Sinbad
patreon
Chapter 161: Ballon d'Or ceremony
🕑 Added 2025-03-26 05:56:12 +0000 UTCJanuary 12, 2015 — 6:08 AM
Zurich, Switzerland — Dolder Grand Hotel
..
The soft hush of snowfall blanketed the world outside the windows, muting the city beneath a sheet of white. It was early. The kind of early that made the sky look like paper, all soft greys and faded blues.
Tristan stood barefoot near the floor-to-ceiling glass, arms folded over his chest, dressed in nothing but black joggers and a plain white T-shirt. His breath fogged faintly against the cold pane as he stared out at the winter skyline.
Behind him, the hotel suite was quiet. Barbara was still asleep—half-buried in the down comforter, one leg kicked out from under the covers, her cheek pressed to his pillow.
He didn't want to wake her. Not yet.
His green eyes focused on the view outside; it was beautiful. Maybe they could live here after both of them retired; it’s not like money was an issue.
“System,” he whispered. “Show me my career timeline.”
A quiet chime echoed in his mind. A soft blue interface flickered into view—projected only in front of his eyes.
[CAREER TIMELINE]
January 2014 – Professional debut, English Championship
🔹 10 goals, 20 assists in half a season (record)
🏆 Player of the Season
🏆 Young Player of the Season
May 2014 – Double Champion: FA Cup & English Championship
🔹 9 goals, 6 assists in 6 FA Cup games ( Most G/A In History )
🏆 FA Cup Winner
🏆 Championship Winner – Promoted to Premier League
June–July 2014 – FIFA World Cup, Brazil
🔹 2 goals, 3 assists for England
🏅 Young Player of the Tournament
He blinked once, and the screen shifted.
[2014–15 Season (Ongoing)]
Premier League – 22 games: 15 goals, 19 assists
Europa League – 5 games: 3 goals, 4 assists
Euro Qualifiers – 5 games: 3 goals, 5 assists
Total So Far (2014–15) – 32 games, 48 goal contributions
After West Ham, the schedule turned into absolute hell.
No, scratch that—the whole damn calendar was cooked. Compressed fixtures, back-to-back games, barely a breath in between. Recovery days became a luxury, and even with rotation, they were starting to feel the burn.
Tottenham came next. Kane was sharp—Tristan clocked it immediately. Quick movement, tidy finishing, and surprisingly good vision. They exchanged numbers post-match. No ego. Just mutual respect. Probably smart to build that chemistry now. He’d be wearing the same England shirt soon enough.
They drew 2–2, salvaged by goals from him and Vardy. Kane scored one himself. Fair result. Could’ve gone either way.
Then came Hull City, and that one stung.
Tristan had unleashed a rocket from 30 yards out—a proper thunderbolt, dipping into the top corner. Highlight-reel stuff. But it didn’t matter. They still lost 2–1. Sloppy defending and a late counter cost them.
Next? Liverpool. Again. And again, they were punished.
They lost 3–1. Tristan picked out Lingard for their lone goal with a clever through ball, but it wasn’t enough. Liverpool were clinical. Leicester were tired. Everyone felt it.
The FA Cup match against Newcastle followed, and the squad sheet said it all. Rested starters. Rotated eleven. Not that anyone expected a deep cup run, but it still sucked getting knocked out early. Just like that, no more League Cup, no more FA Cup.
Then, just two days ago, Aston Villa at home.
Finally, a win.
Tristan had one goal and assisted Mahrez. Danny Drinkwater bagged the third. 3–1. Clean, efficient, needed. The kind of win that reminded everyone they could still play damn good football when it clicked.
The table? They were floating somewhere between 5th and 7th, week to week. Not bad. Not enough.
Looking ahead, Leicester’s first knockout round opponent in the Europa League would be Dutch Eredivisie giants, Ajax. But that challenge was still a month away—just enough time to reset, to regroup.
Injuries hadn’t helped either. Nothing season-ending, but still—groin tweaks, hamstrings, knocks that messed with rhythm. And Vardy? He was in a full-on slump. Confidence shot. First touch a mess. He was trying, but it wasn’t sticking.
