Sinbad
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Chapter 159: Golden Boy
🕑 Added 2025-03-23 21:50:46 +0000 UTCDecember 19, 2014…
The media room at Belvoir Drive had never felt this full—or this proud.
Leicester City players were jammed into the front rows, slouched like kids on a school trip. Vardy had his feet kicked out so far they were nearly under the podium. Lingard was whispering something to Kasper, who kept trying not to laugh. Andy King had already started a betting pool on whether Tristan would cry during the speech.
Behind them, club staff lined the back wall—coaches, kit men, physios—all grinning like it was their own kid up there. A few trusted journalists hovered near the back, camera flashes popping now and then, but the club had kept it small. Intimate. Controlled.
Because this wasn’t just any award.
This was the Golden Boy.
And it was theirs.
The trophy sat on a velvet-covered pedestal beside the podium.
It was a golden football, the size of a real one, with clean panel lines and a surface polished enough to catch reflections from the room. The ball rested on a short metal stand, which was fixed to a square wooden base. On the front, a small brass plaque had been engraved for the occasion.
Right beside it stood a single podium, framed by the Leicester crest printed boldly across the media backdrop.
They didn’t need anything more.
They already had everything.
Leicester City’s first Golden Boy.
Nineteen. Local. Homegrown. A Hale.
And today wasn’t about a ceremony in Italy. The club had pushed hard to bring the presentation home—scheduling, logistics, media, all rearranged. With the fixtures piling up and Tristan unwilling to skip training or a match, they made a deal. They’d host it here.
Tristan will be presented the award here in the club and present to the fans in the next home game.
Out in the hallway, just beyond the media room doors, Tristan was still wrestling with his tie.
The knot had bunched weird. Too loose. Too tight. Off-center.
Barbara watched him from a few steps back, arms folded, the corner of her mouth tugging up.
“You need help?” she asked after another failed tug. “You do have a girlfriend… and a mum.”
Tristan sighed through his nose. “I swear I had it earlier.”
Julia stepped in gently behind him, already reaching for the fabric. “You had the right idea. Just didn’t pull it through properly.”
Barbara moved in from the side. “Let me.” She brushed his hands aside with practiced ease and loosened the knot.
Between the two of them, it took less than a minute. Julia smoothed the collar. Barbara tightened the tie, gave it a firm little tug, then flattened it against his shirt.
“There,” she said, stepping back to inspect her work. “Now you look like someone who wins international awards.”
Tristan looked at both of them—his mum and the girl he loved—hovering like they couldn’t help it. He didn’t mind.
“I’m still breathing, right?” he asked lightly.
“For now,” Julia murmured, brushing an invisible bit of lint from his shoulder.
Barbara leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’re going to do great.”
From inside the room came a familiar shout.
“Tristan!” Vardy’s voice rang out. “Stop getting styled and get in here before the trophy gets cold!”
Kasper’s voice followed. “If he fixes his hair one more time, I’m leaving.”
Andy grinned. “Don’t lie. You’re just jealous.”
Tristan let out a soft laugh, rolled his shoulders once, and turned toward the door.
Barbara gave him one last look. “Go on. It’s your moment.”
Julia smiled. “We’ll be right behind you.”
And with that, Tristan walked in.
The room straightened the moment Tristan walked in.
Players shifted upright in their chairs. Camera shutters clicked in quick succession.
Julia and Barbara sat down next to Ling and Anita, along with Sofia as well. Mendes was supposed to be here but he couldn’t make it.
Near the podium, Nigel Pearson stood beside Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha. Both men turned as Tristan stepped forward. Neither spoke. They didn’t need to. The quiet pride in their eyes said enough.
A rep from Tuttosport—the Italian outlet behind the Golden Boy award—stepped up to the edge of the stage and gave Pearson a nod.
“We’re ready.”
Tristan made his way forward, slow and steady. His suit jacket sat clean across his shoulders. His curls refused to behave, as always. But he looked composed.
Pearson stepped up beside the pedestal. No microphone needed—his voice carried on its own.
“This club’s had a few firsts in recent years,” he began. “But this one… this one’s special.”
He glanced out across the players, the coaches, the few media members at the back.
“Because this isn’t just about headlines or hype. It’s not even about talent, really—though he has plenty of that.”
A light laugh from the squad.
“It’s about showing up. Day in, day out. It’s about who you are when the stadium’s empty, when nobody’s watching but your teammates and the training staff.”
He turned toward Tristan.
“And for us, this isn’t just a proud moment—it’s personal.”
A pause. Pearson nodded toward Vichai.
“So on behalf of the club, the Premier League, Tuttosport, and what I’d call a very proud dressing room…”
Another ripple of laughter from the lads.
“…we’re honoured to present the 2014 Golden Boy award to someone who didn’t just put us on the map—he’s made this club his own.”
He looked right at Tristan.
“To our own—Tristan Hale.”
Applause broke out as Tristan stepped forward, both hands curling around the trophy. It was heavier than it looked.
[ One Draw Ready ]
The system pinged quietly in his head. He ignored it. Later.
