Sinbad
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Chapter 146: Back to Action
🕑 Added 2025-03-07 17:26:21 +0000 UTCNext Morning…
Barbara stirred as the first hints of sunlight seeped through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room.
Her entire body ached.
Not just sore—wrecked. Every muscle protested, a reminder of how she had spent the last twenty-four hours.
At some point, Tristan suggested a break—a dinner date, because apparently, he still wanted to be romantic after all that.
Then they came back.
And did it all over again.
Barbara let out a breathless chuckle. He was insatiable.
And she let him be.
She turned her head, ignoring the sharp pull in her legs, and found him still asleep. Face half-buried in the pillow, golden curls messy, chest rising and falling in steady breaths. Completely at peace.
Unlike her.
Her gaze drifted downward.
And then she saw it.
Her breath caught.
Oh.
His entire back was wrecked.
Scratches—deep, angry, unmistakable—ran from his shoulders to his waist. Some faint, others dark and bruising.
She had done that.
Barbara swallowed, fingers itching to trace every mark.
And it wasn’t just him.
Her body ached where he had gripped her. Her thighs throbbed. Her hips still carried the ghost of his fingertips.
And then there was the bite mark.
Barbara brushed her fingers over the bruised imprint on her shoulder.
Tristan had listened.
No marks where she couldn’t cover—except this one.
Because she had wanted it.
That fact alone said everything about him.
He could have lost himself completely, but even when she told him to take everything, he still listened.
He didn’t just want her.
He cared for her.
A slow shiver ran down her spine.
His voice, hoarse and breathless.
The way his hands never stopped touching her.
The way he learned her so quickly, like he was made for her.
This had been his first time.
And she had taken everything—his first kiss, his first love, his first time.
Mine.
The thought settled deep in her bones.
Barbara shifted slightly—pain shot through her legs.
Oh.
Yeah.
No gym today.
She groaned, flopping onto her back.
Worth it.
But the weight of what they had done lingered.
This was more than sex.
They had taken a step forward.
There was no undoing it.
Barbara exhaled, reaching blindly for her phone on the nightstand.
The screen glowed—5:47 AM.
Her gaze flicked between the time and Tristan, still peacefully asleep beside her.
The contrast made her smile.
She hesitated, then opened the camera.
Framed the shot—her, barely awake, tangled in his sheets, and him, completely oblivious.
She snapped the picture.
And then, just because she could—
She turned slightly and took another.
This time, she traced a scratch on his back before capturing it.
Proof.
Of last night.
Of them.
Of everything they had become.
Barbara stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the save button.
Then she saved them both.
For her eyes only.
She bit her lip, stealing another glance at Tristan.
Barbara had never been the type to obsess over moments like these.
But this?
This, she wanted to remember.
Her fingers hovered just over his back, itching to touch him, to remind herself this wasn’t just some dream she had conjured up.
But before she could—Tristan shifted.
Tristan stretched beneath the sheets, a low, sleepy exhale slipping past his lips as his muscles flexed. His eyes cracked open, still heavy with sleep, blinking lazily at the ceiling before his head turned, gaze landing on her.
Barbara barely had time to react before she reached out, fingers ghosting over one of the deeper scratches on his back—
Tristan’s hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist.
She let out a startled yelp as he rolled onto his side, pressing her into the mattress.
His voice was still rough from sleep. “You keep touching me like that, and we’re not leaving this bed today.”
Her breath caught.
Yeah. She believed him.
Still, she tilted her chin slightly, feigning innocence. “Maybe I wasn’t trying to wake you.”
Tristan’s gaze flicked between her and her hand, still lingering near his shoulder. “You were literally tracing the marks on my back.”
Barbara huffed, pressing a palm against his chest. “No.”
He let out a quiet laugh, his grip loosening, thumb brushing slow, lazy circles over her wrist. Neither of them moved, wrapped in the warmth of each other.
Barbara let her fingers drift down his arm, voice teasing. “So… how does it feel, knowing I took all your firsts?”
Tristan blinked, still groggy. “Huh?”
She giggled, pressing a slow, teasing kiss against his jaw.
His grip on her waist tightened.
“Your first time,” she murmured. “Your first everything.”
Tristan exhaled, fingers twitching slightly against her ribs.
Barbara grinned, watching his dazed expression. “No thoughts?”
Tristan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I don’t think I can even move, love.”
Barbara laughed softly.
