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Chapter 140: England’s Crown Jewel
🕑 Added 2025-02-28 00:33:33 +0000 UTCOctober 10, 2014 – En Route to Estonia
The quiet hum of the private jet filled the cabin, carrying the England squad from London to Tallinn for their next Euro 2016 Qualifier. The players were relaxed settling into their usual mid-flight routines—some watching movies, others dozing off, a few locked into an intense FIFA tournament on the plane's console.
Wayne Rooney and Joe Hart were near the front, bantering with Cahill, while Jack Wilshere had his headphones in, nodding along to whatever was blasting in his ears. Jordan Henderson and Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain were furiously clicking buttons, locked into a heated FIFA grudge match, with Raheem Sterling talking endless trash beside them.
And then there was Tristan.
Slouched against the window, one headphone in, phone in hand—but not scrolling through social media like usual.
No.
He was learning Hungarian.
The idea had hit him after Barbara's birthday dinner—watching her constantly translate, her family speaking around him while he sat there, understanding nothing.
So he'd downloaded a language app.
Now, with the flight giving him a few uninterrupted hours, he put it to work.
His screen displayed the basics:
🔹 Jó reggelt – Good morning
🔹 Köszönöm – Thank you
🔹 Hogy vagy? – How are you?
🔹 Nagyon szép vagy – You're very beautiful
Tristan huffed a quiet laugh at that last one. He could already imagine Barbara's reaction if he randomly dropped that into conversation.
But that was the thing—she wouldn't know.
He wasn't going to tell her.
Not yet.
This was for her—for her family. For István, Ágnes, and Anita. So next time, when he was sitting at that dining table, he wouldn't just be some English guy staring blankly at his plate while Hungarian flew over his head.
Maybe he wouldn't be fluent overnight. But even a little? It would mean something.
A tap on his shoulder snapped him out of it.
"Yo."
Tristan locked his phone instinctively before looking up— Vardy was watching him, one eyebrow raised.
"You planning world domination over there, or what?"
"Something like that," Tristan said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
Vardy squinted, clearly suspicious, but then shrugged. "As long as you ain't plotting against me, I don't care."
He flopped back into his seat, stretching his legs out. "Anyway, what's the Twitterverse saying about you today? Your little fangirls losing their minds again?"
And just like that—Tristan was back to reality.
Tristan sighed, unlocking his phone again.
And everywhere he looked?
It was him.
@Markisahandsomelad
"Tristan Hale is playing like a veteran. This kid is a joke. England's future."
(6-minute edit of his goals, assists, and key moments against San Marino.)
@UCLAnalysis
"This pass from Tristan Hale to Vardy is football intelligence at its finest. The timing—it's PERFECT."
( Clip of his lofted assist to Jamie Vardy.)
@TristanPropaganda
"I don't think people understand just how good Tristan Hale actually is. 19 years old and already England's most important midfielder and player."
Tristan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. The hype was fun, sure—but he knew how quickly the English media turned on players.
And then there were the fan edits.
YouTube's Top Recommended Videos:
🔹 "Tristan Hale - The Best (Full Highlights Compilation)"
🔹 "Tristan Hale Is Ice Cold" (AMV with Eminem's 'Till I Collapse' blasting in the background.)
🔹 "Why Tristan Hale Will Be England's Next Captain"
🔹 "Tristan Hale - The Best Midfielder In The World?"
One video had over a million views already—a slow-motion edit of him gliding past defenders, picking out perfect passes, and celebrating at Wembley.
The comment section?
Unhinged.
@TristanFanatic: "Bro is literally built different. How is he 19 playing like a prime Zidane???"
@ThreeLionsFTW: "If we don't build England's midfield around Tristan, we're failing as a nation."
@ChelseaTransferNews: "We NEED him. Blank check. Just give Leicester whatever they want."
And then there were the crazy ones.
@Tristan4Ever: "Tristan, PLEASE answer my DMs, I am BEGGING YOU."
@TristanObsessed: "I would actually let him ruin my life and I'd say thank you."
@MrsHale10: "If Barbara ruins his career, I will personally riot."
Tristan actually laughed out loud, shaking his head.
Vardy, still watching him, smirked. "What now?"
