Sinbad
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Chapter 141: Back to Business
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 19:44:34 +0000 UTCOctober 14, 2014 – London, England……
The private jet touched down at Luton Airport, taxiing smoothly along the runway as the England squad prepared to go their separate ways after another successful international break.
From the outside, it looked like just another return flight—players gathering their belongings, stretching their legs, checking their phones.
But inside the cabin?
It was a mix of exhaustion, relief, and quiet satisfaction.
Tristan pulled his hoodie over his head, leaning back in his seat, eyes still heavy from the lack of sleep. The past ten days had been a whirlwind—three games, three wins, three more assists, one more goal. His name had been everywhere, the noise around him getting louder with every match.
And now?
He was back.
Ready to shift his focus back to Leicester City and the Premier League grind.
Rooney stretched his arms, letting out a long exhale before clapping his hands together.
"Right, lads—good shift. Keep the momentum going, yeah?"
Players mumbled agreements, gathering their stuff as they began to filter out of the plane.
Joe Hart slung his backpack over his shoulder, giving Tristan a quick nod.
"See you in November, superstar."
Tristan smirked. "Stay out of trouble, Hart."
"Not likely."
Jack Wilshere ruffled his own messy hair, yawning. "Feels like we’ve been gone for a month, man. Buzzin’ to get back to Arsenal."
Henderson laughed, nudging him. "What, so you can get benched again?"
Wilshere scowled. "Nah, mate, I’m taking my spot back."
Tristan chuckled at their back-and-forth, before feeling a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Jamie Vardy, already grinning.
"Oi, you ready to carry Leicester again?"
Tristan snorted. "You mean ready to carry you again?"
Vardy cackled. "Listen, mate, we both know I do the running, you just sit there and pull the strings."
"Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that."
The banter continued as they walked down the steps onto the tarmac, the cold London air hitting them like a slap to the face.
Vardy shivered. "Bloody hell. Been freezing since we left Estonia."
Tristan tugged his hoodie tighter. "Welcome home."
Around them, players were greeting their drivers, saying their goodbyes, some heading straight to club training, others going home for a well-earned rest.
As Tristan reached the pickup zone, he spotted John waiting besides his car.
John gave a small nod opening the backdoor, Welcome back, boss."
"Good to be back, thank you."
Tristan slid into the backseat, sinking into the plush leather as the door shut behind him. The warmth of the heated seats was instant relief against the cold.
John started the car, pulling out onto the road. "Straight home?"
"Yeah," Tristan muttered, rubbing his temple. "Long few days."
John nodded, understanding without needing further explanation.
The drive was smooth, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows of the car. Rain pattered lightly against the windshield, streaking down in glistening lines as John steered through the quiet London streets. The familiar hum of the engine filled the space, broken only by the occasional shuffle of Tristan shifting in his seat.
In the back, Tristan sat comfortably, his hoodie pulled up slightly, thumb lazily scrolling through Instagram. His mind was running on autopilot, not really paying attention—until he stopped.
Kendall Jenner’s Story.
@KendallJenner: Burberry needs to put this man on a runway.
The image?
One of his Burberry campaign shots—his sharp, angular jawline, a perfectly tailored suit, the lighting framing him in a way that made his green eyes more piercing than usual. The kind of shot that didn’t just look like an ad—it looked like a statement.
Tristan blinked, exhaling through his nose. He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a small warmth creep up his skin.
Kendall wasn’t the first person to mention it. A few models, a couple of fashion insiders—hell, even some football analysts—had started talking about how well he fit the high-fashion aesthetic.
He didn’t think much of it. Football was his world.
But that wasn’t all.
His DMs had unread messages from Kendall.
🟢 Kendall Jenner: U should seriously do some runway
🟢 Kendall Jenner: I’m telling you, you’d shut it down
🟢 Kendall Jenner: Also, u ignoring me now? Rude
Tristan sighed, shaking his head. He hadn’t even seen these before. His DMs were a mess— a few too many fan messages that he didn’t dare click on.
Before he could even process it, his phone buzzed again.
FaceTime – Babe
He immediately answered.
The screen lit up with Barbara’s face, her hair damp, skin glowing from the warmth of her room, her lips slightly parted as she adjusted her pillow. She was curled up in bed, one arm tucked under her head, one of his hoodies drowning her frame.
The same Leicester hoodie she had stolen weeks ago.
"Hey, farm girl," Tristan greeted, his voice instinctively lowering.
Barbara rolled her eyes, a teasing smile curling at her lips. "City boy."
