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Chapter 152: Under Wembley Lights
🕑 Added 2025-03-16 07:59:00 +0000 UTCNovember 10, 2014…
The early morning light streamed through the windows, casting soft golden hues across the hardwood floor. The faint scent of coffee still lingered in the air, but neither of them was really paying attention to it.
Barbara stood near the couch, lifting Tristan’s duffel bag off the floor with both hands. She barely made it two steps before her arms wobbled slightly.
“Jesus—what do you have in here, bricks?” she muttered, adjusting her grip.
Tristan, standing near the counter in a fitted t-shirt and sweatpants, turned at the sound of her struggling. His eyebrows lifted slightly before a slow grin spread across his face.
“Need help with that?”
Barbara shot him a look, adjusting her stance like she was determined to prove a point. “No, I don’t need help.”
Tristan walked over, effortlessly taking the bag from her hands in one smooth motion. "Sure about that?" he teased, slinging it over his shoulder.
Barbara huffed, crossing her arms. “That was strategic. I was just… testing the weight.”
"Uh-huh," Tristan said, amused.
Barbara watched him for a moment, her gaze lingering. “Feels like we just got back together.”
Tristan exhaled, adjusting the strap of his bag. “I know.”
She ran a hand through her hair, biting her lip slightly. “You sure you don’t want me to drop you off?”
Tristan let out a soft laugh, tilting his head. “Yeah? In what car?”
Barbara froze.
Tristan’s lips twitched as he stepped closer. “Babe, you don’t even know how to drive.”
“That’s a technicality,” she grumbled, looking away.
Tristan chuckled, brushing his fingers along her jaw to make her meet his gaze. “It’s a major technicality.”
Barbara placed a hand on his chest, pushing lightly. “I’ll learn eventually.”
Tristan leaned in slightly. “Good. Because I’m teaching you.”
She raised a brow. “You?”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Personalized, hands-on lessons. Best deal you’ll get.”
Barbara sighed dramatically. “Yeah, because sitting in a car with you while you judge my every move sounds like a great time.”
Tristan grinned, arms slipping around her waist. “I promise, I’ll be patient.”
Barbara narrowed her eyes. “No yelling?”
“No yelling.”
“No criticizing?”
Tristan hummed, pretending to think. “Can’t promise that one. But it’ll be constructive criticism.”
Barbara swatted his arm. “I knew it.”
A car honked from outside.
Tristan sighed, reluctantly pulling away. Barbara followed him to the door, her arms wrapping loosely around herself.
John was already waiting, leaning against the car. “Time to go, boss.”
Tristan turned back, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind Barbara’s ear. “Try not to miss me too much.”
Barbara rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the fondness in them. “No promises.”
He grinned, brushing a kiss against her forehead before finally stepping out.
Barbara stood at the door, watching as he climbed into the car.
The moment he was out of sight, she exhaled softly. She already missed him even though he was going to be gone for a few days if everything went to plan.
The drive to St. George’s Park had been quiet for the most part. Tristan had spent most of it scrolling through his phone, catching up on messages from Sophia about his upcoming trip to the US, and absentmindedly thinking about Barbara back home.
John pulled up to the parking lot, putting the car into park. Tristan grabbed his bag, stepping out into the crisp morning air, adjusting the sleeves of his hoodie.
Then he spotted Lingard near the entrance, hands shoved into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. He looked… anxious.
Tristan frowned slightly before realization dawned. Shit. He was supposed to text him last night, asking if he needed a lift.
Too late now.
As soon as Lingard spotted him, he perked up, letting out a relieved breath. “Finally! Thought I got called up just to be left standing outside like a lost kid.”
Tristan chuckled, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he walked over. “My bad. Forgot to text you.”
Lingard exhaled dramatically. “ Big-time Tristan Hale forgets about his day ones.”
Tristan rolled his eyes, clapping him on the back. “Relax, you’ll be fine. Just be yourself. You belong here.”