Good. At least she wasn’t the only one feeling it.
Tristan shifted onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “You were the one who wanted to keep going.”
Barbara’s eyes narrowed. “You did NOT just put this on me.”
His lips twitched. “I’m just saying.”
Barbara grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked him with it.
Tristan caught it mid-air, about to throw it back at her—until his fingers brushed against her skin. His gaze flickered down, settling on the faint bruising from his bite.
His voice softened. “Thought you said no marks where you couldn’t cover.”
Barbara swallowed, her fingers absentmindedly dragging down his chest. “That one’s… different.”
His head tilted slightly. “How?”
She exhaled, nails tracing lazy patterns along his abdomen. “Because I wanted it.”
Something shifted in his gaze. Instead of teasing, he leaned in, brushing his lips over the mark on her shoulder—soft, almost reverent. His voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re perfect.”
Barbara’s breath caught. She swallowed hard, trying to play it off. “You’re just saying that because of last night.”
Tristan pulled back slightly, eyes steady. “Barbara, you could have been wrapped in a trash bag, and I’d still think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Barbara scoffed, nudging his chest. “That’s a terrible comparison.”
Tristan shook his head. “I’m serious. You’re—” He hesitated, then muttered, “angelic.”
Barbara burst out laughing. “Tristan, I literally clawed you up like a wildcat last night, and you’re calling me angelic?”
Tristan pressed a kiss to her forehead. “A goddess, then.”
Barbara smirked. “You’re definitely just saying that because of the sex.”
Tristan exhaled, shaking his head. “Barbara, I’m not joking. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.” His fingers brushed her jaw, thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. “Your face, your eyes, your little nose, your—” His gaze flicked to her mouth, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Your teeth.”
Barbara blinked. “My teeth?”
Tristan nodded, brushing his fingers over her cheek. “Yeah. They’re cute.”
Barbara rolled her eyes. “Now I know you’re making stuff up.”
Tristan frowned slightly. “What? I like them.”
Barbara sighed, shaking her head. “My agency wanted me to get veneers a while back.”
Tristan’s brows pulled together. “What? Why?”
She shrugged. “They thought they weren’t perfect enough. But I was scared of shaving them down, so I never did it.”
Tristan stared at her for a long moment before shaking his head. “Good.”
Barbara arched a brow. “Good?”
Tristan kissed the corner of her mouth. “Because if anyone ever calls you ugly, I’ll fight them.”
Barbara burst out laughing, shoving his chest.
Tristan just smiled, pressing another kiss against her cheek, then one against her jaw, trailing slowly down her throat.
Barbara sighed dramatically, but the warmth curling in her chest told her everything she refused to say out loud.
Barbara’s fingers curled into Tristan’s messy curls, her voice quieter this time.
"You really didn’t hold back either, you know."
Tristan hummed, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Sorry, but I do remember you shouting."
Barbara’s eyes narrowed, warmth creeping up her neck. “You—”
Tristan smirked, clearly too pleased with himself.
She groaned, dropping her head back against the pillow. "You caused this. You get to fix it."
His brows lifted. "Fix what?"
She waved a lazy hand toward the bathroom. "Shower."
Tristan arched an eyebrow. "You want me to—"
Barbara cut him off, deadpan. "I literally can’t walk. Help me."
Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re hopeless."
Before she could argue, he effortlessly scooped her up.
"Tristan—!" she yelped, instinctively clutching at his shoulders.
He nudged the bathroom door open with his foot, completely unbothered. "You asked for help."
Barbara scowled, though there was no real heat behind it. "I didn’t mean carry me like a damn princess."
Tristan only shrugged, setting her down gently on the closed toilet lid. "Too late."
Barbara sighed, rolling her shoulders. “This might actually be the most sore I’ve ever been.”
Tristan shot her a knowing look. “Regrets?”
She met his gaze, lips twitching. “Not even one.”
Tristan turned on the shower, checking the water temperature before motioning her over. “Come on, then.”
Barbara tried to push herself up, only for her legs to buckle the moment her feet touched the floor. A sharp, burning ache shot up her thighs.
"Okay, wow," she groaned, gripping Tristan’s arm for balance. "Yeah. I’m actually broken."
His grip on her waist tightened. "You good?"
Barbara sighed, resting her forehead lightly against his chest. "Just… give me a second."
Tristan watched her carefully, then—before she could protest—lifted her again and stepped under the warm spray, pulling her in with him.