Tristan chuckled softly, his fingers absently running through his curls. "You look exhausted."
Barbara groaned dramatically, her face half-buried in her pillow before she turned her eyes back to him. "I don’t think my feet will ever recover."
Tristan laughed, resting his elbow on the car door. "Disneyland finally humbled you?"
"You don’t understand," she huffed, stretching her legs out in front of her. "I walked like… twenty miles a day. And Anita? Unlimited energy. That girl wanted to do every ride twice."
Tristan let out a low laugh. "And you complain when I make you jog for ten minutes. No stamina."
Barbara gasped, her expression genuinely offended. "Take that back!"
Tristan grinned, eyes dancing with amusement. "Nah."
Barbara narrowed her eyes, pointing a threatening finger at the screen. "I will fight you."
Tristan tilted his head slightly, feigning thought. "You’re in France. I’m in England. Long-distance punches aren’t a thing."
Barbara sighed dramatically, collapsing back into her pillow. "Ugh. You’re lucky you’re cute."
Before he could even think of a reply, Barbara suddenly lifted her hand, fingers wiggling slightly.
"You like my nails?" she asked.
Tristan’s eyes immediately zeroed in on them.
Almond-shaped. Painted a deep, forest green.
The exact same shade as his eyes.
"You…" Tristan trailed off, staring at her fingers.
Barbara’s lips twitched, waiting.
"...You got them green," he finally muttered.
Barbara grinned, smug. "Yep."
Tristan rubbed his jaw, looking away for a second as heat crept up his face.
"...Babe, that’s a bit too much" he mumbled.
Barbara beamed, eyes bright with satisfaction.
“O please, I can see you blushing; your face is too pale too hide it
Tristan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I can say the same thing about you, but they look nice. I give you that."
Barbara giggled, settling back into her pillow.
Tristan let out a soft breath, still shaking his head slightly.
"Anyway," Barbara started, shifting slightly, "How was the flight? Any fights over FIFA?"
Tristan smirked. "Surprisingly, no physical fights. But Vardy and Henderson were close. Rooney took my phone to check what Twitter was saying, and—"
His expression shifted slightly.
"I just saw Kendall posted about me," he admitted.
Barbara’s brows lifted slightly, not surprised. "Oh, yeah. I saw that too."
Tristan hesitated before flipping his screen to show her his DMs.
Barbara squinted, reading over the messages.
After a moment, she shrugged, her expression completely calm.
"I mean…" she stretched slightly, "She’s not wrong. You did look very, very good in that Burberry campaign."
Tristan exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. "Not you too."
Barbara laughed, her nose scrunching slightly. "I’m just saying, babe. You’re hot. Can’t blame people for noticing."
Tristan glanced away, suddenly feeling warmer than before.
"Yeah, well," he muttered, voice lower. "You’re the only one I care about noticing."
Barbara’s lips parted slightly.
She didn’t say anything for a second.
Then, she bit her lip, smiling down at her pillow. "God, you’re cute."
Tristan’s face immediately heated up. "Shut up."
Barbara laughed, full and warm, her eyes glowing with affection.
After a moment, her laughter softened, and she watched him carefully.
"You know," she murmured, "People are gonna keep talking. More brands are gonna want you. More models are gonna post about you."
Tristan held her gaze. "...And?"
Barbara tilted her head slightly. "And I don’t care."
"You don’t?"
Barbara shook her head. "Tristan, you could have every model in the world posting about you, and I still wouldn’t care." She paused, then, softer, "Because you’re mine."
Tristan felt that.
Barbara smirked slightly, watching his face carefully. "Unless… you wanna do runway now? Should I be worried?"
Tristan scoffed, trying to recover. "Not happening."
Barbara grinned, eyes teasing. "Shame. You’d look great."
Tristan just shook his head, still feeling the residual warmth in his face.
Barbara sighed, stretching her arms above her head.
"Oh! I almost forgot—I got a call today."
Tristan raised a brow. "Yeah? From who?"
Barbara smiled. "I got booked to shoot a piece for Madame Figaro next week."
Tristan’s chest filled with pride.
"Told you," he murmured, voice soft. "It’s all coming together."
Barbara watched him for a moment, then, quieter—
"You always believe in me more than I do."
Tristan held her gaze.
"I always will."
"By the way," Barbara said casually, propping her chin against her palm, "Why are you only just now replying to Kendall?"
Tristan blinked, his brows furrowing slightly. "Huh?"
Barbara tilted her head, arching a brow. "The messages. She sent them like, what? Three days ago?"