Lingard still looked a little unconvinced, but he nodded anyway. “Easy for you to say. This is normal for you.”
Tristan nudged him toward the entrance. “Come on, let’s get inside before they make us do push-ups in the parking lot.”
Lingard let out a nervous chuckle but followed him through the glass doors of the England training facility.
Inside, the routine was the same as always.
Players were trickling in, staff moving around, photographers waiting to take the official arrival photos.
Tristan and Lingard dropped their bags near the entrance and stepped up for their turn.
A camera clicked, capturing Tristan.Then another snap—Lingard next to him, looking slightly less at ease but still managing a grin.
As soon as they finished, they walked through the hallways, greeting familiar faces.
The moment Tristan and Lingard stepped into the training facility, the usual buzz of conversation and movement filled the air. Players were greeting each other, some already at their lockers, others stretching or chatting in small groups.
Vardy, leaning against a row of lockers, looked up as they entered. He pushed off the wall, shaking his head with a grin. "Finally, the celebrity shows up."
Tristan rolled his eyes. "Don’t act like you didn’t know exactly when I was getting here."
Vardy laughed, clapping him on the shoulder before turning to Lingard. "And look who’s here! Lingard, first senior call-up, eh? Took you long enough!"
Lingard chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, yeah, I know."
"None of that," Jordan Henderson interjected as he walked past, offering Lingard a firm handshake. "You earned it. Just do your thing."
Lingard nodded. "Appreciate that, Jordan."
Further inside, Sterling looked up from tying his boots and grinned. "Tristan" he greeted, bumping fists before glancing at Lingard. "Lingard, mate, finally made it."
Lingard let out a small laugh, still adjusting to the attention. "Yeah, mad when you think about it."
"Still remember the U21 days?" Sterling asked.
"Course I do," Lingard grinned. "But this—this is different."
Sterling nodded. "Yeah, welcome to the real thing."
At that moment, Rooney turned from his locker. Even in a room filled with England’s best, his presence was unmistakable.
Tristan had long since gotten used to sharing a dressing room with legends, but Rooney was different. Even without the armband, he commanded respect.
Rooney’s gaze flicked toward Tristan first. "Tristan, good to see you again.”
Tristan gave a slight nod.
Then Rooney turned to Lingard, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Lingard, you ready?"
Lingard straightened slightly, nodding. "Yeah. Ready."
Rooney clapped his shoulder. "Good lad."
Then he turned back to Tristan, arms crossing as he studied him for a moment. "Tristan, I better see that 7-1 form for us.”
Tristan exhaled, shaking out his shoulders trying to hide his laugh.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t slacked off, who knows I might get another double hat-trick.”
Rooney nodded approvingly. "Keep that up, and you’ll be leading this squad soon enough."
Tristan didn’t say much, just gave a small nod. He had always known it was coming. But hearing it from Rooney? That hit differently.
As they reached their lockers, Lingard let out a slow breath. "Okay. That was… a lot."
Tristan chuckled, dropping his bag. "That was just the hello. Wait till training."
Lingard groaned, rubbing his face. "Brilliant."
Tristan just leaned back against the locker, shaking his head. Welcome to the England squad.
The hum of conversation quieted as the England squad filtered into the film room, players taking their usual seats while the large projector screen at the front remained frozen on an analysis slide. The atmosphere was relaxed but focused—everyone knew what this was about.
Tristan, Lingard, and Vardy found their seats near the middle, while Rooney and Henderson sat toward the front, already engaged in quiet conversation. The coaching staff, led by Roy Hodgson, stood at the front of the room, preparing to start.
Hodgson adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat, instantly commanding attention. “Alright, lads, let’s get to it.” His gaze flicked to Lingard, who sat a little more upright than usual. “First off, let’s officially welcome Lingard. First senior call-up—congratulations, son.”
A few players clapped, Vardy giving Lingard a light shove. “Big time now, kid. Finally, one more player from Leciester.” Completely ignoring Lingard was on a loan from United.