"Twitter being Twitter," Tristan muttered, locking his phone again.
But then—he made the mistake of opening Instagram.
And the first post on his feed?
Barbara.
Paris, France
Birthday getaway with my favorites.
The first photo? Barbara in front of the Eiffel Tower at sunset, looking stunning, her hair up in a loose ponytail.
The second? A candid shot of her and Anita, laughing at a café table, coffee cups in hand.
The third?
A picture of him.
Asleep.
Face buried in the crook of his arm, curls messy, completely knocked out. Taken without his knowledge.
The fourth?
A photo of him standing in front of their new house, the house blurred out.
The caption?
"So proud of you. The start of a new family."
His smile automatically came out at the last caption..
But then—he made the mistake of opening the comments.
At first, it was normal.
@BarbaraFan: "They are actually the cutest couple, I swear. 🥺😭"
@EnglandFC: "Tristan Hale winning on and off the pitch."
@BPalvinLover: "She really flew from New York to Leciester to see him play 😭 QUEEN."
But then—the fangirls.
@TristanObsessed: "We lost. She's officially claimed him. 💔"
@HaleNation: "Barbara, drop your skincare routine because HOW did you pull Tristan Hale???"
@HaleWife: "I REFUSE to believe this is real."
And then?
The ugly ones.
@Antaineoliain: "She's been with like 3 guys before Tristan. Meanwhile, he's never even had a girlfriend. She's using him."
@FootballPurist: "She's just another model clout-chasing footballers. This never ends well."
@TristanFC: "She went from dating a singer, an actor, and a businessman to TRISTAN HALE. She's collecting men like Pokémon cards."
@TheSonicTurtle: "She's been passed around, and now she's with OUR golden boy? Nah, I don't accept this."
@EnglandGirl: "She doesn't love him. She loves the attention. Wake up, Tristan."
And just like that his smile faded away.
He hated this part of it.
Hated that Barbara had to deal with this shit just for being with him.
The double standards were insane.
She had dated three people before him—which was normal. Hell, he didn't even count the high school relationship since it's a fucking school relationship that lasted like one year, pretty standard stuff. Then she dated Justin for like a week, and he hated that bastard. How selfish can you get to not defend Barbara from your crazy ex? And fuck Niall Horan.
In his first life he had multiple girlfriends, and suddenly, she was "ruining" him?
He exhaled calming himself down, locking his phone before he could see more.
Vardy nudged him again, this time with a knowing look.
"Ignore it, whatever it is."
Tristan sighed, rubbing his temple. "Yeah."
But it wasn't that easy.
Because no matter how much he ignored it, he knew Barbara saw it, too.
Tristan stared at his phone, the weight of the hate pressing down on him.
It wasn't that he was surprised—he knew how football culture worked, how fans obsessed over players like they were personal property.
But this?
The way they were talking about Barbara—as if she was just some disposable accessory, as if her past relationships somehow devalued her—pissed him off.
And what pissed him off even more?
She never even told him.
She just let it slide.
Tristan leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling sharply through his nose.
Maybe she hadn't wanted to worry him.
Maybe she thought it was normal—because for her, it was.
This wasn't new to Barbara.
She had dealt with worse.
He wanted to call her but held himself back; she was enjoying her birthday. He didn't want to be a dick ruining her experience. And he wanted to talk face-to-face so she couldn't just hide her feelings. They deal with it together.
…..
October 12, 2014: A. Le Coq Arena, Tallinn, Estonia
The floodlights cut through the cold Tallinn night, illuminating the compact but fiercely loud A. Le Coq Arena. The air was crisp, the temperature hovering just above single digits, but the passion in the stands made up for any chill in the air.
Estonian flags waved furiously, blue, black, and white banners rippling in the wind, while chants echoed through the stadium—raw, passionate, and defiant.
They knew England was the superior team. But this was their turf. This was their fight.
Clive Tyldesley adjusted his headset as the camera panned across the packed stands, the energy of the Estonian crowd palpable.
"Welcome to Tallinn, where England looks to continue their perfect start to the European Championship qualifiers. Glenn, this isn't Wembley, this isn't San Marino—this is an away night against an Estonia team looking to make a statement."
Beside him, Glenn Hoddle nodded, his gaze fixed on the pitch below.