Barbara melted instantly, the heat sinking into her sore muscles.
Tristan pressed a kiss to her damp hair. "Better?"
Barbara exhaled, eyes slipping shut. “Much.”
His hands moved to her hair, working shampoo between his fingers before massaging it gently into her scalp. His touch was slow, soothing, careful.
"You’re really good at this," she mumbled.
Tristan huffed a laugh. "Yeah? You sound like you’re about to fall asleep."
Barbara only sighed, too comfortable to care.
As he rinsed out the shampoo, his fingers drifted lower, working soap over her shoulders, down her arms, along her waist. His hands lingered for a moment when they brushed over the faint bruises on her hips.
Then, his fingers skimmed over her shoulder, pausing on the bite mark.
Barbara stilled.
Tristan’s hand hesitated. "Still sore?"
She swallowed. It wasn’t just the soreness.
It was everything.
How much she had wanted him. How easy it was to lose herself in him. How he was hers now.
She cleared her throat, shaking off the thought. "I’ll manage."
Tristan didn’t push. Instead, he leaned in, brushing his lips over the mark before rinsing the last of the soap from her skin.
After turning off the water, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her first before drying himself off.
Barbara, still wobbly, let him.
She liked this.
She liked him taking care of her.
She liked taking care of him too.
One Hour Later….
Barbara barely made it to the kitchen—her legs still protesting every step—but she did, wearing nothing but one of Tristan’s t-shirts.
Tristan was already there, shirtless, standing by the stove. His back muscles flexed with every movement as he cracked eggs into the pan, the early morning light catching on the faint red scratches she had left on his skin.
Barbara exhaled slowly, gripping the counter for balance. Yup. She was still in trouble.
"You’re struggling," Tristan mused, not even looking up from his cooking.
Barbara huffed, dragging herself onto the counter with zero grace. "I’m fine."
Tristan finally glanced over his shoulder, unimpressed. The look he gave her said enough. Sure you are.
Barbara rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, instead swinging her legs slightly as she got comfortable.
Tristan moved around the kitchen like he had done this a hundred times before—barefoot, cooking, completely at ease. And Barbara? She just watched, taking in the quiet domesticity of it all.
This.
Him taking care of her. Making sure she was okay.
The realization hit her hard and fast.
She loved him.
She didn’t say it—not yet. Instead, she reached for her phone, quietly framing the shot. Tristan, standing at the stove, golden curls a mess, his white sweatpants hanging low on his hips.
Perfect.
She snapped the picture, smirking as she typed out the caption.
"My man. 😌"
And posted it.
Almost instantly, her notifications blew up.
Barbara grinned. Yeah, the internet was going to lose its mind over this one.
Tristan, now plating the eggs, glanced at her. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing," Barbara said, all innocence, locking her phone.
Tristan gave her a skeptical look but let it go—until his phone buzzed on the counter.
Barbara, still perched on the countertop, reached for it—only to be stopped by the lock screen.
"Password?" she asked.
Tristan, mid-bite of toast, barely looked up. "123415."
Barbara blinked. "Seriously?"
He shrugged, sipping his coffee. "It’s my mom and dad’s birthdays."
She typed it in, unlocking the screen—only to see a message from Vardy.
Vardy: Pick me up.
Barbara snorted. "Your boy needs a ride."
Tristan didn’t even glance up. "Text him ‘okay.’"
Barbara rolled her eyes but did as he asked.
Barbara: Okay.
"There," she teased, tossing the phone back onto the counter. "Now he knows you’re his personal taxi."
Tristan nudged her thigh in retaliation, then casually said, "Text Soma and Sophia to come over."
Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Didn’t you just tell them to take the day off yesterday?"
Tristan didn’t even pause as he sipped his coffee. "Yeah. Now they’ve got nothing to do, and I don’t want you spending the day alone." He shot her a look. "Pretty sure you don’t have any friends in Leicester."
Barbara tilted her head, watching him. That was… sweet. He wasn’t just thinking about her being alone—he just always made sure she was looked after.
She smirked, unlocking her phone. "Aw. You care."
Tristan shot her a flat look. "Just send the texts, Barbara."
She grinned but did as he asked, sending the same message to Soma and Sophia.
Tristan turned back to the stove, flipping the eggs onto plates, moving effortlessly around the kitchen like this was something he had always done.