Lingard smiled, nodding. “Appreciate it.”
Hodgson gave him an approving nod before getting back to business. “Right, we’ve got Slovenia next. They’re no pushovers, but this is a game we should be winning, especially at Wembley.” He clicked the remote, bringing up Slovenia’s probable formation.
On the screen, a 4-4-2 shape appeared, player names marked under each position.
“Defensively, they’re disciplined,” Hodgson continued. “They sit in a compact block, making it difficult to play through the middle. They’ll try to frustrate us, cut off passing lanes, and force mistakes.”
The screen switched to a highlight reel—clips of Slovenia pressing high, forcing errors in midfield, and breaking quickly into attack.
“They’re aggressive in transition,” added Gary Neville, arms crossed. “They don’t need much space to punish mistakes. One misplaced pass in midfield, and they’ll look to hit us with numbers.”
Hodgson nodded. “Which is why our midfield needs to be sharp—quick, decisive passing. No getting caught on the ball.” He turned toward Henderson and Tristan. “That starts with you two. Tristan, you’ll be sitting in the playmaker role, linking between midfield and attack. Henderson, I need you covering ground, keeping the tempo up.”
Henderson gave a firm nod. “Got it, boss.”
Tristan, arms folded, studied the footage. Slovenia wouldn’t give him space easily. He’d have to find a way to break their shape.
Hodgson continued. “Now, their fullbacks like to push up, which means there’s space to exploit out wide. That’s where Sterling, Oxlade-Chamberlain, and Walker come in. The key will be stretching them—pull them out of position, and suddenly, the gaps appear.”
Vardy leaned forward, tapping his fingers against his knee. “So we’re going for pace? Direct?”
Neville nodded. “Exactly. Slovenia won’t want to get into a footrace with you, Sterling, or Welbeck. If we can transition quickly, they’ll struggle.”
A few more clips played, showing moments where Slovenia’s defense had been broken by quick passing moves.
Hodgson paused, scanning the room. “Questions?”
Lingard hesitated before raising a hand slightly. “What about when they sit deep? If they’re happy to defend, how do we break them down?”
Tristan glanced at him approvingly before Hodgson answered.
“Good question,” the manager said. “That’s where creativity comes in. Tristan, Rooney, and Henderson will have to dictate play—quick combinations, overloads in the final third. We won’t force crosses into the box if they have numbers back. We’ll be patient, work them side to side, and wait for the right moment.”
Rooney nodded. “And if we’re leading, we don’t take our foot off the gas.”
Hodgson’s lips pressed into a firm line. “Exactly. Keep up the intensity. No complacency.”
With that, the meeting wrapped up, the screen fading to black. Hodgson dismissed them for training, and the players began filing out.
Lingard let out a breath beside Tristan. “Alright, that wasn’t so bad.”
Tristan smirked, nudging him. “Wait until training, mate.”
Lingard groaned. “Yeah, yeah.”
Tristan chuckled, following the team out onto the pitch. Game day was coming. And England had a job to do.
…..
The training session had wrapped up, sweat still clinging to Tristan’s skin as he made his way toward the designated press area inside St. George’s Park. Normally, these media duties were routine—answer a few questions, keep the responses polite, get in and out.
But the moment he stepped inside the press room, he knew this wasn’t going to be routine.
It was packed.
Not just English reporters. Not just the usual Sky Sports, BBC, and The Athletic journalists.
There were reporters from Spain, Italy, Germany, and even China.
Tristan rolled his shoulders, already anticipating what was coming.
The international break always meant heightened media presence, but this? This was different.
Wayne Rooney sat nearby, adjusting the mic in front of him. Even England’s captain, a legend in his own right, wasn’t drawing as much attention.
It was Tristan. The new face of England.
He took his seat, adjusting his mic as the press officer gave the signal.
The first question came from Sky Sports, straight to the point.
"Tristan, you’re coming off a strong performance against Southampton. Do you feel the pressure now that you’re being seen as England’s main man?"