"Exactly, Clive. These games aren't as easy as people think. Estonia will be compact, they'll be physical, and they'll be looking for any opportunity to break forward. England can't afford to be complacent tonight."
The cameras cut to the tunnel, where the England squad stood waiting.
The echo of the stadium noise rumbled through the tunnel walls. Players bounced lightly on their toes, stretching out their muscles, shaking off the cold.
Tristan Hale stood in the middle of the group.
Ahead of him at the front was Wayne Rooney, England's captain, leader, and legend, adjusted. He turned, casting a brief glance over his teammates.
"Let's handle business. Professional performance. No sloppiness."
The message was clear to all—no room for complacency.
Then, the opposition stepped forward.
Ragnar Klavan, Estonia's captain, led his side out. The 6'2" center-back carried himself like a man ready for war—broad shoulders squared, his cold stare making it obvious:
England wasn't getting anything easy tonight.
A moment of silence.
The stadium fell into a hush for the national anthems, the Estonian crowd belting out their anthem with raw pride, every voice carrying across the floodlit arena.
The England players stood stoic as their own anthem followed, but their focus was elsewhere.
Kickoff loomed.
Tristan cracked his neck to one side. 60 seconds to go.
The referee glanced at both captains. A sharp nod.
The whistle blew.
Game on.
"And we're underway here in Tallinn!" Clive Tyldesley's voice rang through the broadcast. "England, in their traditional white, attacking from left to right. Estonia, in their deep blue, setting up to frustrate Hodgson's side."
From the opening whistle, Estonia's intent was clear—this wasn't going to be a passive performance.
"And already, Glenn, you can see Estonia's approach. They're not just sitting back—pressing high, snapping into tackles, hustling for loose balls—they're trying to rattle England early."
Glenn Hoddle nodded as the camera panned to the aggressive Estonia, swarming England like a pack of wolves. "Exactly, Clive. They're playing brave. They know England is superior technically, so they're trying to disrupt the rhythm before it starts."
Klavan and Mets, Estonia's two centre-backs, weren't just defending deep—they were stepping into midfield, compressing the space, and making life difficult for England's playmakers.
Tristan felt the weight of a man at his back every time he received the ball. Every touch was met with a shove, every dribble met with a body in the way.
England tried to control possession, knocking the ball from side to side, but the first ten minutes were frustrating.
"England is struggling to find a way through here, Glenn."
Hoddle agreed. "They need more movement in the final third. Right now, Estonia is keeping it compact, forcing England to play sideways. Hale's looking for those pockets of space, but he needs options ahead of him."
England kept knocking, but the door didn't open.
As the first half wore on, England found their rhythm. Estonia's initial intensity had waned slightly, and no,w Hodgson's side began dictating the tempo.
Tristan, once pressed and harassed, now dropped deeper, drifting between the lines like a conductor orchestrating a symphony. Every touch was measured, every pass deliberate, constantly searching for a weakness in the Estonian setup.
"England settling into control now, Glenn, but they need a goal."
Hoddle observed the tactical shift. "You can see what Hale's doing. He's picking up the ball deeper, pulling Estonia out of shape. He knows exactly where to move—this is where his intelligence shines."
The breakthrough was coming.
And in the 37th minute, it arrived.
"England probing again... Wilshere looks up... finds Hale in midfield..."
The pass into Tristan's feet was routine. Nothing special.
Until he made it special.
Two Estonian defenders closed in immediately.
Too slow.
Tristan already had the picture in his head.
A quick flick to his left—just enough to wrong-foot the first defender.
Then, a sudden burst of acceleration.
Gone.
"OH, HE'S DONE THEM BOTH!"
The crowd gasped as Tristan ghosted past his markers, his strides long, powerful.
Estonia's low block had been breached.
A final defender, Klavan, stepped up.
Too late.
Tristan shifted the ball to his left foot—and unleashed a rocket.
The shot exploded off his boot.
The Estonian keeper barely reacted before it smashed into the top corner.
"WHAT A GOAL! TRISTAN HALE, TAKE A BOW!"
The England bench erupted. The away fans roared.
"That is a STUNNER! Tristan, from outside the box, rifles it into the top corner!"