The board had acted, though. Two loan signings came in: Robert Huth and Harry Maguire—big bodies, aerial strength, no-nonsense defenders. Not instant starters, but they padded the bench. Depth mattered now.
The vibe in the dressing room was mixed—tired legs, frustrated faces, but still fighting. Tristan felt it too. No time to rest. Not if they wanted to finish the season in Europe.
And he did. Badly.
..
Barbara stirred behind him, sheets shifting with a quiet rustle. Her hand reached out across the bed, fingers brushing cold linen.
“Mmm… you’re already up?” she asked, voice scratchy with sleep.
Tristan didn’t turn. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“What time is it?”
“Just past six.”
She groaned and flopped onto her back, burying her face in the pillow. “You’re seriously thinking about football at six a.m. on Ballon d’Or day?”
“I’d be worried if I wasn’t.”
Barbara pulled the comforter up over her chest and cracked one eye open. “You nervous?”
Tristan kept his gaze on the snowy skyline. “For the cameras? No. For the speeches… maybe a little.”
He paused.
“For my ranking?”
Another pause. Then, a small shrug.
“I already know I’m not winning.”
Barbara rolled onto her side, her cheek resting against the pillow. “Top three?”
“Probably not. Messi, Ronaldo, Neuer… they deserve it. I’m not there. Yet.”
She squinted toward him. “Top five?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Six, if the voters feel petty.”
Barbara pushed herself up slowly, the blanket slipping down her arms. “They’ll regret it eventually.”
She stood and wrapped the comforter around her like a shawl, bare feet padding softly across the floor. When she reached him, she leaned gently into his side.
“At least we know one thing for sure,” she said. “You’re winning the Puskás.”
Tristan let out a quiet breath. “Don’t jinx it.”
“I’m not. That United goals broke the internet. You’re in every highlight reel from London to Tokyo.”
She looked up at him.
“If they don’t give it to you, we riot.”
He turned his head just slightly, a faint glint in his eyes. “We?”
Barbara nudged his hip with hers. “I’m emotionally invested now.”
He looked back toward the glass. “You think Mendes already knows my Ballon d’Or ranking?”
“Oh, absolutely. And he’s probably furious you didn’t get second.”
Silence settled between them.
Barbara’s voice softened. “I hope you know… no matter what number they put next to your name tonight, it doesn’t change anything.”
He didn’t say anything.
She reached up and brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You’re nineteen. You’ve done more in one year than most players do in five.”
She let her hand rest there, just for a second longer.
“And you’re just getting started.”
Tristan’s voice was quieter now. “Yeah. Hungry sounds better.”
Barbara leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Good. Now come back to bed.”
“We’ve got hours before they make you wear a penguin suit.”
He didn’t argue.
..
Hours Later..
Stylists, tailors, assistants — all flowing through like they’d rehearsed it a dozen times.
Barbara sat in the makeup chair near the window, wrapped in a white silk robe. Her expression was relaxed, eyes closed, the steady sweep of a highlighter brush grazing her cheekbone. One of her stylists was already steaming her dress behind her — a sky-blue Saint Laurent gown, custom-tailored for the occasion. It shimmered faintly under the hotel lights, sleek halter neckline with a keyhole cut just under the collarbone.
Saint Laurent was part of the deal. And Barbara knew how to wear it like it was hers.
Beside her, Julia sat stiffly in her own chair — elegant and a little anxious. Barbara’s glam team worked with practiced hands, blending soft lavender tones into her eyeshadow to match the dusty mauve Giorgio Armani gown laid out behind her. It had been selected days ago from the label’s winter couture line — a personal favor arranged through Tristan’s Armani contacts.
“You okay?” Barbara asked quietly, peeking through one eye.
Julia nodded, not trusting her voice.
Barbara reached over and gave her hand a light squeeze. “You look beautiful already.” She really was, had to be since she was that one who gave Tristan all his genes.
