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Chapter 175: Cover Story
🕑 Added 2025-04-13 14:14:48 +0000 UTCAugust 15, 2015 – White Hart Lane, North London
The post-match media room at White Hart Lane was already half full before Mauricio Pochettino stepped in. A light scuff of shoes echoed behind the white podium wall. The air smelled faintly of coffee and frustration.
Spurs had led 2–0.
It ended 2–2.
No one was happy.
Pochettino sat down with a calm face, but his eyes gave it away — frustration.
The press officer nodded. “We’ll begin. Please state your name and outlet.”
A hand shot up. “Sam Wallace, Telegraph. Mauricio — you were two up and cruising. What happened?”
Pochettino nodded, already ready. “We lost our structure. Too deep, too early. We stopped pressing as a team and gave them confidence.”
“Was it a fitness issue?”
“No,” he said quickly. “Mental. Not physical. We have to control the tempo better. We were too reactive after halftime.”
Another voice jumped in. “Jack Pitt-Brooke, Independent. Ryan Mason started today — what did you think of his performance?”
Pochettino leaned forward. “He worked hard. But the midfield lost control in the second half. Not just Ryan — everyone. Stoke made good changes. They overloaded our left side. We didn’t adapt fast enough.”
The next few questions were similar. Missed chances. Late substitutions. Whether Harry Kane was being overplayed. Pochettino answered them all with professionalism.
Then a voice from the middle row shifted the room.
“Tom Burrows, The Athletic. Mauricio, not sure if you’ve seen the Leicester result—”
Pochettino didn’t blink. “I saw it.”
“3–0 away at West Ham,” Burrows continued. “Vardy hat-trick. Tristan with an assist in the first five minutes. You play them away at home. How do you feel going into that?”
For the first time, Pochettino paused.
He looked down for half a second. Then up.
“They are not a surprise anymore,” he said calmly. “They are consistent. Last season they were new but still an amazing team. Now they looked to be in even better shape.
Another reporter leaned forward. “Are you surprised by the growth of the team? By the improvements made?”
“Yes and no,” Pochettino replied. “We expected that team to be better but not to this level, especially the growth shown by Tristan.
“What about the others?” Someone asked," “Vardy. Mahrez. Drinkwater?”
A quiet breath. “Vardy punishes you when you lose shape. Mahrez can beat you one-on-one anytime. And Danny Drinkwater is like the Busquets of the team; he just makes everything work together.”
The press officer glanced at her notes. “Last question.”
A younger reporter in the back cleared his throat. “How far do you think Leicester will go compared to last season?”
Pochettino smiled faintly.
“Well, definitely in the top four in my opinion,” he said. “We’ll see at the end of the season.”
Silence followed. Then the soft clicks of cameras starting again.
The press officer stood. “Thank you.”
Back in the locker room, the players were quiet. Boots untied. Ice packs out. A replay of Leicester’s win looped on someone’s phone in the corner — Vardy racing away, again, arms out wide.
Kane didn’t say anything.
But he watched the screen a little longer than the rest.
..
The team coach eased into the Belvoir Drive lot just after five.
The sky had cleared. No clouds. No rain.
The engine cut. The doors hissed open.
Boots hit the ground.
One by one, the Leicester players stepped off the bus — stretch, exhale, shoulders loose. Mahrez had his hoodie up. Fuchs carried a takeaway box. Huth was already halfway through a protein bar.
Vardy came last, the match ball tucked under his arm, still smudged with fingerprints and half-dried ink. Schmeichel had written "About time you did something." Huth signed his name in all caps like a billboard.
Inside the facility, the dressing room buzzed. Laughter. Flip-flops on tile. A spray of water as someone flicked the shower on and forgot to aim it.
Tristan wandered in with his boot bag slung over one shoulder. He spotted the ball immediately — Vardy was hovering over it like a hawk, grinning at anyone who came close.
“Your royal matchday souvenir,” Drinkwater said, tossing him a marker.