Hoddle chuckled. "We talk about him as a playmaker, but he's got goals in his locker too. That's a world-class hit."
Tristan ran to the away section, raising his arms, celebrating the goal in front of the away section.
And Estonia felt the shift in momentum as halftime came to a close.
"And that's the halftime whistle! England lead 1-Nil, thanks to the moment of brilliance from Tristan!"
Hoddle analyzed the half. "It hasn't been easy, Clive. Estonia are fighting for everything. But this England side—when you have players who can change a game in an instant, you always have the edge."
..
Estonia came out swinging after the break.
Their manager had clearly told them—press higher, be braver.
And for the first fifteen minutes, England had to weather the storm.
"Estonia playing with urgency here, pushing England back..."
England absorbed the pressure. Gary Cahill and Phil Jagielka stood firm, intercepting crosses, blocking shots.
Tristan dropped deep again, helping in possession, keeping things calm.
But Hodgson had already decided—60 minutes, and Tristan was coming off.
Tristan saw the substitution board light up.
SUB: Hale OFF – Lallana ON
He exhaled, jogging towards the touchline.
The applause was polite, but this wasn't Wembley.
"Tristan's night is over, but he's done his job."
Hodgson clapped his back. "Good job, son."
Tristan grabbed a bottle of water, dropped onto the bench.
Estonia kept pushing—but England looked comfortable.
And in the 75th minute, they struck the final blow.
"England break forward—Lallana leading the charge..."
Lallana raced down the right flank, cut inside, and slipped it into Vardy's feet.
Vardy took one look at goal.
One touch.
Bang.
"VARDY MAKES IT 2!"
"AND THAT WILL DO IT! England are leaving Tallinn with all three points!"
Hoddle nodded. "Not an easy game, but the big players stepped up. Tristan, Welbeck, Vardy—they made the difference."
...
With victories over Switzerland, San Marino, and Estonia, England sat comfortably atop Group E, their qualification for Euro 2016 all but secured. Nine points from nine. Eleven goals scored. Only one conceded.
But despite England's collective dominance, one name was on everyone's lips.
Tristan Hale.
The nineteen-year-old midfielder had started the season on fire, both for club and country. His numbers? Ridiculous.
📊 Tristan Hale's 2014/15 Season So Far:
✅ Premier League – 7 matches, 6 goals, 9 assists
✅ Europa League – 3 matches, 1 goal, 3 assists
✅ England – 4 matches, 3 goals, 4 assists
26 goal contributions in 13 games.
For a midfielder.
At nineteen years old.
Over at BBC Radio 5 Live, the Monday Night Club was in full swing. Mark Chapman, Chris Sutton, Alan Shearer, and Rory Smith were deep in discussion, and at the center of it? Tristan Hale.
The headline across social media?
"Tristan Hale: Just how good is he?"
Chapman leaned forward, setting the stage.
"Alright, gentlemen. We've seen young talents burst onto the scene before, but Tristan Hale—he's something else entirely. 19 years old. Just what level is he playing at?"
Chris Sutton exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
"I mean, we all saw it coming when he tore up the championship last year, but this? This is beyond anything I expected. I remember people talking about Wayne Rooney when he broke through—how he was ahead of his years, fearless, ready for the top level immediately. Tristan's doing the same thing but 10 times better; those are numbers Rooney wished he had when he was 19, I don't even think he has those types of numbers in his prime."
"And the numbers don't lie," Alan Shearer added. "Six goals, nine assists in the Premier League already, three goals and four assists for England—those are world-class stats. And if we compare his 13 matches to the top players across Europe—he's outperforming all of them, including Ronaldo and Messi."
Mark Chapman raised an eyebrow.
"That's a bold statement, Alan."
Shearer nodded.
"It is, but it's true. Look at this—since the start of the season, here's how some of the top names compare to Tristan in goal contributions across all competitions:"
📊 Top Players in Europe (October 2014):
⚽ Cristiano Ronaldo (Real Madrid) – 12 matches, 17 goals, 4 assists (21 contributions)
⚽ Lionel Messi (Barcelona) – 11 matches, 9 goals, 9 assists (18 contributions)
⚽ Neymar (Barcelona) – 10 matches, 8 goals, 3 assists (11 contributions)
⚽ Eden Hazard (Chelsea) – 9 matches, 5 goals, 3 assists (8 contributions)
⚽ Ángel Di María (Man United) – 8 matches, 4 goals, 6 assists (10 contributions)
⚽ Tristan Hale (Leicester/England) – 13 matches, 10 goals, 16 assists (26 contributions)
Alan Shearer continued, pointing at the numbers.