Across the room, Tristan stood in front of a mirror, buttoning the final cuff of his deep navy Giorgio Armani tuxedo. The tailoring was flawless — peak lapels, satin trim, and a whisper of embroidery at the inner lining. Armani had flown a private team out for fittings the week before. Part of the campaign. Part of the image.
On the sofa, his dad sat quietly, watching it all unfold with a small, content smile. Ling wore a dark charcoal suit from Hugo Boss, a brand that had reached out after Tristan’s Golden Boy win. His tie was neatly pressed, his shoes shined. He looked sharp, if a little out of place in the fashion chaos.
“You alright, Dad?” Tristan asked, adjusting his collar.
Ling looked up. “Yeah. Just… soaking it all in.”
He paused.
“You clean up alright.”
Tristan let out a quiet breath. “Armani helps.”
“They should, with what they’re paying you.”
Barbara laughed softly from the vanity.
“They’re paying him because he makes it look better.”
Tristan glanced her way. “And you’re not biased at all.”
She grinned without opening her eyes. “Nope.”
Barbara’s stylist stepped back, satisfied. “Okay, you’re camera-ready.”
She stood and walked to the privacy divider, where her gown waited. Tristan turned, watching her disappear behind the screen.
He adjusted his tie.
“You sure I can’t get a preview?”
“Nice try,” her voice floated out. “You wait like everyone else.”
Julia gave him a sideways glance. “She’s been excited about that dress all week.”
“She should be,” he said. “It’s Saint Laurent.”
“Three fittings,” Barbara called. “And their creative director sent a handwritten note.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re just jealous,” she teased.
…
A moment later, she stepped out.
The room slowed.
Barbara walked across the suite in heels now, the pale blue Saint Laurent gown catching the light with every step.
Tristan’s breath hitched.
His fingers paused at the cuff of his jacket, the rest of the world slipping slightly out of focus. If his parents hadn’t been on the couch and Barbara’s makeup team hadn’t been lingering by the mirrors, he might’ve said something reckless already.
Barbara met his gaze, slow and deliberate.
“Okay,” Tristan said, voice lower now. “That’s just unfair.”
Her brows lifted. A flicker of amusement curved her lips. “What?”
He swallowed once. Tried to keep it light. Failed.
“You look like you’re the one picking up a trophy tonight.”
Barbara came to a stop in front of him. She tilted her head just slightly, studying his face like she was trying to decide whether or not to play along.
“Is that your way of saying I look good?”
Then he stepped in.
He leaned close — not rushing, not performative. Just enough to let her feel his breath against her skin as he lowered his voice.
“Very,” he murmured.
Then closer, lips brushing the edge of her ear.
“I’m taking it off you tonight.”
Barbara blinked.
Then her expression shifted—blushing, trying to hide her embarrassment. She leaned in, her voice barely audible to Tristan.
“Better hope you win something first.” She stepped past him — only just — the scent of her perfume following like a challenge.
And for a moment, Tristan forgot entirely what tie Mendes told him to wear.
..
The car slowed in front of the Kongresshaus Zürich, flashes already popping through the tinted windows like bursts of lightning. Tristan shifted forward. Barbara sat next to him, one leg crossed over the other, her gown draped carefully to avoid wrinkling the fabric. Julia was quiet beside her, hands resting neatly on her clutch, while Ling looked straight ahead, his face unreadable.
The car rolled to a stop. Tristan opened the door and stepped into the noise, the sudden rush of cold air and camera flashes hitting him like a wave.
He turned back toward the car, hand out.
Barbara took it without hesitation, stepping out. Then came his mum. Tristan reached in again, this time with a bit more care. She stepped out slowly, dressed in a soft mauve Armani gown, quiet and elegant. One of Barbara’s stylists moved to help her with the hem, but Julia waved her off with a small smile. She didn’t need fussing.
Hid dad was last. No assistance. He stepped out in a dark charcoal Hugo Boss suit, adjusted his jacket once, and moved to stand beside his son like it was just another Sunday service.
The family stood together under the lights. Cameras fired again.