Tristan rubbed the back of his neck, feeling caught. "I didn’t even see them until now. My DMs are a mess. I barely check them."
Barbara squinted at him like she didn’t believe a word. "Mmm. Sounds fake, but okay."
Tristan scoffed, leaning back into the seat. "Excuse me?"
Barbara smirked. "I’m just saying, it’s very interesting that you suddenly discovered them now. What happened? She post the Burberry thing and then you magically remembered to check?"
Tristan groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You know damn well unless it’s England and Leciester’s group chat, I don’t check my dms that much.
“Liar, you see them; you just don’t respond; I can’t blame you for it.”
Tristan sighed dramatically.
"...I miss you," Tristan muttered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Barbara’s expression immediately melted, her lips parting slightly.
"I miss you too," she murmured.
Tristan ran a hand through his curls, exhaling. "So your not coming back soon right, I imagine you gonna stay in France for a bit longer than planned."
Barbara groaned dramatically. "Yeah, that shoot is gonna take a day or two at the end of the month. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten our promise to each other."
“To visit each other at least every two weeks once.” Tristan responded, “I make time, thank god it’s just France, someone you were in the U.S.”
Barbara pouted, poking the screen playfully. "That’s irrelevant. I require daily Tristan time."
Tristan chuckled. "Demanding."
Barbara smiled sleepily, burrowing deeper into her pillow. "Goodnight, baby."
Tristan exhaled slowly, a quiet warmth filling his chest.
"Goodnight, farm girl."
The screen went dark.
October 15, 2014…..
The morning air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of damp grass and the lingering chill of autumn. The sun was still rising, casting a soft golden hue over the Leicester City training ground as players arrived, stepping out of their cars and making their way toward the locker room.
Inside, the atmosphere was lively. The international break had come to an end, and with it, the squad had returned—some victorious, some exhausted, all ready to get back to business.
As Tristan stepped into the dressing room, he barely had time to drop his bag before the teasing started.
"Oi, look who it is!" Danny Drinkwater called out, grinning as he pointed at Tristan. "Big-time model boy is back!"
The room erupted in laughter, players turning toward him with wide smirks and knowing looks.
Tristan sighed, already knowing where this was going. He hadn't even been here five minutes.
"Drinkwater, mate," Tristan muttered, pulling off his hoodie, "it’s too early for this."
"Too early?" Wes Morgan joined in, leaning against his locker. "Come on, man. We’ve been waiting for you. England’s golden boy. Leicester’s very own fashion icon. Future Balon d’Or winner."
Vardy let out a loud, exaggerated whistle. "Nah, nah, you lot are being too soft. Forget football—Tristan's moving different now. International superstar, England’s main man, and apparently, Burberry’s new cover model."
Tristan groaned loudly, rubbing his face. "Jesus Christ."
That only made it worse.
Marc Albrighton laughed, tossing a training bib at Tristan’s head. "What’s next, mate? Runway shows in Paris? Are we gonna have to book appointments just to see you?"
Moore nodded, grinning. "Bet you don’t even remember what club football is like anymore. Too busy chilling with Barbara and getting fashion gigs."
Tristan rolled his eyes, dropping onto the bench as the entire squad kept firing jokes at him.
"Oi, someone get him a mirror so he can practice his poses."
"Can’t wait for the next match—he’s gonna be walking out of the tunnel in a designer coat."
"Forget the Ballon d’Or, man’s going for a Vogue cover."
Tristan let out a deep sigh, shaking his head. "I hate all of you."
Vardy grinned, slapping a hand on Tristan’s shoulder. "You love us really."
Tristan just shot him a glare.
"Alright, alright," Nigel Pearson’s voice cut through the noise, signaling that it was time to start training. "Enough gossiping. We’ve got a match to prepare for."
The players grumbled in mock protest but quickly shifted gears, pulling on their training gear and heading out onto the pitch.
The training ground was buzzing with movement, the usual early-morning drills already underway. Players jogged around the field, stretching out stiff muscles and working off any lingering jet lag from the international break.
Tristan fell into stride beside Vardy and Ulloa, passing the ball between them as they kept the touches light.
"So, Tristan," Ulloa started, shooting him a knowing look. "Be honest. How many sponsorship deals did you get over the break?"
Tristan huffed out a laugh. "Too many."
Vardy grinned. "Man, I feel bad for your assistant, Sophia right. She gotta keep track of them. Land Rover, Dior—what’s next? Rolex? Bentley? Maybe a cologne line?"