"Only Ronaldo surpasses him in sheer goal count, but in terms of overall playmaking? Hale leads Europe. That's unprecedented for a nineteen-year-old."
Mark Chapman turned to Rory Smith, The Times' chief football correspondent.
"Rory, we've seen many young talents emerge, but where does Tristan rank among Europe's elite right now?"
Rory Smith adjusted his microphone.
"He's already among the top tier, Mark. When discussing young talents—players like Paul Pogba, Raheem Sterling, or Julian Draxler—Tristan is performing at a higher level. If clubs across Europe had to choose someone to build their team around today, Tristan would be a prime candidate."
Chris Sutton interjected.
"Let's delve into that. If you had to construct a team around one player right now—would you choose Neymar or Tristan?"
The question lingered.
Alan Shearer pondered.
"A year ago, it would've been a straightforward choice. But now? It's a genuine debate. Given Tristan's current form and potential, I'd lean towards."
Mark Chapman leaned in. "Over Neymar?"
Shearer affirmed.
"Yes. Neymar offers flair, but if you're seeking a player who contributes across the board—Tristan fits that profile. Plus, there's a significant distinction: Neymar's off-field lifestyle."
Chris Sutton agreed.
"Precisely. Neymar is world-class, but he brings certain distractions—off-field activities, injuries, inconsistencies. Tristan? He's remarkably focused for his age. No off-field issues, no ego. He's dedicated to his craft. His relationship with Barbara Palvin seems to have grounded him further, providing stability off the pitch."
Alan Shearer added.
"Historically, Brazilian talents have faced challenges maintaining discipline—players like Ronaldinho or Adriano. I can go on with Brazilian players ruining careers because of their off-field activities. Neymar is still young, only 22, but with Brazilian players, you never know. And his style does make him susceptible to injuries. Tristan, on the other hand, is resilient, possesses an incredible work ethic, and is entirely committed to football."
Rory Smith concluded.
"While Neymar remains among the world's best, if I'm a club executive with the opportunity to sign one of them today, I'd opt for Tristan. He's younger, driven, and consistently proving himself on major stages."
Mark Chapman chuckled.
"So, are we witnessing the rise of England's next global superstar?"
Shearer and Sutton responded in unison.
"He already is?!"
"What kind of question is that? Tristan is already the face of England across the world." Shearer looking bewildered that Mark even asked that question.
The buzz surrounding Tristan wasn't just an English affair; it was a worldwide affair fuled by the English media. Even before the start of the season, Tristan was already a household name, but since the start of it, Tristan's rise has been unprecedented.
Pundits, former players, journalists, and even current professionals were all beginning to ask the same question:
How good is Tristan Hale? And just how far can he go?
His numbers were undeniable. His performances, week after week, were jaw-dropping. His presence on the pitch wasn't just that of a promising youngster—it was of a player already on the highest peak.
And naturally, the biggest footballing nations in Europe were starting to take notice if somehow they weren't before.
This wasn't just a hot streak.
This wasn't just an England hype job.
Tristan Hale wasn't just the best young midfielder in the world.
He was, statistically, outperforming some of the best players in world football—period.
At just nineteen years old, Tristan was being discussed in the same breath as Ronaldo and Messi.
..
England Team Hotel – Late Night
Tristan lay stretched out on his hotel bed, staring at the ceiling. His body ached in the familiar way it always did after a game—heavy legs, tight shoulders, a dull, lingering burn in his calves. The kind of exhaustion that felt good. The kind that meant you left everything on the pitch.
But despite his body begging for rest, his mind wouldn't shut off.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his phone screen resting on his chest. Through the curtains, he could hear the distant hum of traffic, the occasional gust of wind against the glass. The rest of the team was either already asleep or unwinding after their victory over Estonia.
Tristan had tried to do the same. He'd gone through his usual post-match routine—an ice bath, a light stretch, a video call with Barbara something they have been doing everything now.