“Tristan Hale and Barbara Palvin arriving now!” someone called from the press barricade. “Family on the carpet too!”
Flashes intensified. Reporters shouted names and brands and questions Tristan had no intention of answering. He adjusted his jacket, straightened his posture, then caught Barbara’s gaze as she slipped her arm through his.
Then a familiar voice cut through everything.
“Tristan!”
He didn’t need to look. Mendes was already walking toward them — black scarf, tailored coat, phone still in one hand. He pulled Tristan into a quick hug, firm and direct.
“You made it,” Mendes said, eyeing the tux. “Jesus, Armani earned their check.”
“Feels surreal, good to be here.” Tristan muttered.
Mendes stepped back, kissed Barbara on the cheek. “Saint Laurent knew what they were doing.”
“Of course they did,” Barbara said, smiling.
Mendes turned to Julia. “You look stunning. He got it from you.” Then to Ling, shaking his hand. “And thank you. Seriously.”
Ling just nodded. “Proud of him. That’s all.”
Mendes turned back to Tristan. “Cristiano’s ahead. James is walking in five minutes. And you’re walking in right behind them.”
Tristan didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.
Barbara reassuringly gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
Inside, the venue was sleek and gold-lit — a glass-and-marble monument to football royalty. Everything was spotless. Controlled. The lighting felt stage-designed, the cameras always watching from the periphery.
Tristan walked in with Barbara on his arm, Julia and Ling just behind. They were greeted immediately by a press handler who escorted them through to the inner cocktail space — the pre-show corridor of power where the legends stood like gods off-duty.
Cristiano was by the far windows, suit immaculate, nodding politely as another official greeted him. When he saw Mendes waving Tristan forward, he stepped away from his circle.
“Cristiano,” Mendes called with a smile. “You remember this kid?”
Ronaldo turned to meet them. His gaze swept past Mendes and lingered on Tristan for a moment before he extended his hand.
“Of course,” he said. “Nice to see you, Tristan.”
“Likewise,” Tristan replied, shaking firmly.
Ronaldo’s gaze remained trained on him a second longer.
“You’re doing well,” he said. “More than well.”
“Still chasing you,” he replied, casual yet honest.
Ronaldo chuckled, his lips curving slightly. “That will be a long chase.”
Tristan shrugged. “I don’t mind a little running.”
Ronaldo nodded, satisfied.
“We’ll see if you have the legs for it.”
Tristan didn’t break eye contact.
Amusement glinted in Ronaldo’s eyes as he turned back toward his team.
Barbara leaned closer. “How does that feel? I know you’re a fan of his—I still remember you freaking out when he tweeted about you.”
“I mean he’s Ronaldo—the best in the world,” he replied, his eyes locked on Ronaldo’s retreating figure. “Of course it’s surreal. But I want to be better than him.”
As if having heard Tristan words, Ronaldo glanced back—no more then a second—before returning to his team.
Tristan?
He was already moving forward.
..
[A/N: For this next bit, imagine the two are conversing in Spanish—Tristan speaks the language, so I don’t see the point in writing it out and translating. Instead, I’ll just stick to English. But imagine Spanish, lol.]
Tristan’s eye caught the gleam of a watch. He turned his head.
Black tux, polished shoes, diamond-studded watch, and trademark grin—standing across from Tristan was Neymar.
“There he is,” Neymar began, his voice smooth. “The one everyone’s talking about.”
Tristan smiled, extending his hand. “I think they’re still talking about your haircut.”
A beat passed.
Another.
Then—
Neymar laughed.
Heads turned at the sound, and soon reporters set their sights on the two.
Camera shutters clicked non-stop.
The moment had arrived—the first meeting between the two frontrunners of the next generation. The next wave of stars had arrived, and leading the charge were the so-called princes of football: Tristan Hale and Neymar Jr.
The headlines practically wrote themselves.
Neymar stepped closer.
“You’re what—nineteen?” he asked.
Tristan gave a nod.
“Not even twenty, and you’ve already made people stop talking about me—I don’t think I even had a proper tattoo at that age.”
