Sinbad
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Chapter 164: The Calm Before the Fire
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 03:00:03 +0000 UTCJune 9th, 2015 – Greece
The sun dipped low, bleeding streaks of gold and amber across the sea. Waves rolled in slow and rhythmic, brushing the sand like a whisper.
Tristan sat alone on a lounger, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on the horizon. The breeze lifted his damp curls, salt clinging to his skin. His sunglasses hung from his collar, forgotten.
Behind him, Barbara’s laughter carried over from the bar up the hill — light, airy, carefree. He could hear her talking with the bartender, ordering another round of mocktails. She was fully present.
He wasn’t.
Not really. Not since the season ended. That team just finished a post-season tour in Thailand; he didn’t go as he was just tired. And who was going to force him to do anything?
He’d just turned twenty. Celebrated with his parents. Met Barbara’s. Spent a few days just… being young. But in the back of his mind, the clock was ticking. In a few days, he’d be back in Leicester. Back to training again. He started training moment season ended but took a little break for his birthday.
The season they’d had? Special. But it wasn’t the miracle. Not yet.
He knew what was coming next had to be perfect. No margin for error. If they didn’t win the league — he’d failed. That’s how he saw it. There was no middle ground anymore. Not for someone like him.
He could only hope the club still signed Kanté. He even told Steve Walsh about him weeks ago — just in case he hadn’t clocked it yet.
Tristan inhaled deeply, then exhaled through his nose.
“System,” he said under his breath, eyes still on the sea. “Show me my templates.”
The familiar buzz hit the back of his mind.
After winning more trophies than he could count — Golden Boy, PFA Player, FWA, Premier League Player of the Season — the system rewarded him with three templates and a haul of auxiliary cards.
Turned out, templates only came from the big ones: major personal accolades… and bigger team trophies.
Champions League. Premier League. Euros. World Cup.
He’d already claimed nearly every individual award possible — aside from the Ballon d’Or and Golden Boot.
If he wanted more, he had to win with his team.
The miracle season had to deliver more than in his first life.
It had to deliver history.
‘Huh, looks I’m pretty broken now.’ Tristan thought to himself smiling as he looked at his stats.
..
[Name] – Tristan Hale
[Age] – 20
[Team] – Leicester City
[SHO] – A
[PAS] – A
[DRI] – B++
[PAC] – B++
[DEF] – C+++
[PHY] – B+
[Auxiliary] –
• Anti-Injury Cards (x2)
• Minor Injury Prevention (x4)
• Stamina Recovery Cards (x3)
• Training XP Boosters (x3)
[Templates] –
• Kevin De Bruyne
• Federico Valverde
• Fernando Torres
• Alisson Becker
• Jadon Sancho
..
The numbers were great — stats most players would dream of. But it wasn’t enough.
Not yet.
He still had too many flaws.
The dribbling was better — B++ now — but it still didn’t compare to top dribblers. Sancho’s just added to his dribbling and made it better.
His shooting was sharper, now A, but there were still moments where he snatched at chances. He scored goals — loads of them — but he wanted to become the kind of player who didn’t just finish chances, but buried them with conviction. That Fernando Torres instinct — cold, ruthless, automatic — it needed to click for this new season.
His physicality had come a long way too. He was pissed when he drew Alisson, but he was helpful with his core strength and balance.
Then there were the free kicks.
He’d taken a few this season. Nothing to show for them. He was the team’s top choice — on paper. But he hadn’t scored one yet. Not a single direct free kick. That ate at him more than he let on.
That changes now.
What else?
Penalties. He didn’t score a single one somehow; that needed to change. And lastly, leadership. He was being trained to be England’s next captain, and with Morgan being old, he was looked at as an option, being from the academy and the top star.
Tristan exhaled through his nose.
Dribbling. Free kicks. Strength. Leadership. Penalties. Aerials.
He made a mental checklist. Everything had to be perfect; he had to perfect; there was no other option.
Tristan didn’t hear her footsteps at first.
“Hey,” Barbara said softly.
He looked up.
She stood in the golden light, two mocktails in hand — one with a wedge of lime, the other with a sprig of mint. She wore the dark bikini she’d bought in Santorini two days ago, a towel slung over one shoulder, her hair pulled into a messy bun.
Lately, she’d made a game of wearing different bikinis just to get a rise out of him — and honestly, he wasn’t complaining. When a goddess went out of her way to tease him, who was he to stop her?
Barbara handed him a drink, then sat beside him, her leg brushing his. “You looked a million miles away.”