But then… the thoughts started creeping in.
The headlines. The stats. The never-ending comparisons.
Just a few months ago, he died, than went back to the past: now? He was being compared to legends. The name Zidane had been thrown around more times than he could count. Some people were calling him better than Neymar.
It didn't feel real.
Tristan took a deep breath, dragging a hand down his face.
Some days he would just wake up thinking all of this was an illusion; maybe he was in a coma. His parents grounded from that, and now Barbara did that as well.
His fears would manifest when he's sleeping next to Barbara as he would sometimes just hug her too tightly, that fear of all this being fake.
He called out the system in his head just for assurance; it was still real.
[Name] – Tristan Hale
[Age] – 19
[Team] – Leicester City
[SHO] – B
[PAS] – A
[DRI] – C
[PAC] – B
[DEF] – C
[PHY] – C
[Auxiliary] – Anti-Injury Cards(2)
*****
'Huh, nothing increased; it looks like I need to win some cups and individual awards, that young player of the season belongs to him and if he was honest so did the player of the season as well.'
He needed other templates; call him greedy; he wanted to be the best in history....
The flight back from Tallinn the next day was smooth, the steady hum of the jet engines blending with the quiet conversations around the cabin. Some of the England players were dozing off, exhaustion catching up to them after a tough away fixture. Others had their headphones in, lost in their own worlds.
Tristan sat by the window, gazing out at the clouds, his mind elsewhere.
The last 48 hours had been a blur—another England win, another goal to his name, more media attention, more comparisons. It was almost becoming routine now, but something about this level of fame still didn't sit right with him.
He had spent the morning watching pundits argue about him on TV, flipping between channels as experts debated his future like he was some kind of commodity rather than a person.
Some had hailed him as England's new golden boy, others had questioned whether he could keep up this level of form. The Neymar comparison had gotten even louder, and the more Tristan saw his name next to some of the biggest players in football, the more he realized just how fast this was all happening.
Then his phone buzzed in his lap.
Sophia
He sighed, already knowing this wasn't a social call. Sliding in his headphones, he answered.
"Tristan, hey," Sophia's voice came through crisp, professional as always, but carrying a noticeable edge of excitement. "I just got off the phone with Land Rover."
Tristan blinked, shifting slightly in his seat. "Land Rover? Haven't heard from them in a while."
"They want you for a commercial again."
Tristan ran a hand through his curls. "Another one?"
"Yep. For the 2014 Range Rover Sport. It's their new campaign, and they're adamant about having you. The brand sees you as this 'young, sophisticated, elite athlete' and they think you fit their image perfectly."
Tristan exhaled, leaning back into the plush leather seat. "Right. That's why they signed me. And when do they want this to happen?"
"They're flexible, but they want to shoot before the end of the year," Sophia replied.
He drummed his fingers against his knee, his gaze flicking toward the England crest embroidered on his tracksuit pants. "Just clear my schedule then. It's fine if I lose a few days off."
Sophia paused. "You sure? You've barely had any rest since the season started."
Tristan smirked slightly. "Sophia, I'm nineteen, not thirty-five. I can handle it."
She let out a quiet chuckle. "Fair enough."
A brief silence. Then, he shifted gears.
"The Dior deal? What happened to that?"
"Almost done," she confirmed. "Mendes is finalizing the last details, but it's basically locked in. You'll be one of the faces of their new men's fragrance line. It's a global campaign, Tristan. We're talking billboards, magazine covers, full runway shoots."
Tristan ran a hand over his face. A Dior global campaign.
He was still getting used to the idea of himself as a celebrity, let alone one of the most in-demand athletes on the planet.
And it wasn't just Dior and Land Rover.
"Who else?" he asked, already bracing himself.
Sophia laughed. "I was waiting for that."
Then came the list.
"Tag Heuer wants you for a watch campaign. As you already know Nike is pushing for an even bigger renewal after seeing your start to the season, but we are holding that off for now. There's also been interest from Montblanc, Hugo Boss, and even a few tech brands—Samsung, Sony. Everyone wants a piece of you right now, boss."
Tristan let out a long, slow breath.