It was Tristan’s turn to laugh.
Whatever he had expected in his first meeting with Neymar, it certainly wasn’t this.
He gave a smile. “I might have to get a tattoo or two if it makes me dribble like you.”
Neymar chuckled. “Start with one. You’ve got time.”
The sound of shutters grew louder. By now, the media had surrounded the two, creating a bubble they huddled around, trying piece together what was being said.
Neymar stepped even closer, using his hand to cover his mouth. “They keep saying it’s us: the next two who’ll take their crown,” he motioned toward Ronaldo and Messi.
“I’ve heard.”
He raised a brow. “You seem pretty relaxed for all this hype—first Ballon d’Or, and you’re not even blinking.”
“I don’t get nervous before games,” Tristan replied.
“Tonight’s not a game.”
Tristan glanced at the lights, the cameras, and the press lining up. “Could’ve fooled me.”
His eyes drifted to the diamond watch on Neymar’s wrist.
“Nice watch.”
Neymar glanced down. “Thanks.”
“I mean,” Tristan added, “If I was trying to distract people from a bad haircut, I’d probably wear one too.”
Neymar paused. Then grinned.
“You’re funny.”
“I’m serious.”
Another round of photos snapped. Neymar stepped back slightly.
“I’ll see you after.”
“Hopefully not on stage,” Tristan said.
“Why?”
“I don’t like sharing a stage.”
Neymar huffed a short laugh and turned away.
..
The lights dimmed. The room quieted.
Soft orchestral music played under the speakers as the ceremony began—dramatic strings and delicate piano chords filling the auditorium like the opening to a film.
Tristan sat near the center, third row, just behind Neuer and to the left of James. Barbara sat beside him, legs crossed, her gown catching the soft glow of the stage lights. Julia and Ling were tucked into the VIP family section just off to the side.
As the hosts walked on stage, he straightened up.
One in a classic tuxedo, the other in a long, shimmering black dress. They were polished, charming, their French-accented English smooth and practiced. The whole thing felt surreal—he’d seen it on TV a dozen times.
Never from here, though.
The host’s voice carried across the packed hall.
“Bonsoir, good evening, and welcome to the 2014 FIFA Ballon d’Or ceremony… where we honour the very best football had to offer in one of the most unforgettable years in recent memory.”
Polite applause followed.
Tristan leaned slightly into Barbara.
“I feel like I’m dreaming,” he murmured.
“You’re not,” she whispered back. “But you’re allowed to enjoy it.”
The screen behind the presenters lit up with a highlight reel—brief clips of last year’s World Cup, Champions League, and record-breaking moments.
It panned from incredible free kicks, to thunderous volleys to tearful wins.
Tristan’s face flashed on screen twice—once in an England kit, skipping past two defenders, and once in a Leicester shirt, launching a bicycle kick against United.
His chest tightened.
Barbara glanced sideways at him.
“You looked good up there.”
Tristan didn’t answer. He let the sound of the spectacle—the crowd, the lights, the hosts—drown out his thoughts.
“And now,” the host continued, smiling toward the cameras, “we begin tonight’s honors with the FIFA Puskás Award—awarded to the player whose goal captured the world’s attention through skill, beauty, and sheer audacity.”
Tristan’s back straightened even more..
Barbara’s hand found his, and she gave a light squeeze.
The stage lights narrowed.
A soft hum of anticipation rolled through the hall.
The lights dimmed as the big screen lit up above the stage.
Three names appeared.
Stephanie Roche — Ireland
James Rodríguez — Colombia
Tristan Hale — England
A ripple of polite applause followed.
The room quieted again as the first clip played.
Stephanie Roche’s goal—a flawless volley in the Irish league, chest control, left foot spin, and bang—top corner. Even Tristan had to admit, it was clean.
Then James. His goal against Uruguay at the World Cup. Chest down, spin, left-footed rocket from distance. The crowd had roared once in Brazil, and they roared again now. It was beautiful. Iconic, even. Everything a Puskás was.