“I was,” Tristan said, taking a sip. “Thinking about next season.”
She leaned into him, shoulder pressed to his arm. “Let me guess. ‘No mistakes, no injuries, no bad passes, no soft touches, and definitely no missed free kicks’?”
He turned his head, eyes narrowing slightly.
She grinned. “You forget I hear you talk in your sleep. And I was there when you trained nonstop in Leicester.”
“Right,” Tristan muttered, chuckling into his glass.
Barbara turned toward the sea. The breeze caught her hair. “You’re not going to have much time for me next season, are you?”
He didn’t answer.
She turned back, placed both hands gently on his face, her thumbs brushing the edge of his jaw.
“I know what this means to you, love. I know what you’re chasing. You don’t need to explain it. I just…” She paused, eyes locked to his. “I want to be here now. With you. While I still can — before everything goes crazy again. And thanks to you, I’m more famous than ever now. I’ve got my own chaos coming.”
He reached up, tucked a strand of her damp hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered.
“We’ve got tonight,” he said quietly. “So let’s make it count.”
Barbara smiled.
They clinked glasses. The sound was soft, barely audible — but it felt like a promise.
Then she stood, extending a hand.
“C’mon,” she said. “I’m not wasting a sunset like this sitting still.”
Tristan took her hand and let her pull him up, mocktail in one hand, her fingers in the other.
They walked barefoot along the shore, their drinks long finished, the sun now kissing the edge of the horizon.
Barbara held his hand loosely, letting her fingers sway between his. The sea lapped at their feet, cool and constant, washing away the day.
“You know,” she said, glancing sideways at him, “you’ve barely looked away from the water since we got here.”
Tristan smiled faintly. “I was afraid if I looked at you too long, I’d forget what I’m supposed to be worrying about.”
She laughed — soft, genuine. “Smooth. Ten out of ten.”
They walked in silence for a moment.
The golden light shimmered on her skin. The way the sun caught the edges of her hair made her look almost unreal.
“Promise me something,” Barbara said.
Tristan turned to her. “Anything.”
“When next season starts, and everything gets loud again — don’t shut me out. Let me stay in it with you. I can’t imagine the pressure you’re under after a season like that.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just squeezed her hand a little tighter.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she added gently. “Even when it gets ugly. Even if you miss those stupid free kicks.”
“I won’t miss,” Tristan said, smiling now.
“Good. Because I’ll be watching.”
She stopped walking. He did too.
The sky behind her was streaked in firelight, the sun melting into the Aegean. Waves curled around their ankles. For a moment, it felt like the world had gone still.
“I love you, you know,” Barbara said.
Tristan didn’t blink.
“I know,” he said softly. Then in Hungarian, “És én is szeretlek.”
She stepped forward, fingers slipping behind his neck.
He kissed her before the breeze could steal the moment away.
When they finally pulled back, Barbara leaned her forehead against his.
“Let’s go,” she whispered. “We still have tonight.”
June 15, 2015 – Belvoir Drive Training Ground
...
The sun was high but forgiving, casting long shadows across the training pitch. No cameras. No coaches barking orders. Just three players passing time before preseason officially began.
Tristan pinged a long ball across the pitch — crisp, clean contact. Vardy took it down in stride, popped it up, and volleyed it straight at the crossbar.
“Show-off,” Ben Chilwell muttered, jogging over to retrieve the rebound.
Vardy shrugged, jogging in a lazy circle. “Gotta keep the kids impressed.”
“I’m not a kid,” Ben fired back, flicking the ball up and juggling it between his feet. “Besides, if I impress Pearson this summer, you’ll be calling me teammate.”
“Confident,” Tristan said, grinning as he stepped into the drill. “But you’re not wrong. Keep this up, and they won’t keep you in the academy much longer.”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Says the golden boy.”
“Oi,” Vardy cut in, pointing at them both. “I’m still the king of this pitch. You two teenagers can simmer down.”
That got a laugh out of them.
They fell into a rhythm — tight passes, quick one-twos, the kind of simple drill that reminded you why you loved the game before it got complicated.
“Feels good to play with you again, Ben,” Tristan said between touches. “I missed you, man.”
He meant it. In his first life, Ben had left him in the dust — climbed to the top while Tristan faded out. But this time… it was different. The roles had reversed.
Still, that didn’t matter. Not now. If anything, it made him want to pull Ben with him, take him under his wings, he was 24 when he died after all.
Take him to the top too.
Tristan nudged the ball back to Ben. “You’re better than last summer. What have you been doing, training with wolves?”