Tristan arched a brow. "You sound jealous."
Vardy scoffed, grinning. "Jealous? Nah. Just waiting for the day you fully embrace the model life and forget about us."
Ulloa nodded. "Yeah, man. Give it a few months, and you’ll be dodging slide tackles so you don’t ruin your face."
Tristan shook his head.
Vardy nudged him. "Come on, though. Would you ever actually do a runway?"
Tristan gave him a deadpan look. "Absolutely not."
The entire group burst out laughing.
"That’s a shame, mate," King joked from the other side of the pitch. "Would’ve loved to see you strut your stuff."
"Yeah," Albrighton added, mockingly putting a hand on his chin. "Imagine the crowd’s reaction. Footballer-turned-supermodel."
Tristan scoffed. "Not happening."
"Good," Nigel Pearson's voice called out from the sideline. "Because I still need you winning games, not walking down catwalks."
The session kicked into full intensity after the warm-up. Passing drills, possession games, tactical work.
Tristan felt sharp, his touch clean, his movements precise. If anything, the international break had only made him better.
During a small-sided match, he picked up the ball in midfield, turned quickly, and threaded an inch-perfect through ball to Vardy, who slotted it past the keeper.
In the next possession, he ghosted past two defenders before clipping a delicate chip over the backline—straight onto Albrighton’s foot.
"Jesus," Danny Simpson muttered, shaking his head. "This guy’s been playing international football and now he thinks he’s Zidane."
"Thinks?" Vardy shot back. "Nah, mate. He already is."
Tristan just smiled, shrugging.
As the session wound down, the squad gathered for a final cool-down jog, breathing heavily from the high-intensity drills.
"Alright," Drinkwater piped up, still grinning, "so, real talk. What happens when we win a trophy and Tristan gets more famous? Is he gonna leave us for Hollywood?"
Tristan rolled his eyes. "Mate, I literally just signed a contract extension."
Vardy grinned. "Yeah, yeah, for now. But when Milan or Madrid start calling, what then?"
Tristan shook his head. "Still not leaving."
Liam Moore smirked. "What if Barbara gets a gig in Paris? You gonna move there with her?"
Albrighton laughed. "Oh, come on. We just need to know if we should start looking for a new playmaker in a couple years."
Tristan sighed. "I’m staying. End of discussion."
The squad burst into laughter again.
"Yeah, yeah," Vardy said. "For now."
As the players made their way back toward the locker room, Vardy slung an arm around Tristan’s shoulder.
"Oi," he muttered. "Real talk, though. You good? With everything?"
Tristan glanced at him. "What do you mean?"
Vardy shrugged. "The media. The attention. The pressure. It’s only getting bigger, mate."
Tristan paused for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. I’m good."
Vardy studied him for a second, then nodded. "Good. Because we need you locked in."
Tristan grinned. "I’m always locked in."
Vardy smirked, clapping him on the back. "That’s what I like to hear."
"Tristan, you gotta to the media room." A staff member came up shouting as they were going back to the locker room.
Tristan frowned slightly but nodded, following him toward the main building.
As he neared the entrance, he noticed Pearson; beyond him he saw the camera crew.
The realization hit him.
Before he could even process it, one of the reporters stepped forward, a microphone in hand and a grin on his face.
"Tristan, congratulations! You’ve been named the Premier League Player of the Month for September!"
Tristan blinked, then let out a small laugh, shaking his head.
"Thanks!" he replied, flashing a grin.
A Premier League official stepped up, presenting him with the heavy, glass-engraved Player of the Month trophy. Tristan took it, feeling the cool weight in his hands.
He’d seen this coming. The shortlist had been announced earlier in the month, and he knew his competition:
Graziano Pellè & Morgan Schneiderlin (Southampton)Ángel Di María (Manchester United)Diafra Sakho (West Ham)
All worthy contenders, but Tristan had been on another level.
September had been a statement month for Leicester City. Two wins, one loss—but what a win it was.
The 7-1 destruction of Manchester United had sent shockwaves through the league. A game that would be talked about for years. Leicester’s dominance was undeniable, and Tristan’s performance in that match? Unforgettable.
His double hat-trick had single-handedly dismantled one of England’s biggest clubs. It wasn’t just about the numbers; it was how he played. The confidence. The intelligence. The sheer audacity of it all.
There was no debate. He deserved this.
As the cameras flashed, Pearson stepped up beside him, his own trophy in hand.
"Not just Player of the Month," the reporter continued. "Nigel Pearson has also won the Premier League Coach of the Month award!"