Tristan leaned into the mic, voice steady.
"Pressure comes with the job. It is what it is. People expect things from me, but that’s how it should be. If no one expected anything, that’d mean I wasn’t good enough."
A chuckle rippled through the room, some journalists exchanging knowing glances.
A Marca reporter from Spain jumped in next.
"Tristan, se habla mucho en España sobre su futuro. Hay clubes grandes siguiéndole de cerca. ¿Se ve jugando en LaLiga algún día?"
(Tristan, there’s a lot of talk in Spain about your future. Big clubs are watching you closely. Do you see yourself playing in La Liga one day?)
Without hesitation, Tristan switched seamlessly to Spanish.
"El fútbol español es increíble. Es una de las mejores ligas del mundo. Pero ahora mismo, mi enfoque está en Inglaterra, en Leicester y en esta selección. El futuro... ya veremos. Y creo que ya respondí a esta pregunta antes cuando alguien me preguntó sobre el Barça o el Real Madrid."
(Spanish football is incredible. It’s one of the best leagues in the world. But right now, my focus is on England, on Leicester, and this national team. The future… we’ll see. And I think I already answered this question when someone asked me about Barça or Real Madrid.)
Some Spanish reporters nodded, scribbling notes.
A journalist from CCTV Sports China raised her hand next.
"特里斯坦，你在中国也有很多球迷，你怎么看你的国际影响力？你以后有计划来中国踢球吗？"
(Tristan, you have many fans in China. What do you think about your international influence? Do you plan to play in China in the future?)
Tristan smiled, switching to Mandarin with ease.
"中国球迷太棒了，我真的很感谢他们的支持。我在网上看到很多留言，真的很感激。但我还年轻，我的目标是在欧洲赢得最大的比赛。我觉得我不会去中国踢球，因为我不想离家太远。"
(Chinese fans are amazing, I really appreciate their support. I see a lot of messages online, and I’m truly grateful. But I’m still young, my goal is to win the biggest competitions in Europe. I don’t think I’ll play in China, because I don’t want to be too far from home.)
There was a quiet murmur among the reporters—his fluency still caught some of them off guard.
Next, a journalist from Bild in Germany leaned forward.
"Tristan, you’re only 19, but people are already calling you a world-class talent. And you admitted yourself that you’re the best player in the league. Where do you place yourself in the world right now?"
Tristan exhaled, tilting his head slightly before answering.
“I think I’m good,” he said bluntly, letting the words sit in the air for a second. Then, with a small shrug, he added, “But where I rank? That’s your job. I’d like to think I’m up there.”
Rooney, sitting next to him, let out a quiet laugh. “Humble answer.”
Laughter rippled through the room.
The final question came from an Italian reporter.
"Tristan, England is going through a transition. Do you feel like the new leader of this team?"
Tristan considered his answer carefully. He knew what they wanted him to say, but he wasn’t about to stir the pot in the dressing room.
"We have a lot of leaders in this team. Rooney, Hart, Henderson—experienced players. Me? I’m just doing my part. But if I can help this team win, I will."
Satisfied, the reporters nodded, taking their final notes as the press officer began wrapping things up.
"Thank you all for your time."
As soon as Tristan stood, Rooney gave him a small nudge. “Handled that well. Not every young player can.”
Tristan adjusted his sleeves. “Comes with the territory.”
Slovenia was up next. Wembley was waiting.
…..
November 15, 2014 – Wembley Stadium
England vs. Slovenia (UEFA Euro 2016 Qualifier)
The crisp autumn air hung over Wembley, a flood of camera flashes illuminating the night as the England squad walked onto the pitch. The atmosphere was electric—a full house of 90,000 fans, chanting, waving flags, and roaring in anticipation.
In the Sky Sports broadcast booth, Martin Tyler and Glenn Hoddle were in their usual positions, voices carrying over the stadium noise.