Tristan caught it, uncapped it, and leaned in.
He signed near the laces:
“Keep scoring. I’ll keep assisting. – T”
“Touching,” Vardy said dryly. “Want to add a lipstick kiss too?”
“I’ll let Barbara do that part.”
Vardy barked a laugh.
Ranieri stepped through the doorway then — dress shirt sleeves rolled, clipboard in hand.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Well played.”
Everyone quieted a touch.
“Recovery tomorrow. Ten sharp. Don’t come in smelling like vodka or victory.”
A few chuckles.
“Seriously,” he added. “No wild celebrations… unless I’m invited.”
More laughter. Fuchs clapped twice. Mahrez shook his head, still texting.
Players started filing out — one by one — sneakers on, headphones in, tapping their pockets to check for keys. Some lived nearby. Some had dinner plans. Some just peace and quiet.
Tristan stayed a beat longer, sipping from a recovery shake.
Vardy lingered too, still holding the match ball like it was made of gold.
“You taking that home or putting it in a glass box?”
“I’m sleeping with it,” Vardy said without hesitation.
Tristan nodded. “You and the ball. Me and a camera crew.”
Vardy blinked. “Oh yeah — the Vogue thing.”
“Yep.”
“You walk in and they’ve turned your living room into a runway, I expect photos.”
“No promises.”
Outside, the sun was starting to dip but hadn’t disappeared yet — still stretching across the parking lot like it didn’t want to leave.
Tristan stepped into his car, keys in hand praying by the time he got home, that interview was done.
..
The door clicked open, and Tristan stepped into the quiet.
Only — it wasn’t quiet.
There was a faint click from a camera shutter. A soft voice, mid-question. The low thrum of equipment running in the background.
He stepped out of his trainers, dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, and rounded the corner—
—and stopped dead.
His living room had transformed.
Gone was the couch. Gone was the rug. Even the framed poster he liked above the fireplace had been replaced with a subtle diffuser panel tucked behind soft uplighting.
In their place: sheer white drapery, two velvet chairs angled toward each other, golden light spilling across a minimalist side table, and a tray of perfectly arranged pastries that Felix would never admit weren’t homemade.
Barbara sat on the right.
And she looked stunning.
Hair swept back in loose waves. A cream silk blouse tucked into a dusty rose pencil skirt. Diamond stud earrings. Heels he bought her in Greece. She was glowing — like someone hand picked her out of a Paris catalog and dropped her into this exact light.
Across from her sat a woman just as poised: tall, silver-haired, wearing a navy silk suit Sarah Harris, deputy editor at British Vogue.
She held a small notepad in one hand, a single pen in the other, legs crossed, posture flawless. She didn’t interrupt. Just waited for Barbara’s words to settle before asking the next.
“And do you feel like this chapter — being here, being rooted — changed how you view your career?” Sarah asked softly.
Barbara nodded. “Completely. Now… I’ve started saying no. And that’s new for me. But it’s necessary. I would say I didn’t have a home, as I was always moving, and for months, I would just stay in apartments, as I couldn’t go back to Hungary, or I would lose certain roles and spots.”
Her eyes lifted mid-sentence — and caught him.
She gave him a small wave. Then — subtle — blew him a soft kiss, two fingers brushing off her cheek.
Tristan’s lips pulled into a faint smile. He returned the gesture with two fingers to his brow, like a salute.
Then he heard a soft voice beside him.
“You’re early,” Sophia whispered, clipboard in one hand, iPad in the other.
Tristan leaned toward her. “Is this the same house?”
“Depends. Are you the same man?”
He looked back at Barbara. “She looks…”
“Yeah,” Sophia said simply. “We know.”
“Where’s Biscuit?” he asked, surprised the dog hadn’t barreled into the chaos.
“John took her for a walk,” Sophia replied. “Didn’t want her stealing the Vogue spotlight.”
He nodded, lingering at the edge of the archway, about to slip away unnoticed.