This was what superstar athletes dealt with. The off-pitch business. The endorsements. The branding.
"Sophia," he started, his voice steady, "just to be safe, tell Mendes we can't say yes to everything."
She picked up on his tone instantly. "I know, I know. That's why we're being selective. Every brand we take has to align with your long-term image. That's why we passed on those fast-food sponsorships last month. Tristan. We are building a legacy."
And that was the key word.
Legacy.
Tristan didn't want to be a player who just plastered his face on everything for a quick paycheck like Beckham. He didn't want to tarnish his footballing career and be remembered more for his off-field endeavors than what he did on the pitch.
He had seen too many players sell their souls for sponsorship money, agreeing to anything and everything—from junk food brands to dodgy cryptocurrency deals.
Cristiano Ronaldo was the perfect example.
The man had more sponsorships than he could count, endorsing everything from shampoo to hotels to nutrition supplements that no one actually believed he used.
Tristan respected Ronaldo—his work ethic, his mentality, his dominance. But he didn't want to be that kind of player.
He didn't need to squeeze every last drop of profit out of his career.
He wasn't greedy. He had enough money already to last generations.
"Keep it exclusive," he finally said. "Luxury brands only. Cars, fashion, watches—stuff that actually fits."
Sophia hummed approvingly. "That's exactly what we were thinking. Quality over quantity. You're not a billboard, Tristan. You're an image."
Tristan let out a small laugh. "That sounds so stupid."
"But it's true," Sophia pressed. "You're young, stylish, and already dating one of the biggest supermodels in the world. You have English, and Chinese market. That alone puts you in a different category than all other footballers. If we do this right, you won't just be a football icon—you'll be a global brand."
Tristan sighed, rubbing his temples. He understood the business side of football, but it still felt surreal hearing people talk about him like this.
Like he was bigger than the sport itself.
"Let's set up the meetings for Land Rover and Dior when I'm back," he said eventually. "But I don't want this stuff getting in the way of my football."
Sophia's voice softened slightly. "It won't, Tristan. I'll make sure of it."
A pause.
Then, she added, "I know all of this is a lot. But trust me—you're handling it better than most."
Tristan let out a small breath, nodding to himself.
"I hope so."
Sophia chuckled. "Alright, get some rest. You've got training as soon as you land."
Tristan smirked. "Yeah, yeah. See you soon, Sophia."
He hung up, letting his phone drop onto his lap.
And for the first time in the last hour, he actually had a moment to think.
Just last year, he was in the Championship, fighting for promotion.
Now?
Premier League starter.
England's most exciting talent.
Face of Dior.
Land Rover campaign.
A household name at nineteen.
And suddenly, it hit him.
How much Sophia had warmed up to him.
When they had first met, she had been cold, professional, almost indifferent.
Now?
She was invested. She actually cared about his decisions, not just as a client, but as a person, as a friend maybe.
He could still remember the ice-cold look she had given him during their first meeting, as if she was waiting for him to mess up.
..
The hum of the jet engines filled the cabin, but Tristan barely noticed it. His eyes were locked onto his phone screen, where his Twitter timeline was moving faster than he could keep up with.
His name was everywhere.
Top Trending Topics:
Tristan Hale
Tristan vs Neymar
England's Best Midfielder Tristan x Barbara
Tristan's Hat-Trick
It was madness.
Every time England played, his mentions and followers exploded, but this time, it was even worse. The comparison discourse was in full force. Some were already calling him the best midfielder in the world. Others were arguing whether he was on Neymar's level. And then, there were the usual fangirl meltdowns over his relationship with Barbara.
Tristan sighed, shaking his head as he scrolled.
@FootballAnalysis:
"Tristan Hale has started the season with 10 goals and 13 assists in 14 games. For a 19-year-old midfielder. This isn't normal."
@StatmanDave:
"Since August 2014:
Tristan Hale: 10G, 13A (14 games)Neymar: 9G, 6A (13 games)Hazard: 4G, 5A (12 games)Özil: 3G, 7A (12 games)
Is he already better than all of them?"
@MarkIstheGoat:
"Would you rather build your team around Neymar or Tristan Hale right now? Be honest. 👀"
@TheSunFootball:
"'The Most Complete Young Midfielder Since Kaka' – Former England legend praises Tristan Hale after another standout display."