"Well, here we are, under the Wembley lights, as England take on Slovenia in a crucial Euro qualifier. Martin Tyler here, alongside Glenn Hoddle. Glenn, the talking point coming into this game—Tristan Hale starts again. What do you make of his impact on this team?"
Hoddle nodded thoughtfully. "Martin, he's changed the way England plays. He's not just another attacking midfielder—he’s the heartbeat of this team now. His ability to dictate play, find spaces, and keep the tempo high is something we’ve lacked for years. But this is still a developing England side, and tonight’s another test for him."
The formation graphics popped up on the screen as England took their positions.
England Starting XI (4-4-2)
🧤 GK: Joe Hart
🛡 RB: Nathaniel Clyne
🛡 CB: Gary Cahill
🛡 CB: Phil Jagielka
🛡 LB: Kieran Gibbs
⚡ RM: Raheem Sterling
🔵 CM: Jordan Henderson
🔵 CM: Tristan Hale
⚡ LM: Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain
🎯 ST: Wayne Rooney (C)
⚡ ST: Jamie Vardy
Slovenia Starting XI (4-2-3-1)
🧤 GK: Samir Handanović
🛡 RB: Mišo Brečko
🛡 CB: Boštjan Cesar
🛡 CB: Samo Mavrič
🛡 LB: Bojan Jokić
⚫ CDM: Rene Krhin
⚫ CDM: Jasmin Kurtić
🎩 CAM: Kevin Kampl
⚡ RW: Andraž Šporar
⚡ LW: Josip Iličić
🎯 ST: Milivoje Novaković
"And Glenn, England in their usual 4-4-2 tonight, but there's some flexibility with how Tristan plays in midfield, isn’t there?"
"Exactly, Martin. Henderson and Tristan in the middle—Henderson brings the energy and defensive work rate, while Hale is the creator. You’ll see him drifting into pockets, looking to link up with Sterling and Chamberlain. And up front, you’ve got Rooney and Vardy—one of the most aggressive strike partnerships you could ask for."
The referee blew his whistle—England kicked off.
Wembley erupted as England took the first possession, moving quickly through the midfield. Tristan received the first pass, taking a quick glance up before shifting the ball to Henderson, who immediately spread it wide to Clyne. Slovenia wasted no time closing the space, their compact shape forcing England to keep the ball moving.
"And we’re underway at Wembley," Martin Tyler called as the crowd hummed with anticipation. "England looking to break down this disciplined Slovenian side, but as we know, that’s easier said than done."
Glenn Hoddle nodded, eyes tracking England’s buildup. "Slovenia are sitting deep already, two banks of four, looking to frustrate. This is where Hale comes in—he’s the one who can unlock that defense."
4 minutes in, and England were already testing Slovenia’s backline. Tristan found a pocket of space just outside the box, shifting his body between two defenders before sliding a pass into Sterling’s feet. The winger took a quick touch to steady himself, then whipped in a low cross—Vardy lunged forward!
Just inches away. The ball zipped across the face of goal before a Slovenian defender hoofed it clear. The crowd groaned in frustration.
"That’s a warning sign from England!" Martin called. "Hale already involved, slipping Sterling in, and Vardy nearly on the end of it!"
Slovenia quickly reorganized, their midfield suffocating England’s movement down the center. Henderson and Tristan exchanged a few sharp passes, trying to pull defenders out of position, but Slovenia’s discipline held firm.
By the 10th minute, it was clear what the game would be—England dominating possession, Slovenia absorbing everything, waiting for a counterattack.
18 minutes in, Tristan, always scanning, found himself boxed in near the center circle. A press from Slovenia forced him into a tight space, but instead of panicking, he dragged the ball past his marker with a clever turn, then split two defenders with a driven pass out wide to Chamberlain.
"Oh, lovely footwork from Hale!" Glenn said approvingly. "That’s what he does—he’s got the vision, but he also has the technique to get himself out of trouble."