But then — the voice across from Barbara spoke again.
“Would it be alright,” said Sarah Harris, turning slightly in her chair, “if I asked Tristan a few questions?”
Barbara’s eyes darted to him, then back to Sarah. “He just got back from West Ham. He looks tired.”
Tristan gave a small smile. “I’m good.”
Barbara raised a single brow. Silent warning. She could tell how tired he was, and he really didn’t like doing interviews, much less in their own house.
He glanced at her. “You looked at me and I wasn’t tired anymore.”
That earned him a soft laugh — and a small sigh.
She reached over and patted the empty chair beside her. “Okay. Come be handsome on camera for five minutes.”
Sarah gestured to the camera crew. “Let’s just reset the framing slightly. Thank you.”
Tristan dropped his bag off to the side and stepped forward, brushing a bit of turf fluff from his sleeve before sitting down. The velvet seat was oddly cold — or maybe his pulse was just catching up.
As he settled in, he felt Barbara’s fingers slide into his beneath the frame.
The lights shifted. The lens refocused.
And the second part of the interview began.
Sarah adjusted her notes with a subtle flick of her pen, but her focus never drifted from the two seated in front of her. Her expression was measured — engaged, but soft, as if trying not to tip the moment too soon.
“You met in Milan,” she said gently. “At a local café, wasn’t it?”
Barbara’s lips curled into a knowing smile as she glanced at Tristan. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture almost shy.
“That’s right,” she said. “I wasn’t even supposed to be there — it was a last-minute decision. I didn’t even have cash on me, and… well, that’s where Tristan came in. He was behind me in line and paid.”
Tristan leaned back, one arm slung casually along the velvet armrest, eyes not leaving her.
“Best decision I ever made,” he murmured. “Walked in, met a goddess.”
Barbara rolled her eyes, but the flush on her cheeks gave her away. Sarah’s mouth twitched into a small smirk.
“And what was the first thing you said to her?” she asked.
Tristan straightened a little, a light chuckle slipping out.
“Oh, I remember all of it,” he said. “She was wearing these SpongeBob slippers — and they really didn’t match the rest of her outfit. So I made a comment in Mandarin about how fashion worked in mysterious ways.”
Barbara let out a proper laugh this time, covering her face with her hand.
“He actually said that. Out loud.”
“I turn around,” Tristan went on, his voice softer now, “and she just… stuns me. I mean, full-on knockout. And then she speaks — soft voice, Hungarian accent. I was finished. Looking back, yeah… it might’ve been love at first sight. We didn’t know it at the time, but something clicked immediately.”
“I thought he was a model,” Barbara said, shaking her head with a grin. “He looked too perfect to be anything else. Then we sat down, and a few minutes in, I remembered who he was.”
She turned slightly toward Sarah, her hands clasped neatly in her lap.
“We left the café, talked about our hobbies, our lives. He showed me the disaster of a half-built Millennium Falcon Lego set in his apartment. We argued about One Piece and Naruto. And yes, the set is still unfinished.”
“She’s the one stalling,” Tristan muttered, nudging her knee gently with his.
Barbara smirked, then continued, “We walked to my runway show. Afterward, we had dinner. That’s when he gave me his hat — called me a goddess again. That nickname just stuck. But then again, he has a dozen different nicknames for me, switching them up every day. And now I do the same thing for him. Whenever one of us does or says something a lot, it becomes a habit for both of us to do the same thing.”
“She still has the hat,” Tristan added, his eyes warm.
“I do,” Barbara confirmed. “And the next morning, we had breakfast together. I gave him my hat and told him, ‘Next time I’m in England, I want it back.”
Sarah’s gaze lingered on them, letting the silence hold like a soft exhale.
Sarah’s gaze lingered on them, letting the silence hold like a soft exhale.
“And then the airport photos. The weekend in Leicester. You moved in not long after he bought this place?”
Barbara glanced at Tristan — a quiet question in her eyes. He gave a small nod.