Tristan grinned, shaking his manager’s hand.
"Guess we both had a good month," Tristan quipped.
Pearson chuckled, patting Tristan’s shoulder. "Not bad for a ‘small club,’ eh?"
A small crowd had gathered—coaching staff, a few players who had finished their warm-ups early, all watching and clapping.
After a brief interview, Tristan and Pearson posed for photos, their matching trophies glinting in the morning sunlight. These pictures would soon be plastered across the Premier League’s official website, Leicester City’s social media, and, of course, Tristan’s own accounts.
@Tristan_22:
First Premier League Player of the Month! Guess I should start a trophy cabinet at home. Thoughts? 🏆
The comments came flooding in.
And then, of course—the superstitions began.
Leicester fans had every reason to be nervous.
The infamous "Coach of the Month Curse" had haunted managers for years.
🔹 Alex Ferguson had won it—and United immediately lost their next two matches.
🔹 Jose Mourinho had won it—and Chelsea stumbled through a horrible run.
🔹 Even Garry Monk at Swansea, who won the August award this season, had gone on to lose three straight games in September.
And now?
Nigel Pearson was next.
As Tristan scrolled through the comments, he smirked, shaking his head.
Curse or not, Leicester was ready for whatever came next.
…………………..
Tristan was seated on the padded benches inside the dressing room, towel draped over his shoulders, scrolling through his phone while sipping from his water bottle. Training had been intense, but he felt good—his body was responding well.
As he unlocked his phone, a familiar name popped up at the top of his notifications.
Barbar
Babe: Excuse me???
Tristan raised an eyebrow. He tapped the message, opening the chat.
Babe: Did you just post about starting a trophy cabinet at home… WITHOUT consulting me??
Tristan huffed a quiet laugh, already knowing where this was going. He quickly typed back.
Tristan: Didn’t realize I needed clearance for home renovations now. 🤨
The reply came instantly.
Babe: Oh, you do. Because if you’re making a trophy cabinet, I get to design it. End of discussion.
Tristan grinned, shaking his head.
Tristan: Alright, interior designer. What’s your vision?
Babe: Classy. Dark oak wood, glass doors, proper lighting to make sure everything shines, maybe in it’s one room, not like we use them besides our bedroom.”
Tristan: That’s a whole museum exhibit, love.
Babe: Well, obviously. You can’t just throw your trophies in a corner like some amateur.
Tristan: Damn, alright. We can design it now when you home
Babe: Good. But also—congratulations, baby. I’m so proud of you. 💕
Tristan: Thank you
A few seconds later, his phone buzzed again.
Babe: But also, you totally should’ve asked me before posting that.
Tristan chuckled, stretching his legs out.
Tristan: Why? Would you have approved it?
Babe: Obviously. With minor edits.
Tristan: Of course.
Babe: You’re lucky you’re cute.
He shook his head fondly, already anticipating the next time they’d be together.
Later that day...
Tristan sat in his living room, freshly showered after an intense training session. His body was still recovering, but his mind was already onto the next thing.
Across from him, Sophia sat with her laptop open, tapping away with rapid efficiency. On the coffee table, her phone was propped up in speaker mode, with Jorge Mendes on the other end of the call.
Sophia adjusted her glasses. “Burberry.”
That got his attention.
She spun the laptop toward him, showing a detailed analytics report. He skimmed through the numbers, his eyebrows slowly raising.
BURBERRY AUTUMN/WINTER 2014 CAMPAIGN RESULTS
📈 Brand Awareness Increase: 42% surge in social media mentions.
💬 Engagement: Tristan’s shoot was Burberry’s most-liked post of the year, surpassing even their campaign with Cara Delevingne and Kate Moss.
📰 Press Reaction: Global fashion publications, including Vogue, GQ, and Esquire, had covered the campaign.
👀 Industry Response: Several high-profile brands had inquired about Tristan’s availability.
Tristan leaned forward, reading it again.
“So you’re telling me…” he started slowly, “I somehow outperformed actual supermodels?”
Sophia smirked, nudging her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Not somehow. Definitely.”
Jorge Mendes chuckled on the other end. “They’re calling you the athlete with the model face.”
Tristan huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “That sounds ridiculous. Sophia, send this to my mom, she’s gonna love it. She always told me I could be a supermodel.”
“Already done,” Sophia replied smoothly. “She responded with three heart emojis.”
Tristan rolled his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. Of course, she did.