Chamberlain cut inside, took one touch, then let fly from the edge of the box—BLOCKED! Slovenia threw bodies on the line, their defense showing no fear.
By the 23rd minute, Slovenia had barely touched the ball, yet England had nothing to show for their dominance.
Slovenia’s first real moment of danger arrived in the 27th minute. Henderson lost the ball high up the pitch, and suddenly, Slovenia broke forward with terrifying speed. Kampl darted past Tristan, sprinting through midfield before sliding a pass wide to Iličić.
The Fiorentina forward took a touch, then let rip—Joe Hart dove low! The England keeper got just enough of a hand to push the ball wide, sending the crowd into a brief panic before applause rang around Wembley.
"That’s a reminder," Martin warned. "Slovenia might be sitting deep, but they’ve got players who can punish you on the break."
Tristan exhaled, jogging back into position. England couldn’t lose focus.
By the 34th minute, the frustration was beginning to creep in. England were dominant in every statistic, yet Slovenia refused to crack.
Then—Vardy had a chance.
Cambiasso intercepted a wayward Slovenian pass and immediately released Sterling down the right flank. The winger cut inside, beating his man before floating in an inch-perfect cross.
Vardy timed his run, rose between the defenders—header!
Just wide!
"VARDY SO CLOSE!" Glenn nearly jumped from his seat. "That was the chance! What a ball from Sterling!"
The Slovenian fans jeered, sensing the English frustration.
40 minutes in, Tristan was clipped from behind near the center of the pitch, but the referee waved play on. He pushed himself up, shaking his head. Slovenia weren’t just defending—they were doing everything in their power to disrupt England’s rhythm.
"Slovenia are being physical now," Martin observed. "And England are finding it hard to create clear-cut openings."
By the 44th minute, England launched one last attack before the break.
Henderson played a quick pass into Tristan, who took a single glance up before threading a disguised ball into Rooney’s feet. The captain let it run past him, allowing Sterling to step into the shot—
DEFLECTED OVER!
The corner led to nothing.
The referee blew for halftime, and Wembley let out a collective sigh.
Tristan walked off with the rest of the squad, exchanging a glance with Rooney.
England had dominated.
70% possession.
12 shots to Slovenia’s 2.
Yet, the scoreboard remained empty.
He wasn’t worried.
England would find their breakthrough.
The second half was where the real battle would begin.
….
As the teams re-emerged from the tunnel, the tension in Wembley was palpable. England had dominated possession, created chances, but they had nothing to show for it. Slovenia had defended well, frustrating them at every turn.
But now? England had 45 minutes to break them down.
The second half kicked off with an immediate surge from the home side. Chamberlain was the first to make something happen, darting down the right, his pace causing issues for the Slovenian full-backs. He exchanged a slick one-two with Henderson before whipping a ball across the face of goal—
Rooney lunged—just inches away from making contact.
“England have started this half like a team that knows they have to win,” Martin called, his voice steady but expectant. “They’re pushing higher, moving quicker.”
Tristan, still hovering between midfield and attack, began to orchestrate the rhythm, slipping quick passes to Sterling, finding Chamberlain in the half-spaces, keeping Slovenia’s defense on edge.
A few minutes later, he received the ball just outside the box, his first touch immaculate. With a feint to his left, he sent one defender stumbling before shifting onto his right foot—he let fly!
The shot looked dangerous, curling toward the top corner—
Handanović dived at full stretch, fingertips pushing it over!
“That was special from Tristan Hale!” Glenn praised as the crowd groaned in frustration. “Handanović denies him, but England are getting closer!”
The pressure intensified.
Henderson and Wilshere dictated midfield, pinning Slovenia back. The visitors barely strung two passes together before England reclaimed possession, the game being played entirely in their half.
Then, in the 58th minute, a substitution board lit up on the touchline.
🔻 Tristan Hale OFF
🔺 Lingard Lingard ON – England Debut
A warm ovation rippled through Wembley as Tristan jogged toward the touchline, Lingard standing there, nervous but determined.