Ben grinned. “Just tired of waiting. I want in.”
“Then take it,” Vardy said. “That’s how it works here.”
Boots thudded on turf behind them as Mahrez and Danny walked in. Tristan texted them he was in Leicester, and with that team done with the tour, they came here to train.
“Oi!” Danny jogged up, tugging a training bib over his head. “You three lovebirds gonna play or pose for a calendar?”
Tristan chuckled. “I sell more shirts than you.”
“You wish,” Danny shot back, falling into step as they circled into a rondo.
Mahrez followed next, yawning. “You lot talk too much.”
“Jet lag?” Tristan asked.
“Too many photos, too many fans,” Riyad muttered. “Thailand was… different.”
Ben raised a brow. “You guys had a good time?”
“Yeah,” Drinkwater said. “Mostly. Until the last day.”
Tristan glanced up. “What happened?”
The mood dipped, just slightly.
“Nothing official,” Danny said. “But Pearson looked… off. The chairman took him aside after the team dinner. Didn’t see him again till we flew back.”
“They say the owners had meetings — boardroom stuff. Closed doors, long hours,” Mahrez added.
Tristan exchanged a glance with Vardy.
He didn’t like that kind of silence. Especially not this close to a season that could define everything. He felt like he was forgetting something big, but he just couldn’t remember what it was from his first life.
“Think he’s getting sacked?” Ben asked quietly.
Nobody answered.
Tristan looked down at the ball between his feet and flicked it up again.
“By all logic, he shouldn’t,” he said. “I talk to the club and see what’s going on.”
..
Next morning sunlight leaked through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the sheets.
Tristan groaned as his phone buzzed violently on the nightstand.He reached over, eyes barely open, and grabbed it. His face twisted as the screen lit up — notifications piling in, one after the other.
Then he saw the headlines.
“Leicester City Scandal: Leicester Youths Caught in Racial, Sexual Incident Abroad”
“Thailand Trip Turns Ugly – James Pearson Among Three Players Filmed in Shocking Behavior”
He sat up, pulse spiking. Oh fuck him; this was what all the meetings were about. This is why the club didn’t say anything to him, that they were dealing with something. And that player had nothing to worry about. This was what he forget, honestly how could he remember something like this.
Barbara stirred beside him. “What’s wrong?” she asked, brushing her hair back, voice still laced with sleep.
Tristan’s voice was tight. “James Pearson. Thailand. Scandal. Racist slurs. Sex tape. Headlines everywhere.”
Barbara’s eyes widened. “Nigel Pearson’s son?”
“Yeah.” Tristan tossed the phone onto the bed like it was poison. He ran both hands over his face, jaw clenched. “Fuck. Fuck. This is what I was forgetting. I knew something was off.”
He stood up, pacing the room now.
“This just isn’t about the reserved players, whatever that fuck they were doing. This blows back on the whole club. The press won’t care who was there and who wasn’t — we’re all in it now.”
Barbara slid to the edge of the bed, watching him. “But you weren’t even on that trip. You were with me. None of the senior squad are involved right?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s our badge on the shirt. Our name on the headline.” Tristan said pissed off as he paced around the room.
Barbara stood and walked over to him. “Hey. Look at me.”
He finally stopped. Met her eyes.
“You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve carried this club for a year. You’re not the scandal — you’re the one people will look to when the dust settles.”
Tristan exhaled, slow. He was beyond angry. But her presence… it helped.
Barbara placed a hand on his chest. “Check the group chat. Call Mendes. Figure out where this is heading.”
He nodded, grabbing the phone again.
“And Tristan?”
He looked up.
She leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to his jaw.
“You’re the star. They’ll be watching how you react. That club and players will be waiting for you; what you do from here. They will be looking to you for guidance, so show them who you are.”
..
Okay, last chapter for a while. I just need a few days to plan everything and took some time off before I burn myself out; hopefully you guys understand, so don’t cancel them memberships; I need the money, lol.
Anyway, this is the end of season 2014-2015. I now have to plan everything out for the 2015-2016 season, which is why I’m taking this break. I gotta make this season perfect, so expect a lot more football instead of slice of life.
I shall be back on April 3rd.
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks for the update enjoy you’re rest
noname_marco
Typo I shall fix it once I am free
Jerôme
Why does he have C++++? I thought you can only have 3 + and after that it becomes the next letter? Nice chap btw
Xato
Ta bien 👍
noname_marco
all that previous chapters are being edited I plan to rewrite that whole game, I dont know what I was thinking
LETSGOO
Need to see Casper get a red card