Sophia leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands. “Burberry is beyond thrilled. They expected good numbers, but this? This is unprecedented. Your shoot has higher engagement than campaigns featuring actual supermodels.”
Tristan arched an eyebrow. “Which means?”
Sophia smirked. “Which means every major brand is watching. And they want in.”
She clicked her trackpad, scrolling to another document. “Off the top of my head? Tom Ford, Prada, Armani, Ralph Lauren. Dior, obviously, we’re still finalizing. Balenciaga and Givenchy want to discuss custom collaborations.”
Tristan ran a hand over his face. “I’m not a model, guys.”
Sophia gave him an unimpressed look. “Tell that to the entire industry that suddenly wants to book you.”
Mendes’ voice came through the speaker, smooth as ever. “Tristan, listen to me. You’re at the perfect intersection of sports and fashion. This is how you build a brand that lasts beyond football. Beckham did it. Ronaldo’s doing it. But you?” He paused. “You’re different.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“You have the talent to be the best in the world with the looks rivaling Beckham, while speaking English and having a mixed heritage that makes you marketable across the globe. You’re the most internationally appealing footballer on the planet. You have the potential to be bigger than Ronaldo and Messi.”
Tristan drummed his fingers against the couch, considering his next words.
“I’m not against it,” he admitted. “But I don’t want this interfering with my football.”
Sophia nodded, already anticipating his concerns. “That’s why we’re being selective like you asked for.No pointless magazine shoots. No overbooked schedules. Only the biggest, most exclusive opportunities.”
Mendes chimed in. “That’s exactly how we structured your Dior deal. High prestige, low commitment. One campaign shoot, one fashion show appearance per year. And it keeps you in the conversation.”
Mendes had already realized how different Tristan and Ronaldo were as players and people, and as such, he had completely different plans for building Tristan’s image. Not to mention Tristan repeatedly asked to take caution when it came to brand deals.
Tristan knew what he wanted for a 19 year old. And didn't let anyone tell him what to do as such Mendes had to be extra careful compared to even someone like Ronaldo. At the end of the day, he was just the agent.
Tristan exhaled, nodding slowly. “Alright. Finalize the Dior one first before anything else.”
Sophia typed something quickly. “Should be done in a day or two now.”
Sophia swiped to another tab, bringing up recent Premier League results and transfer gossip.
“Now, let’s talk about what’s happening in the football world,” she said. “The last round of international games shook things up a bit.”
Tristan glanced at the headlines.
Arsenal beat Chelsea 1-0.Real Madrid smashed Athletic Bilbao 5-0—Ronaldo scored another hat-trick.Barcelona lost 3-2 to PSG in the Champions League—David Luiz of all people scored.Manchester United are rumored to be targeting a January move for Mats Hummels.
Tristan smirked. “United want another defender? Smart. They’re still traumatized from that 7-1.”
Sophia snorted. “Can you blame them?”
Mendes added, “Van Gaal is under pressure already. The fans aren’t happy.”
Tristan leaned back, stretching his legs out. “And Arsenal actually beat Chelsea? Didn’t see that coming.”
Sophia scrolled down. “Yeah. Danny Welbeck scored the winner.”
Tristan grinned. “Good for him. He needed that.”
Then—one last transfer rumor caught his eye.
Real Madrid & Barcelona monitoring Tristan Hale for a potential 2015 move.
He froze for a second. They were still monitoring him?
Sophia noticed his expression. “Ignore it,” she said immediately.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “That’s easier said than done.”
Mendes sighed. “Clubs will always be watching top talents. Doesn’t mean anything yet. And remember, I already shut down any moves before the end of next season.”
Tristan exhaled sharply. “Good. I don’t want the team to be distracted by rumors. If they come up, shut them down immediately, Mendes.”
Sophia nodded. “Of course. And speaking of that—" she pulled up another document, “—we have some media invitations.”
Sophia started listing off TV appearances.
The Graham Norton Show – A formal invite to appear as a guest, discussing his football rise, Burberry campaign, and England performances. The Great British Bake Off – Celebrity Charity Episode – An invitation to compete in a special episode for charity. BBC’s Football Focus – A sit-down discussion about his season so far.
Tristan blinked. “Bake Off?”
Sophia smirked. “Apparently, they think you have potential as a baker.”
Tristan laughed. “Yeah, let’s just say I’ll be there for entertainment value.”
Mendes chuckled. “At least it’s for a good cause.”
Sophia tapped her pen against the table. “So, which ones are we accepting?”
Tristan thought for a moment.