As Tristan approached, he clapped Lingard on the back.“Take it easy and don’t be nervous.”
Lingard nodded, exhaling before stepping onto the pitch for his first-ever senior appearance.
“A proud moment for Jesse Lingard,” Martin noted. “Tristan’s night is done, but now the spotlight shifts to the debutant.”
Tristan took his seat on the bench, rolling his shoulders. His job was done—but the game was still in the balance.
The clock ticked past the hour mark, and still, England pressed.
They came agonizingly close in the 65th minute when Chamberlain cut inside and drilled a low shot toward the bottom corner—only for Handanović to deny him again.
The frustration was building. England needed a breakthrough.
And then, finally—they got it.
It started with pure determination.
Chamberlain pressed high, forcing a mistake in Slovenia’s midfield. The ball spilled loose, and Sterling was onto it instantly, darting forward, looking up—and threading the perfect pass.
Rooney was already making the run.
One touch. A clean, ruthless finish into the bottom corner.
GOAL!
Wembley erupted.
“WAYNE ROONEY! FINALLY, ENGLAND BREAK THROUGH!” Martin roared as the crowd exploded in celebration.
Rooney pumped his fists, sprinting toward the corner flag, his teammates swarming him.
Tristan clapped from the bench, shaking his head. That’s why he’s England’s captain.
“Patience pays off!” Glenn added. “It had to be him, didn’t it? That goal might just settle England’s nerves now.”
England couldn’t relax yet.
Slovenia threw everything forward, desperate to claw something back. Kampl started drifting inside, trying to create openings, and Iličić lurked near the edge of the box, looking for one moment to change the game.
And in the 77th minute, he almost got it.
A lofted ball into the box caught England’s backline flat-footed. Iličić brought it down beautifully, chesting it past Cahill—
He struck it on the half-volley—
HART SAVES!
A huge reflex stop from England’s keeper kept the lead intact!
“That’s world-class goalkeeping!” Martin praised. “Iličić caught that so sweetly, but Joe Hart comes up big again.”
England needed one more goal to kill the game off.
And finally—it came.
With Slovenia throwing bodies forward, England found their moment to kill the game off.
Lingard, sharper by the minute, won back possession high up the pitch, immediately feeding Sterling, who exploded forward into open space.
Slovenia’s defenders were scrambling, their formation completely stretched.
Sterling waited, waited—then slipped a perfect ball through the middle.
Vardy was on it in a flash.
“One-on-one—Jamie Vardy—SCORES!”
GAME. OVER.
“JAMIE VARDY! WEMBLEY ERUPTS AGAIN!” Martin roared. “ENGLAND 2, SLOVENIA 0! AND THAT SHOULD BE THAT!”
Vardy slid on his knees, arms stretched wide, soaking in the moment as his teammates rushed toward him.
Tristan clapped on the bench, shaking his head. That was it. That was the dagger.
The final whistle blew, and England secured a dominant 2-0 victory.
Hodgson clapped his hands together from the touchline, pleased with his squad’s performance. Rooney’s leadership. Vardy’s killer instinct. Hart’s crucial saves. A solid, controlled win to inch England closer to Euro 2016 qualification.
As the players shook hands and swapped shirts, Lingard walked up beside Tristan, exhaling.
“I didn’t mess up, did I?” Lingard asked, a slight grin tugging at his lips.
Tristan chuckled, throwing an arm around him. “You were solid. Welcome to the senior team.”
Lingard laughed, shaking his head. “Man… what a night.”
Wembley was still buzzing long after the final whistle, the echoes of England’s 2-0 victory over Slovenia reverberating through the tunnel as the players filtered into the dressing room. Voices overlapped, laughter and exhaustion mixing as boots were unlaced, shirts swapped, and match highlights replayed on the locker room televisions.
Tristan sat on the bench, rolling down his socks, letting the adrenaline from the game slowly wear off. England had secured another win, and now, for most of the squad, focus would shift to the upcoming friendly against Scotland.
