass slipped into Kanté’s stride like it was planned.
That settled it.
The ball stayed theirs.
By the sixty-third minute, Leicester were setting up a throw-in on the left flank. Tristan jogged over during the reset and leaned into Chilwell’s shoulder.
“Don’t lunge,” he said low, eyes on the touchline. “Just watch the feet and be patient.”
Bournemouth came again, trying to isolate the same side. Quick exchange. One-two. A little feint to bait the tackle.
Chilwell didn’t bite.
He held his stance, stayed square, and kept guiding the run wide. The winger ran out of room before running out of ideas. No cross. No foul. Just forced back the way he came.
From thirty yards away, Tristan held up a hand. One thumb. That was enough.
By the time the seventieth minute arrived, the match had slowed. Leicester weren’t looking for goals anymore. They were bleeding the belief out of Bournemouth — pass by pass.
Touch. Return. Another touch. Drop back. Reset.
Mahrez tried to bend one in from distance — curled just wide. Ulloa got his head to a chipped ball, flicked it toward the top corner, and Boruc had to push it over.
But the urgency was gone.
The chase was gone.
Even the crowd felt it — the end was already written.
Tristan tracked a long switch that rolled out near the far touchline. He didn’t chase it hard. Just followed it out. Turned toward the bench.
Ranieri met him by the sideline.
“Cinque minuti,” he said, soft and sure.
Five more minutes.
Tristan gave a nod and stayed out there controlling the ball.
The final whistle didn’t bring a roar.
Just applause.
Tristan walked off last, tying the sleeve knot looser on his wrist.
Behind him, Mahrez was joking with Kanté. Maguire bumped fists with Ben. Ranieri said nothing — just patted his captain's shoulder as he passed.
Three-nil.
Job done.
And Saturday was waiting.
..
End of chapter 4250 word count
Now I want to make this game more fun, but it's Bournemouth. I couldn’t even try to make this dramatic even if I wanted to, lol.