“Graham Norton sounds fun,” he admitted. “And football focus makes sense. But Bake Off?” He shook his head, grinning. “I don’t think the world’s ready for that; tell them I can do an episode later.”
Sophia chuckled, making notes. “Alright. I’ll confirm Graham Norton and BBC, and we’ll politely decline Bake Off for now.”
Sophia closed her laptop, satisfied with the meeting.
“We covered a lot today,” she said. “Burberry, brand offers, football news, media invitations… anything else on your mind?”
Tristan stretched, shaking his head. “Nah. I think we’re good.”
Mendes’ voice came through one last time. “Then rest up, kid. Big things ahead.”
Tristan smirked. “Aren’t there always?”
And with that, the call ended.
Tristan sat on the couch, one leg propped up, the other stretched out in front of him, the hum of the TV playing in the background. His phone rested on his stomach, vibrating every now and then with texts.
But then, his screen lit up with an older notification.
🟢 Kendall Jenner: U should seriously do some runway
🟢 Kendall Jenner: I’m telling you, you’d shut it down
🟢 Kendall Jenner: Also, u ignoring me now? Rude
Tristan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He hadn’t intentionally ignored her, but between international duty, training, media obligations, and just… life, answering Kendall Jenner’s messages hadn’t exactly been a top priority.
Still, she was cool and a friend. And the least he could do was acknowledge it.
🟣 Tristan Hale: My bad. Just saw these now.
🟣 Tristan Hale: Haven’t been ignoring you, just been busy being a footballer 😭
Kendall responded almost instantly.
🟢 Kendall Jenner: WOW 3 DAYS LATER
🟢 Kendall Jenner: I thought you were raised better!
🟢 Kendall Jenner: U think being the PL Player of the Month means you can ghost ppl now??
🟢 Kendall Jenner: Fame changed u, Hale
Tristan huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he typed.
🟣 Tristan Hale: The fame?? Kendall, you are literally one of the most famous people on the planet 💀
🟣 Tristan Hale: I just kick a ball around for a living
Kendall wasn’t letting it go.
🟢 Kendall Jenner: You do more than kick a ball. The way my entire feed is just Tristan Hale edits? You might be bigger than me rn 💀
🟢 Kendall Jenner: And your Burberry shoot? Insane. Pls do runway next.
🟢 Kendall Jenner: No, actually, I’m calling Barbara to convince you.
Tristan immediately sat up, alarm flashing in his eyes.
🟣 Tristan Hale: Do NOT bring Barbara into this
🟣 Tristan Hale: You’re gonna give her more ideas
A pause.
Then—
🟢 Kendall Jenner: LMAOOO she’d LOVE to see you on a runway
🟢 Kendall Jenner: I can already hear her screaming
Tristan sighed, shaking his head.
🟣 Tristan Hale: Yeah, not happening. No runway. You can have that life, not me.
🟣 Tristan Hale: I’d trip or something
Kendall sent back a string of laughing emojis.
🟢 Kendall Jenner: U are literally one of the most coordinated ppl ever 😭
🟢 Kendall Jenner: Just admit u don’t wanna do it bc ur a footballer 4 life 💀
That part was true. Tristan respected the fashion world, but his focus was on football.
🟣 Tristan Hale: Exactly. Footballer for life.
🟣 Tristan Hale: But appreciate the love. Glad you liked the shoot.
🟢 Kendall Jenner: Ofc. Anyway, if u ever change ur mind, just know Burberry wasn’t a fluke. U actually belong in high fashion.
🟢 Kendall Jenner: But fine, I’ll leave u alone… for now 😏
Tristan chuckled, shaking his head before putting his phone down.
Kendall was cool, and it was nice to have a normal, lighthearted friendship with someone like her.
The rich aroma of garlic, rosemary, and seared meat filled the air, wrapping the kitchen in warmth as Felix moved with practiced ease, flipping ingredients in the pan. The soft sizzle of butter meeting hot cast iron mingled with the occasional clatter of utensils, a rhythmic symphony of culinary confidence.
Tristan leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the dining table, his stomach already anticipating the meal. Across from him, Sophia was perched with her laptop open, occasionally glancing up between typing emails, while John stood near the counter, arms folded, watching Felix work.
“You lot have no idea what’s coming,” Felix said, giving a small shake of his head, almost as if he pitied them. “This isn’t just food—it’s an experience.”
John, arms folded as he leaned against the counter, barely looked up. “It’s dinner.”
Felix stumbled back dramatically, clutching his chest as if John had physically wounded him. “How dare you? How dare you! That is an insult to my craft.”