Then his.
His name flashed again before it cut to Leicester vs. Manchester United. Last minute. A cross floated in—Tristan hurriedly spun, his back facing the goal as he leapt into the air. The crowd rose with him. His foot found the ball, and the ball found the goal.
Left behind was a dumbstruck David De Gea, whose eyes had followed the ball on its path to the goal, too stunned to jump.
The stadium was silent. Then, it erupted.
The noise was deafening.
Even though it was a replay of the moment, Tristan felt he had relived the goal again.
He could feel Barbara glance at him.
He didn’t move.
“And the winner of the 2014 FIFA Puskás Award…” the host paused, opening the envelope.
The wait felt like a lifetime.
“…Tristan Hale.”
Applause broke out instantly.
And the noise rose, becoming louder and louder with each passing moment.
The lights shifted toward him.
Barbara squeezed his hand once before letting go. Julia and Ling clapped softly behind them.
Tristan stood slowly.
He adjusted the button on his Armani jacket, smoothed it once at the lapel, then leaned down.
Barbara looked up at him, eyes filled with pride.
He kissed her—briefly, but full of everything he didn’t have time to say.
Then he turned, leaned over, and kissed his mum on the cheek.
Julia blinked hard. Smiled harder.
“Go on,” she whispered.
Tristan reached for his dad next, pulling him into a quick hug. Ling patted his back once, firmly.
“Proud of you, son.”
“I know,” Tristan said.
Then he stepped into the aisle, alone now. The lights were already turning toward the stage.
A presenter handed him the trophy — a rectangular case trimmed in gold, the polished silver football suspended at its center. It was heavier than it looked, solid in his hands,
The host smiled. “Congratulations, Tristan. A world-class goal. Would you like to say a few words?”
He stepped up to the mic.
Everyone went quiet again. They were waiting to see what he had to say.
“I’ll keep it short,” he began.
“I want to thank everyone at Leicester—staff, teammates, coaches. My family. And Barbara.” He glanced toward her. “That goal doesn’t happen without them.”
The crowd clapped again.
He nodded once.
“Thank you.”
And then he stepped back from the podium, trophy in hand.
He didn’t need to say more.
He’d already said enough with the goal.
The lights dimmed again.
The host stepped forward once more, voice steady over the mic.
“And now, we present the FIFPro World XI—the team of the year.”
A quiet ripple of applause rolled across the room.
Tristan sat still, hands folded in his lap. Barbara leaned slightly toward him, her gown rustling softly as she whispered.
“It’ll be you.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t look away from the stage.
The lights above flickered gold as the massive screen behind the hosts lit up.
A single formation faded in—4-3-3.
The host began.
“In goal…”
Manuel Neuer.
Applause. Yet, no surprise.
“Defenders…”
Philipp Lahm. Sergio Ramos. Thiago Silva. David Luiz.
Tristan exhaled slowly. Standard. Nothing shocking yet.
“And the midfield…”
The pause hit harder.
Toni Kroos. Ángel Di María.
Tristan felt his chest tighten — just slightly.
Then:
“And making his first-ever appearance in the FIFA FIFPro World XI… from Leicester City and England… Tristan Hale.”
Applause broke, strong and clear—mixed with a few audible whispers, heads turning. Messi looked up. James raised his brows slightly. Even Cristiano nodded once, slow and approving.
Tristan didn’t move right away.
Barbara’s fingers brushed against his. “Get up.”
He blinked. Then stood.
The camera cut to him as he walked to the stage, tux sharp under the lights.
He stood between Kroos and Di María, the youngest on stage by a mile holding the trophy, a small clear rectangular glass panel standing vertically on a circular golden base, and the only one not playing for a superclub. The crowd kept clapping.
From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of Iniesta, still seated. No bitterness—just a small nod of grace.
Tristan didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to.
The photo spoke for itself—him, standing shoulder to shoulder with the world’s elite, a Leicester badge on his chest, the only teenager in the XI.
Barbara smiled from her seat.
He locked eyes with her for half a second—and smiled back.