Barbara propped her chin on her hand, watching him again. "You’re really domestic like this, you know?"
Tristan raised an eyebrow, setting down the spatula. "Like what?"
Barbara’s smile widened, swinging her legs. "Cooking shirtless. Making me breakfast. Taking care of me. Feels like you’re stuck with me now."
Tristan stepped between her legs again, hands settling on her thighs. "Good," he murmured, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her jaw. "That’s the plan."
Barbara’s breath caught for a second.
Her fingers curled slightly against the counter, heart hammering.
Tristan, completely unaware of what he had just done to her, turned back to grab the plates.
He set the plates down on the counter, nudging one toward Barbara before grabbing two mugs.
"Coffee?" he asked, already pouring.
Barbara hummed, reaching for her fork. "Obviously."
Tristan slid a mug beside her plate, then leaned against the counter, picking up a cup of orange juice.
For a few moments, they ate in comfortable silence—Barbara perched on the countertop, Tristan standing beside her, the occasional clink of forks and quiet sips of coffee filling the space.
When their plates were empty, Tristan grabbed them both and rinsed them off in the sink. Barbara watched him move, enjoying the easy rhythm of it.
Then, an idea hit her.
She reached for her phone, unlocked it, and placed it in front of him.
Tristan glanced at it, confused. "What?"
Barbara leaned forward, propping her chin on her palm. "Change my password."
Tristan’s brows furrowed. "Why?"
Barbara smirked. "Because I’m giving it to you."
Tristan stared at her for a moment before setting his mug down. "All of them?"
Barbara nodded. "Phone, socials—everything."
Tristan wiped his hands on a dish towel before picking up her phone, his expression unreadable.
"You serious?"
Barbara shrugged. "Yeah. You finally trust me after we had sex, right?"
Tristan snorted, shaking his head.
He typed something in and handed the phone back.
Barbara checked the new passcode.
68108.
Her birthday and his.
Her breath hitched slightly, but she played it off with a teasing smile. "Cute."
Tristan chuckled, grabbing his phone back. "That’s a stretch."
“Keep yours the same; I like it.” Barbara said as Tristan was about to hand his phone to her.
Tristan kissed her cheek before stepping back.
“Thank you.”
Barbara rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the warmth spreading in her chest.
Tristan checked the time. "I should go. Carl wants to see me before training."
Barbara sighed, dragging out the motion as she stretched her arms toward him. "But you just got here."
Tristan checked his phone, sighing. "I should go. Carl wants to see me before training."
Barbara, still perched on the counter, groaned dramatically. "Ugh, but you just got here."
Tristan shot her a look. "Barbara, I live here."
She waved a lazy hand. "Details."
Rolling his eyes, he grabbed a shirt from the chair, pulling it over his head. Barbara barely paid attention—until she saw him reaching for his hoodie without putting it on yet.
"Wait." Her tone shifted slightly, more serious now.
Tristan glanced up, one brow raised.
Barbara folded her arms, tilting her head. "Make sure your back is covered."
Tristan huffed but didn’t argue. "I know. Otherwise, I’ll never hear the end of it." He zipped the hoodie up without hesitation, adjusting the hem as Barbara watched him like a hawk.
"Exactly," she said smugly, crossing her legs. "Your teammates would destroy you."
Tristan stepped between her legs, settling his hands on her thighs. "You enjoy bullying me too much."
Barbara smirked, toying with the collar of his hoodie like she was adjusting it—when in reality, she just wasn’t ready to let him go yet. "I bully you because I care."
Tristan’s fingers brushed against her skin absentmindedly. "Good to know."
She sighed, smoothing down the hoodie fabric over his chest before resting her palms there. "You’re lucky I’m letting you leave."
Tristan chuckled, leaning in to press a quick kiss to her forehead. "I’ll be back later."
Barbara hummed, her fingers gripping his hoodie lightly before she let go. "Make sure you are."
Tristan smirked, grabbing his keys off the counter.
Barbara watched him go, biting her lip.
Yeah. She was definitely in trouble.
….
Tristan arrived at Belvoir Drive, the morning air cutting through as he stepped onto the training grounds. He adjusted the hoodie making sure it was zipped up high enough to avoid any unnecessary questions.
His body still ached, a deep, lingering soreness that wasn’t unpleasant—just a reminder of last night. But he shook it off, falling into his usual stride as he made his way toward the medical room where Carl was waiting for him.