Sophia, casually perched at the dining table with her laptop open, arched an eyebrow. “So dramatic. You should be a TV chef.”
Felix pointed a wooden spoon at her. “I’d be better than Gordon Ramsay.”
Soma, arms crossed, tilted her head slightly. “Only if you swear less.”
Felix snorted, flipping a steak onto a plate with unnecessary flair. “Not happening.”
Tristan, watching the entire exchange with thinly veiled amusement, leaned back in his chair. “At least Ramsay doesn’t brag while cooking.”
Felix placed a hand over his heart, offended again. “I don’t brag—I simply inform. There’s a difference.”
Soma wasn’t convinced. “Uh-huh. And how healthy is this ‘experience’ you’re creating?”
Felix groaned, tossing a towel onto the counter. “For the last time, everything is balanced, nutritious, and within the limits. Soma, I even sent you the full breakdown—twice!”
Soma narrowed her eyes, clearly not satisfied. “Doesn’t mean I trust you.”
Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. “Relax, Soma. He’s just making sure I don’t start moving like Rooney after international breaks.”
John smirked, finally stepping forward. “Too late. Kid’s already getting called a model.”
Sophia leaned forward, pushing her glasses up slightly. “Should we be worried? What if he decides football isn’t for him anymore?”
Tristan shot her a flat look. “You lot need to chill. I’m not leaving football to walk a runway.”
Felix, plating the final dish, waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, keep saying that. Next thing we know, you’ll be the face of Balenciaga.”
Soma leaned in, giving Tristan a mock-serious look. “Just so you know… if you start spending too much time in the modeling world, your diet will officially be kale smoothies and celery sticks.”
Tristan’s expression deadened. “I’d rather retire.”
John finally sat at the table, giving the food a long, skeptical look before grabbing his fork. “Alright. Let’s see if this culinary masterpiece actually tastes as good as you claim.”
Felix cracked his knuckles, full of smug confidence. “Prepare to have your mind blown, mate.”
Sophia accepted her plate next, glancing at Felix with a challenge in her eyes. “If it’s good, we’ll consider keeping you around.”
Felix gave a casual shrug. “Oh please, you’d be lost without me.”
Tristan, already digging in, paused mid-bite, exhaling in satisfaction. “Okay… damn. I hate to admit it, but this is actually good.”
Felix grinned. “Finally, some appreciation!”
Tristan pointed his fork at him. “Yeah, yeah. Just shut up and let me enjoy this.”
As they ate, the conversation flowed more naturally, the initial teasing giving way to actual discussions about their work.
Sophia leaned back, looking at the group. “Alright, since we’re all here—let’s talk about the big picture. You’re all working with Tristan in different ways, and if this whole circus is gonna run smoothly, we need to be in sync.”
John nodded, finally giving a small grunt of approval. “We don’t all have to be best friends, but we do need to trust each other.”
Felix tapped his fingers against the table. “Works for me. I cook, you protect, Soma keeps him from turning into a slug, and Sophia… what exactly do you do again?”
Sophia shot him a glare. “Everything.”
Tristan laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, alright. Let’s just make sure we don’t end up killing each other first.”
Felix raised his glass of water. “A toast—to not murdering each other.”
They clinked glasses—a dysfunctional but well-balanced team.
And with that, the foundation was set.
…………
6001 word count, not counting this section
If you all dont mind, can you all just glaze Mark in the comments for a sec. Dude has been helping me a lot, giving me ideas and helping me edit my planning docs and plans for future chapters; he’s not even getting paid for this, just for the love of the game as a reader.
Can't thank him enough
Comments
Moudassir Ali
Good work mark 👍🏾
Mohamed Abdellatif
Nice work Mark 👍🏾
l K
Word to Mark
Mark_M1102
Sinbad take notes. Bel’Ami knows how to glaze someone. Thanks man 🙌
Bel'Ami Pandjo
Mark my Glorious King keep cooking with Sinbad
Mark_M1102
Couldn’t of said it better. Appreciate it man🙏
BrandonA
Mark the best ever. Aint no one like him.
Mark_M1102
Still working on the Graham Norton show aspect and which show he’ll participate in. Sinbad is American so he doesnt know much about Graham Norton Show.
The Main Man
Will you add the interviews in the upcoming chapters? Would love to see Tristan interact with Graham Norton.
Mark_M1102
Thx man, Sinbad knows what he’s talking about.
Tio Yui
Mark the goat fr 🐐