But not for him.
As he finished changing into casual wear—a simple black hoodie, joggers, and fresh sneakers—he caught Hodgson’s eye from across the room. The England manager, already deep in conversation with his coaching staff, gave Tristan a brief nod.
Hodgson already knew—Tristan wouldn’t be available for the next match.
The discussion had been handled before the international break even started. Personal and business reasons. Nothing more, nothing less.
Tristan had more important things to do.
As the team slowly dispersed, Rooney walked by, giving him a quick pat on the shoulder. “Leaving already?”
Tristan nodded, standing up and slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, taking some time off.”
Rooney gave him a knowing look. “Enjoy it while you can. Next time you’re here, it’s back to war.”
Tristan chuckled, shaking his hand. “Looking forward to it.”
Lingard popped up next to them, still riding the high of his England debut. “Oi, wait, you’re not coming to Scotland?”
Tristan smirked slightly, adjusting the strap on his bag. “Nope. Taking a breather.”
Lingard exhaled dramatically. “Man, I just got here, and you’re already ditching me.”
Tristan snorted. “You’ll survive, Jess.”
A few more goodbyes were exchanged before he finally left the dressing room, making his way through the tunnels toward the players' exit. His ride was already waiting.
As the car pulled out of Wembley’s underground lot, Tristan leaned back into the seat, exhaling.
It was finally time to go home.
The drive back to Leicester felt longer than usual, though it was probably just the mental shift—coming down from the high of an international match always made the world seem quieter.
The night was cold and crisp, the streetlights casting golden hues over the damp pavement. As they neared home, Tristan pulled out his phone, scrolling through missed messages.
Barbara had sent him a text not long ago.
📲 Are you home yet?
📲 Still on the way.
📲 Good. You owe me cuddles.
A small smile tugged at his lips as he typed back.
📲 5 minutes.
When the car finally pulled up to the house, he stepped out, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he made his way inside.
The warmth of the house hit him immediately, the scent of something sweet lingering in the air. Felix was off, meaning Barbara had likely attempted to cook again.
As he stepped into the living room, he spotted her curled up on the couch, wearing one of his shirts, legs tucked under a blanket, a half-finished cup of tea on the table.
She looked up the moment she heard the door close.
"You're home," she murmured, stretching slightly.
Tristan set his bag down, walking over before collapsing onto the couch beside her, letting out a deep sigh. "Finally."
Barbara shifted closer, resting her head against his shoulder. "You tired?"
Tristan let out a small chuckle. "Wiped."
She hummed in response, fingers lazily tracing over the fabric of his hoodie. "I watched the game. You played well."
Tristan exhaled, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her in closer. "Yeah? No critiques?"
Barbara grinned against his shoulder. "Not this time. But I did notice you didn’t score or assist. Slacking?"
Tristan let out an exaggerated groan. "Don’t start."
Barbara laughed softly, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw before snuggling back in.
A comfortable silence settled between them for a moment before Barbara finally spoke again.
"So... US tomorrow?"
Tristan nodded, rubbing slow circles against her back. "Yeah.We’re off to Malibu."
Barbara hummed. "You packed?"
Tristan smirked slightly, closing his eyes. "Nope. You gonna do it for me?"
Barbara rolled her eyes. "Absolutely not."
Tristan sighed dramatically. "Then I guess I’m going in whatever’s clean."
Barbara just shook her head, already mentally preparing to double-check his suitcase in the morning.
For now, though, he was home. And for a few hours at least, that was all that mattered.
……………
5402 word count not counting this end section
It is currently 3:53 AM as I finished writing this chapter
Shit I don’t even know if Im gonna wake up at all once I close my eyes
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks for the chapter!!
Bel'Ami Pandjo
Same good chapter
mlungisi mguni
Tristan not playing against SCOTLAND one of England’s biggest rivals just to be with his girl !!!! I don’t know about that man
l K
SINBAD.... thank you. I tip my har