The physio glanced up the moment Tristan walked in. "Tristan. About time."
Tristan smirked. "You missed me that much?"
Carl scoffed, motioning for him to sit on the exam table. "Missed your constant need for attention? Not exactly."
Tristan chuckled, but as he moved to hop up onto the table, Carl narrowed his eyes slightly.
"You’re moving a little stiff, mate."
Tristan froze for half a second before forcing a casual shrug. "Long night."
Carl arched an eyebrow. "Uh-huh." He didn’t press it—at least, not yet. Instead, he gestured to Tristan’s ankle. "Let’s have a look."
Tristan pulled his sock down, letting Carl check the area that had sidelined him for weeks. The physio rotated his foot carefully, testing the movement before pressing along the joint.
"No pain?"
"None."
Carl nodded but didn’t let up. He guided Tristan through a few more movements—flexing, rotating, light pressure—before stepping back with a satisfied hum.
"The ankle’s fine," he confirmed. But then, his gaze flicked up, studying Tristan again.
"You’re still moving a bit slower, though. Soreness?"
Tristan hesitated for a split second before clearing his throat. "Yeah. Nothing serious."
Carl squinted at him, skeptical.
Tristan adjusted the sleeves of his hoodie as Carl studied him, arms crossed, not quite convinced.
"You look stiff," Carl muttered, flipping a page on his clipboard before setting it down. "And don’t give me that ‘long night’ excuse. I need to see if you’re actually ready to train or just running on adrenaline and bad decisions."
Tristan let out a quiet laugh. "Bad decisions? Really?"
Carl smirked. "Tell me I’m wrong."
Tristan didn’t reply.
"That’s what I thought," Carl said. "Up. Let’s run through a few more tests."
Tristan reluctantly hopped off the table, rolling his ankle as if to prove he was fine. Carl, unimpressed, nodded toward the open space in the physio room.
"Alright, first things first. Light jog across the room, then backpedal."
Tristan started jogging, his legs burning just a little more than usual. When he shifted into the backpedal, Carl’s sharp gaze caught the briefest wince that flickered across Tristan’s face.
"Stop," Carl ordered.
Tristan barely skidded to a halt before Carl was right in front of him, hands on his hips.
"Something’s off."
Tristan clenched his jaw. "Just a little tight. Nothing serious."
Carl eyed him for a long second. "Alright. Let’s test that. Single-leg squats, now."
Tristan sighed but obeyed, dropping down on one leg. By the third rep, Carl’s eyes narrowed.
"Okay. Now a single-leg hop."
Tristan did it—once, twice—but Carl caught the hesitation in his movement.
"Again," Carl said.
Tristan tried to push off stronger this time, forcing his body to ignore the tightness. But Carl wasn’t buying it.
The physio stepped forward, arms crossed. "Alright, Tristan. I’ll bite—why are you moving like someone ran you over with a truck?"
Tristan ran a hand through his curls, exhaling. "Like I said. Long night."
Carl’s expression remained blank for two seconds before something clicked. His eyebrows lifted, and then, slowly—too slowly—he nodded.
"Ah," Carl muttered. "So that kind of sore."
Tristan shut his eyes for a beat. "Can we not—"
"No, no, this makes sense now," Carl mused, rubbing his chin like he had just solved some mystery. "You weren’t moving like this last week. Definitely weren’t stiff then."
"Jesus Christ."
Carl barely contained his grin, flipping open his clipboard like he was taking official notes. "Hale, I gotta be honest—this is a first for me. Usually, when players return from injury, they’re stiff from, you know, actual rehab. Not—"
Tristan groaned. "Carl."
Carl shrugged. "Hey, I just gotta make sure it’s all muscle fatigue and not something else flaring up. So tell me, you sure the ankle’s fine?"
Tristan rolled his eyes. "It’s fine."
"Uh-huh. And you’ll be able to run full intensity without feeling like your legs are about to give out?"
Tristan bit the inside of his cheek. He knew Carl was loving this.
"I’ll be fine, Carl."
Carl hummed like he wasn’t convinced. "Alright. I’ll clear you, but if I see you struggling during training, I’m pulling you. And trust me, I’ll be watching closely. Not for your ankle—"
Tristan shot him a warning glare.
Carl grinned. "—but to see how well you keep up after your ‘long night.’"
Tristan grabbed the nearest towel and chucked it at him before heading toward the door.
"Don’t die out there!" Carl called after him.