She turned back to Sarah.
“We spent a week together, and it felt like I’d known him for a year. Everything moved fast, yeah. But for us? It felt… right.”
Sarah tilted her head slightly. Her tone was gentle, but probing. “Still — twenty-one and twenty. A new home. A shared life. Doesn’t it ever feel… too fast?”
Barbara inhaled softly, her fingers adjusting the hem of her skirt before answering.
“To be honest… I wasn’t thinking with my brain,” she said with a faint smile. “I was thinking with my heart.”
She glanced toward Tristan, then back to Sarah.
“I was living in a hotel when I came to Leicester that first week. And one night, Tristan told me he was buying a house — and asked if I’d move in.”
Sarah blinked, her pen pausing mid-scratch.
Barbara’s voice didn’t waver.
“I said yes. Not because I planned it. But because I wanted to. I travel so much — Paris, New York, Tokyo — and Hungary doesn’t always feel like home anymore because I’m barely there. I wanted somewhere that felt… permanent. Somewhere I could come back to. Somewhere that felt like mine.”
She looked around the softly lit room.
“This did. Even before the walls were painted or the furniture was finished.”
Sarah’s expression softened as Barbara added:
“And Leicester’s not far from London. For Fashion Week, for shoots. It’s close enough to stay connected — but far enough to breathe. And Hungary isn’t far either. I can visit my family whenever I need to.”
She looked at Tristan again.
“But mostly, I said yes because I didn’t want to be somewhere else. I wanted to be with him.”
Sarah let the silence hold a moment longer before finally nodding, quietly scribbling something into her notebook.
Tristan leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely.
“Yeah,” he said. “We moved fast but for us, it made sense in our relationship at that point despite how young we are.”
His gaze drifted to the lights, then back to Sarah.
“And for the record — I didn’t buy this house for her. I was planning to move out anyway. My parents needed their peace. The attention… it was too much.”
He exhaled slowly, shoulders relaxing.
“People love to say stuff, you know? That she’s a gold digger. That I’m being used. But she doesn’t even let me spoil her. I tried buying her a car after she passed her driving test — she shut it down. So we got Biscuit instead.”
Barbara let out a small laugh, her hand brushing along her skirt.
“We actually argued over these heels,” she said, glancing down. “He snuck them in eventually.”
“The only thing I can pay for without drama is food,” Tristan said, shaking his head. “And even then, only because we share everything.”
Barbara turned toward him slightly, her voice a little softer now.
“We do argue,” she admitted. “But we’ve gotten better. We step back. Talk things through.”
Tristan nodded. “Still fight over the bodyguard thing,” he said. “I want her to have two minimum. She says one is already too much.”
“At the beginning, we were full of fear,” Barbara said. “So many what-ifs. Everything was public. Any misstep — a hug, a photo, one careless comment — it could spiral.”
“But she’s amazing,” Tristan said, turning to her. “If there’s a shoot she thinks might bother me? She just changes it. Doesn’t ask. Just does it. I never expected that. And I’ve told her from the start — this is her life, her job, her dreams. I wasn’t here to change who she was. She was already perfect.”
Barbara turned, eyes shimmering but steady.
“And he never asks me to change either. We just want to make each other feel safe. We both give up things. But we’ve built something here.”
She smiled at Sarah. “He learned Hungarian. Just so he could say he loves me.”
Sarah didn’t say anything at first. Her pen rested on the page.
Then Barbara said, “I’ve lived a thousand lives in hotel rooms. This is the first one that feels like mine.”
Sarah finally scribbled something down, then glanced up.
“Well,” she said softly, “that’s the cover quote sorted.”
…
2925 word count
I wanted to continue, but I felt like those last three lines were perfect for closing a chapter, and I didn’t want to ruin it even if that chapter felt short.
Next game is against Spurs, so there will be 3 chapters for that, next chapter should be a combination of the start of the match and a few other things.