He took a breath. Held the trophy a second longer. Then set it gently back on the pedestal and stepped up to the mic.
He didn’t clear his throat.
Didn’t shuffle any notes.
There weren’t any.
“Thank you,” he said, voice steady. “I’ll keep doing my best—for the club, and for the fans.”
His eyes swept across the room, landing first on the players.
“To the boys—thanks for putting up with me. Especially when I don’t pass.”
Laughter broke out—Vardy loudest.
Tristan continued once it calmed down.
Then softer, “And for backing me. From the start.”
He looked toward the back. “To the staff. The club. For fighting to keep this here, at home. I know this wasn’t easy to arrange.”
Then his gaze found his family, his eyes softening.
“To Mum and Dad. For everything. And to my girl, thank you for all your support.”
Julia blinked hard. His dad didn’t move, but his smile tugged deeper. Barbara just looked at him with the softest eyes in the world.
Then finally
“That’s all. Thank you.”
He stepped back.
Applause, again.
Golden Boy.
Tristan Hale.
The applause was still fading when Vardy shot up from his seat, clapping above his head like they’d just won a cup final.
“Oi, Tristan—hold it up again!” he shouted. “One for the wall!”
Tristan rolled his eyes but lifted the trophy anyway, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Cameras clicked in rhythm. A few of the lads swarmed the front, turning the media room into an impromptu photo shoot.
Lingard slid into frame beside him, pointing at the trophy like it was a limited-edition sneaker drop.
“Tag me,” he said, flashing a grin. “I made him.”
“Made him what?” Kasper called from behind the crowd. “Miss team meetings?”
Laughter.
Andy King looped an arm around Tristan’s shoulder, pulling him into a half hug as another flash popped.
“Smile, Golden Boy,” he said. “This is gonna haunt you in the group chat forever.”
“I already know,” Tristan said—but he was smiling. Properly now.
Flashes. Poses. Vardy trying to hold the trophy like it was his.
Pearson stood off to the side, arms crossed, letting the chaos run its course. He didn’t say much.
He didn’t need to. His face said enough but Tristan got him to join in the chaos.
Then came the family.
Julia was first. Her eyes were misty now—not from nerves, but something quieter. Pride. She stepped forward without a word, and Tristan opened his arms. He didn’t say anything either. He just pulled her in and held her close as the camera clicked.
His dad followed, slower, steadier. He shook Tristan’s hand first—firm, proud—then gave his son a solid clap on the back that said everything else he didn’t.
One of the club photographers called out gently, “Family shot?”
Tristan glanced over his shoulder and gave a nod.
Barbara was already on her way, slipping beside him, her arm curving easily around his waist like it belonged there. Anita joined next, quiet and graceful, linking her arm through Julia’s. The five of them came together naturally—shoulders brushing, expressions soft. Another photo. A few more flashes.
No one had to say “smile.”
They just did.
The media crew took a few final frames, then backed off. One of the club PR reps gave a small wave toward the press team.
“That’s all we need. Thanks, everyone.”
Chairs shifted. Camera bags zipped. Reporters began trickling out.
A few minutes later, after most of the media had packed up and the players had filtered out, Tristan stood near the back of the room, trophy in one hand, phone in the other.
He snapped a quick shot—just the Golden Boy trophy on the velvet pedestal.
Then another, wider—Barbara’s hand on his shoulder, Vardy grinning like an idiot in the background, Lingard mid-laugh, already leaning in for the next pose.
He tapped out a caption.
🎯🏆
Belvoir Drive, December 2014
#GoldenBoy #LeicesterCity #Grateful
He posted it without fanfare and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
Barbara’s version went up shortly after. A mid-laugh photo of Tristan at the podium, cheeks flushed, the squad behind him clapping like mad.
@BarbaraPalvin: 📸 My golden idiot. Couldn’t be prouder. ❤️
#GoldenBoy
Anita’s story followed minutes later. A quick boomerang of the trophy from her seat, the caption written in English even though she wasn’t fluent.
"Yep. He’s real."
Sofia took a few polished shots too—Tristan with his parents, then one with just Julia, one with Barbara and Anita. The kind of photos that would end up framed. Or at least posted on the club’s socials.
By the time they’d all left the room, the notifications were flooding in.
@Leicester City:🔥 History made at Belvoir Drive. Our first ever Golden Boy. Congratulations,@Tristan_22. 💙
#LCFC #GoldenBoy #TristanRising
The Premier League reposted it next. Clean. Proud.
@PremierLeague: From Belvoir Drive to the world. 🌍
Golden Boy 2014: Tristan Hale.
#PLGoldenBoy #FutureIsNow
Then came England.
@England: He’s ours, too 😉
Congratulations to @Tristan_22 on winning the 2014 Golden Boy award!
#ThreeLions #GoldenBoy
Barbara sent him a quick nudge with her elbow when she saw it.
Tristan didn’t check his phone after that.
He didn’t need to.
…
By the time they stepped through the front door, the house smelled like something out of a cookbook—rosemary, garlic, and butter curling in the air.