Tristan just shook his head, already bracing for whatever came next.
As he left the room, he exhaled slowly, rolling out his shoulders.
Just as Tristan stepped out of the medical room, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, glancing at the screen.
Vardy: Where the hell are you? You were supposed to pick me up.
Tristan blinked, swiping a hand down his face.
Damn it.
In all the chaos of this morning—between taking care of Barbara, breakfast, and making sure she wasn’t alone—he had completely forgotten.
He quickly typed out a reply.
Tristan: My bad. Already at the training ground. You need a ride back?
Vardy’s response was instant.
Vardy: You’re dead to me.
Tristan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
"Everything good?" a voice came from behind him.
Tristan turned to see Carl giving him a questioning look.
"Yeah, just forgot I was supposed to pick up Vardy," Tristan admitted, slipping his phone back into his pocket.
Carl snorted. "Oh yeah, he’s definitely gonna make you pay for that one."
Tristan exhaled. "I know."
Thirty Minutes Later…
Tristan stepped onto the training pitch, rolling out his shoulders as the morning chill settled into his muscles. The squad was already scattered across the field—some stretching, others passing the ball around, their voices carrying over the crisp air.
Everyone except Danny Drinkwater, who was still sidelined with his injury.
And Vardy—who, as expected, was still pretending Tristan didn’t exist.
Tristan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He knew the man could hold a grudge over the smallest things, and forgetting to pick him up this morning? Apparently, that was an unforgivable crime.
Fine. Let him sulk. He’d get over it by lunch.
"Look who’s back," Lingard’s voice rang out as he jogged up beside Tristan, grinning. "Man, we were starting to think you retired."
Tristan scoffed. "Yeah, because watching you lot struggle without me was so tempting."
Lingard nudged him with his elbow. "Bold talk for someone who looks like he’s running at half speed."
Tristan rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.
Before he could come up with a comeback, Pearson’s voice cut across the pitch.
"Right, bring it in!"
The chatter died down, and the squad moved toward the touchline, where Pearson stood with his arms crossed, eyes scanning them like a drill sergeant.
"First off, good work last match," Pearson started, his voice carrying over the wind. "3-0 against Trabzonspor. Solid performance. That’s exactly what I wanted to see."
A few murmurs of approval rippled through the squad. Some players nodded. Others, like Ulloa and Mahrez, exchanged satisfied looks.
"But," Pearson continued, his tone sharp, "I don’t give a damn if we do it in the Europa League if we can’t do it here. We need that every single week in the Premier League. Just like we’ve been doing. No excuses. No let-offs."
The team absorbed his words in silence.
Then, Pearson’s gaze landed on Tristan.
"And now that Tristan’s back," he said, holding his stare for a second longer, "I expect us to keep that standard up. Full strength. No dropping off. We keep winning."
A few claps followed, some players giving Tristan a pat on the back.
Pearson motioned toward Shakey, who was already setting up the first drills. "Let’s get moving!"
The squad dispersed, heading toward the cones and markers that were already laid out for the session.
The squad split into small groups for passing and movement exercises. Tristan fell in with Mahrez, Ulloa, and Matty James, settling into the rhythm as they cycled through quick passes.
The ball came to his feet, and his first touch was clean—smooth as ever. He flicked it to Mahrez, who barely needed a step to control it before playing it on.
It wasn’t until the third or fourth rotation that they started to notice.
Tristan was moving a little slower than usual.
Not slow, but not quite at his usual tempo. His turns weren’t as sharp, his acceleration was just a fraction off.
Mahrez side-eyed him between passes. "Bit stiff, you good?"
Tristan exhaled sharply, stretching his stride as he received another pass. "Just shaking off the rust."
Ulloa smirked. "Yeah, that’s what happens when you sit out for a week. Ankles fine, though?"
Tristan nodded. "Yeah. Carl checked it out. No issues."
Matty James chimed in. "Probably just need a couple of sessions to get the match fitness back. Happens to everyone."
No one questioned it beyond that.
No one suspected the real reason his legs weren’t at full strength.
Tristan kept his breathing steady, staying with the pace as the drill progressed. He knew this slight dip in sharpness would be gone in a few sessions. He just needed to get back into rhythm.
The whistle blew, signaling them to switch stations.
Pearson stood by, watching closely as they moved into a small-sided possession game.
"Alright," Pearson called. "Let’s see some sharpness. No passengers."