Tristan let out a breath. It was one thing to be hyped up, but this? He could already see the pressure mounting. He knew how English media worked. They built you up only to tear you down later.
He kept scrolling.
Of course, the Barbara comments were still there.
@TristanObsessed:
"We lost. She's officially claimed him. 💔"
@TristanNation:
"Barbara, drop your skincare routine because HOW did you pull Tristan Hale???"
@69_God:
"I REFUSE to believe this is real."
@YuTiLee:
"She's been with like 3 guys before Tristan. Meanwhile, he's never even had a girlfriend. She's using him."
@FootballPurist:
"She's just another model clout-chasing footballers. This never ends well."
He hated seeing this. Not just because it was disrespectful to Barbara, but because it was wrong. People talked as if he didn't have a choice in this. As if he was some naïve idiot getting manipulated.
A voice broke through his thoughts.
"Tristan you good? You look like you're about to throw that phone out the window."
Tristan glanced up. Vardy, sitting across from him, had an amused expression as he sipped from his water bottle.
"Twitter?" Tristan said in response.
"Twitter," Vardy confirmed. "What's the damage today?"
Tristan sighed, rubbing his temple. "The usual. People either calling me the second coming of Zidane or saying I'm a fraud who'll get found out by Christmas. Oh, and the 'Barbara is a gold digger' crowd is back."
Vardy let out a sharp laugh. "You actually read that shit?"
Tristan shrugged. "Been trying to avoid it but it's tough to do it man."
Vardy leaned forward, grinning. "Alright, what's the dumbest take you've seen so far?"
Tristan scrolling back up before reading aloud. "Tristan is only good because England doesn't have a proper playmaker. Put him in Spain, and he'd be just another La Masia reject."
Vardy nearly spat out his drink. "La Masia reject?! Mate, they'd build a bloody statue of you if you were Spanish!"
Tristan chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, according to Twitter, I'm either world-class or a complete fraud depending on the hour."
Vardy shook his head, stretching his legs out. "At this point, there's no advice I can give you. Your not normal. You know what that means?"
Tristan raised an eyebrow. "That they have too much time on their hands?"
"That too," Vardy grinned. "But mainly? You've already won."
Tristan leaned back in his seat, letting Vardy's words settle. He wasn't wrong.
But before he could reply, a new voice chimed in.
" Let me see this 'Tristan vs Neymar' nonsense."
Rooney strolled over, grabbing the phone from Tristan's hand before scrolling through Twitter himself. His brows furrowed as he read through the arguments.
"What is this bullshit," Rooney muttered.
Vardy smirked. "Which part? The one where Neymar apparently wouldn't even start for England because of Tristan? Or the one where someone said Tristan is a 'system player' being carried by Leicester and England?"
Rooney rolled his eyes. "The entire thing. They're talking like football's a bloody 1v1 contest. Neymar's a forward, Tristan's a midfielder—they don't even play the same role!"
Tristan exhaled. "Tell that to Twitter."
Rooney kept reading, before finally tossing the phone back onto Tristan's lap. "Let them talk. You're doing your job, and that's all that matters."
Tristan nodded.
"Hey, I get it," Rooney said, his tone softer now. "I was in your position once. 2004, when I was your age, people were calling me the next world-class English player. One day, you're untouchable. The next, they're calling you a disappointment because you didn't score a hat-trick."
Tristan listened intently. Rooney had lived through this. He'd been England's golden boy before—the media hype, the pressure, the scrutiny.
"The key?" Rooney continued. "You've gotta block out the noise. Good or bad. I know it's hard to do that. But don't let praise make you cocky, and don't let criticism get to you. Just keep doing what you're doing."
Tristan nodded. "Yeah. I hear you."
"Good." Rooney patted his shoulder before heading back to his seat.
Vardy gave Tristan a knowing look. "He's right, you know."
"Yeah," Tristan muttered. "I know."
He put his phone away, this time for good.
....
6069 word count, not counting this end section
Comments
l K
"He didn’t need to squeeze every last drop of profit out of his career." Cristiano grew up dirt poor possible claim for why he's conducted himself the way he has. Great chapter gaffer
Jerôme
As usual, good chapter.