Felix didn’t even look up from the stovetop. He gave a lazy wave with his wooden spoon, apron already dusted with flour and olive oil.
“Perfect timing,” he said. “Dinner’s ten minutes out.”
Julia paused near the doorway, gaze drifting toward the kitchen. Her voice was soft.
“Wow.”
Barbara stepped in beside her, already grinning.
“He always cooks like this?” Julia asked, almost disbelieving.
“Only when he’s showing off.”
Soma passed by with a stack of folded napkins. “He always shows off,” she muttered, not missing a beat.
The dining table had been extended and reset—candles flickering low, linen napkins folded neatly, plates already in place. Felix had plated everything like he was being judged: lamb chops, golden and crisp at the edges, roasted potatoes, a warm salad of squash and wilted greens, and a basket of fresh bread still steaming in the center.
Anita slipped into the seat next to Barbara. Julia sat across from them. Tristan dropped into his spot beside his dad, who gave him a quick clap on the back and poured two glasses of wine like it was second nature.
Dinner didn’t feel like a celebration. It felt like home.
Anita stayed quiet at first, but her eyes never stopped moving. From Julia’s gentle smile to Barbara’s relaxed posture to the way Tristan lit up when he laughed, she was soaking it all in.
Once or twice, she leaned in to whisper something in Hungarian. Barbara grinned, translated over her shoulder for the table—“She said she’s still not sure this isn’t a movie”—and everyone laughed.
The room didn’t need music. The voices were enough.
Soft clinks of cutlery. Felix grumbling every time someone asked for seconds. Soma shaking her head but letting it slide. Julia passing the bread. Barbara brushing her knee against Tristan’s under the table.
It was just right.
…
Later That Night…
The house had finally settled.
Dishes washed. Wine glasses emptied. Lights dimmed in the hallway.
Barbara had curled up beside Tristan not long after they'd gone upstairs—one hand resting on his chest, her breathing steady and slow against his shoulder. She was out cold. Hours of hosting, teasing, translating, and smiling had finally caught up with her.
Tristan lay there for a while, one hand tucked behind his head, the other loosely draped over her back. He watched the shadows shift across the ceiling, his mind too wired to sleep just yet.
The Golden Boy trophy sat downstairs in the trophy room inside a cabinet inside his Championship trophies, that Player of the Season and Young Player of the Season.
He exhaled softly.
"System," he thought. "Draw now."
A soft chime echoed in his head.
[Draw in Progress…]
His pulse picked up slightly.
[Congratulations. You have drawn: Federico Valverde – New Player Template Unlocked.]
Tristan blinked. His fingers flexed lightly against the sheets.
Valverde.
Damn it.
He was hoping for a legend—not Valverde. He was already better than the Uruguayan by a mile. He didn’t even know if any stats would go up.
“System, show my stats,” Tristan asked, praying something had changed.
….
[Name] – Tristan Hale
[Age] – 19
[Team] – Leicester City
[SHO] – B+
[PAS] – A
[DRI] – C+
[PAC] – B+
[DEF] – C+
[PHY] – C++
[Auxiliary] – Anti-Injury Cards(2)
[Templates] Kevin De Bryune, Federico Valverde
*****
‘Oh shit… System, did my shooting, physicality, and defense go up?’
Tristan stared at the screen, noticing the new plus signs that hadn’t been there before.
“Correct. All three attributes have increased. Federico Valverde’s long shots surpass your current level—your shooting has been upgraded accordingly. His defensive ability and physicality were also superior.”
Tristan smiled, ‘Nice. I needed all of that. Alright, I take back what I said about him.’
He leaned back, still smiling at the thought of the improvements.
‘System, how many plus signs do I need before a letter goes up?’ He paused. ‘I probably should’ve asked that earlier.’
“Three + signs are required to advance to the next grade. Note: ‘A’ is the pinnacle of football performance. Your passing is already at that level. Further + can only be achieved through stacking historic templates or long-time experience.”
‘Good to know.’ Tristan dismissed the interface with a mental swipe.
Beside him, Barbara shifted softly, her leg curling around his.
He reached over and brushed a bit of hair from her forehead, watching the way her lashes fluttered but didn’t open.
He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.
…..
2570 word count
After like two chapters, I’m going to start just skipping matches to get to the end of the season. And I apologize for that lack of football, but those matches aren’t interesting, and that team already faced most of the important teams already.
And if you annoyed by the slice of life chaptersbut those are the chapters I enjoy writing the most out of everythingso I’m going to write what makes me happy
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks for the chapter and tbh we all waiting for the next season anyway
Bless
Barça Fan but you really had to do Fede like that
Xato
Ta bien👌
BrandA
Great Chapter. Love the Valverde template, man gets so undersold by some people.
Will Ripley
Definitely the best sports story on web novel by a mile keep up the good work man
Alexis Chamorro
Facts and in my opinion slice of life chapter are better
Mark_M1102
Great chapter Sinbad, your wisdom knows no bounds.