Tristan took a deep breath.
Time to get to work.
Even in training, Pearson didn’t tolerate sloppiness. Possession had to be quick, movement sharp, decision-making instant.
Tristan’s team: Mahrez, Cambiasso, Ulloa, and Schlupp.
Against: Vardy, King, Albrighton, Simpson, and Morgan—who, of course, was taking this as seriously as a cup final.
The second play started, the press was relentless.
Mahrez received the ball and flicked it to Tristan. His first touch was clean. But the moment he turned—
Vardy was on him.
"Slower than usual, mate," Vardy taunted, sticking close.
Tristan ignored him, shifting the ball quickly before laying it off to Cambiasso.
It was true. He wasn’t as quick on the turn as usual. His legs still had that lingering soreness—nothing major, just enough to remind him why.
But he wasn’t about to give Vardy more ammunition than he already had.
The game continued, moving at a fast tempo. Tristan kept up, but every so often, he felt it—a half-second delay, a step he couldn’t push off as quickly.
Pearson, watching from the sideline, narrowed his eyes slightly.
He was moving fine. But not quite at his best.
That would change. It had to.
A few minutes in, Albrighton tried to slip a pass through the middle, but Schlupp intercepted it, quickly shifting the ball to Tristan.
Vardy came charging in again, expecting him to hesitate.
This time, Tristan took one quick touch—then flicked it past Vardy with the outside of his boot, spinning away before playing a one-two with Mahrez.
Vardy groaned. "Oh, piss off."
Tristan grinned, shifting into space as Mahrez found him again. He darted past King, threading a pass toward Ulloa, who turned and slotted it home.
"Nice!" Cambiasso clapped as the whistle blew.
Tristan exhaled, shaking out his legs.
Tristan rolled his shoulders.
The next phase of training was about to start.
And he wasn’t about to let anyone—even his own body—hold him back.
Four Hours Later…
Tristan knew it was coming. Lingard’s been his damn phone all day, sharing everyone pictures of something but him.
The second he stepped into the locker room, the energy shifted.
Players sprawled out, cooling down, but there was a buzz. Like a storm waiting to break.
He barely had time to unlace his boots before Schmeichel’s voice rang out.
"Oi, Tristan. Anything you wanna tell us?"
Tristan frowned. "What?"
Vardy, instantly interested, sat up. "Oh, this is about to be good."
Schmeichel, grinning like an idiot, turned his phone around.
And there it was.
Barbara’s post.
The picture of Tristan, standing at the stove, shirtless, cooking breakfast, captioned:
“My man. 😌”
Silence.
Then—
"MY MAN?!" Schmeichel shouted, cackling.
The locker room erupted.
"Ohhh, it’s official," Ulloa hooted.
"Hale’s domesticated!" Matty James laughed.
Tristan sighed, "You lot need better hobbies."
Vardy smirked, "No wonder you were moving slow today."
The teasing hit a fever pitch.
"So that’s why you forgot to pick me up?" Vardy added, shaking his head. "You were too busy being her man."
"Tristan Hale: Premier League footballer, Europa League baller, Barbara Palvin’s personal chef," Albrighton quipped.
"Tristan, tell us the truth," Schmeichel wheezed. "Are you actually sore from training or did Barbara just—"
"I will murder you," Tristan cut in, deadpan.
The boys lost it.
Morgan, shaking his head, clapped him on the shoulder. "Fair play, though. Some of us struggle to get a text back."
Vardy nodded solemnly. "Meanwhile, Barbara’s out here claiming you in front of the whole world. Inspirational."
Tristan groaned, shoving his bag over his shoulder. "I hate all of you."
"That’s not a no," Vardy pointed out, wiggling his eyebrows.
Tristan flipped him off before heading out the door.
Yeah.
He was never living this down.
……………..
5504 word count as promised, Mark, now get to back.
Now, did I write too much about Barbara and Tristan, probably? I don’t know I wrote the top section after one of my midterms, and I needed something to make me happy. And writing about the relationship in this story does that.
And some of you guys wanted it, not naming them.
Now, to be honest, I really wasn’t in the mind to write with college kicking my ass but it is what it is so this chapter may be ass. If it's that bad, let me know, I will rewrite it.
I have another chapter up today to continue the promise of daily chapters
Comments
Sicario_1011
I love the relationship and I think you have a good balance there’s just no exciting matches at the moment