The lights dimmed again.
The host returned to center stage, her voice calm over the mic.
“And now, we begin the countdown of the FIFA Ballon d’Or Top Ten.”
The massive screen lit up behind her.
A number faded in.
Eden Hazard — Chelsea & Belgium
Polite applause followed; Tristan’s clap was louder than most.
Tristan Hale — Leicester City & England
The room paused for a beat.
Then the applause hit—louder than he had expected. Some were surprised; others impressed. A few scattered murmurs from the press row near the back. Flashbulbs lit up again.
Tristan kept his face still.
Barbara leaned slightly toward him. “There it is.”
He nodded once. “Could’ve been worse.”
“Couldn’t have been better,” she replied. “You’re nineteen. You play for Leicester. And you're in the top ten.”
He let out a breath, only just realizing he had been holding it.
Then came the rest of the list.
Zlatan Ibrahimović — PSG & Sweden
Neymar — Barcelona & Brazil
James Rodríguez — Real Madrid & Colombia
Thomas Müller — Bayern Munich & Germany
Arjen Robben — Bayern Munich & Netherlands
Manuel Neuer — Bayern Munich & Germany
The applause for Neuer was long and deserved.
Barbara exhaled. “Top three’s unchanged.”
Tristan nodded.
They both already knew.
Lionel Messi — Barcelona & Argentina
Cameras shifted. Applause rose again.
And then—
Cristiano Ronaldo — Real Madrid & Portugal
Ronaldo stood, buttoned his jacket, shook hands, and moved toward the stage with the grace of someone who’d done it before.
He certainly had.
“You okay?” Barbara asked.
“Yeah,” he said. Then looked over at her.
“I’m just thinking…we’ll be taking first one day.”
Barbara smiled.
“I know.”
After the final applause, the room broke into movement. People rose, exchanged handshakes, took selfies, and passed compliments some genuine, some polite.
Tristan stayed in the mix just long enough to take pictures with everyone, even getting one with Messi.
After a while, they slipped out.
Tristan had both trophies—the Puskás Award and the FIFPro World XI trophy—resting on his lap as the car pulled away from the venue. Julia and Ling sat across from him, their eyes still filled with pride for everything they’d just witnessed. Barbara was beside him, quiet, her hand resting gently over his.
The city passed by in soft golden streaks. Snow on rooftops. Reflections in glass.
Tristan leaned back against the seat, head turned slightly toward the window.
His bow tie was undone. His hair a little out of place. But the trophies stayed perfectly cradled—one nestled against his arm, the other resting neatly by his side like they belonged there.
Barbara looked over. His eyes were already closed.
Julia smiled softly across the cabin. “He’s out.”
“He deserves it, let him rest”, Ling said.
Barbara picked up her phone. Tilted it just enough to frame him right—the soft glow from outside, the tux, the quiet way his fingers still touched both awards like he wasn’t ready to let go.
She snapped the photo.
Caption came easy.
@BarbaraPalvin
📸 My Golden Boy. Asleep with his silverware.
#Puskás #WorldXI #HistoryMade
She hit post, locked her phone, and turned back toward him.
He didn’t stir.
She reached up, brushed a hand gently through his hair, then leaned her head against his shoulder.
The car rolled on in silence.
…
5k
Hey everyone! Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. Took some time to write, even longer to edit, lol.
Either way, I’m pretty happy with the way it turned out, but I worked on it at 2 AM, and I’m too lazy to go through and check it again, so sorry if there are any typos. I’ll fix them as soon as they are brought to my attention.
Anyway, goodnight, I’m heading straight to bed.
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks brother loved it
Hanibal Sharaa
It’s amazing sinbad bro well done
noname_marco
lol as long u liked the story 👍
Hanibal Sharaa
Fuck I caught up to fast to the story
Xato
Ta bien👌
l K
PRIME CRISTIANO, oh what a joy, modeled my midfield game after that 05,06,07 version. Sinbad that guy is a legend. Pleases continue Hales legendary journey in the ranks of futbol
