Sinbad
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Chapter 168: Blueprints
🕑 Added 2025-04-06 16:00:12 +0000 UTCJuly 26, 2015 - Belvoir Drive, Film Room
The blinds were drawn shut, casting the room into that dim tactical glow — light bouncing off paused footage, whiteboard scribbles, and a growing pile of performance data.
Ranieri sat at the head of the room, arms folded, glasses low on his nose. Paolo Benetti was already flipping through clips on the projector screen, the cursor paused on a wide shot from the Sevilla match.
“Let’s start with the obvious,” Ranieri said quietly. “Two losses. PAOK and Sevilla. Better than expected, to be honest, with all the formations and different tactics going on.”
The video rolled. Slowed midfield transitions. Late tracking runs. A long-range goal conceded on the break.
“Too stretched in the middle,” Benetti noted. “Every time the line advanced, we had gaps behind Drinkwater and Inler.”
The staff murmured in agreement. James Robson tapped his tablet screen. “Average distance between backline and midfield during transitions was nearly 18 meters. That’s five more than last season’s average. The press is working, but there’s no mop-up behind it.”
Ranieri sighed through his nose.
“Fuchs and Simpson are solid. Maguire’s a tank. Huth’s reading is excellent. But there’s no one breaking up play early,” said Benetti. “Inler’s timing is late. And Andy King... he’s not the guy for pressure recovery.”
Ranieri motioned for the next clip. A moment from the PAOK match where Tristan had dropped deep to recover the ball himself, leaving a hole in the final third.
“This,” he said flatly. “Is why we need balance.”
They all nodded.
Robson pulled up another screen. “Fitness levels are strong. Tristan’s covering more ground than anyone. 11.7 km against Sevilla. Top sprints too. But it’s inefficient — he’s running to cover other people’s zones.”
“What about the formations?” Ranieri asked.
Benetti switched to a graphic. “4-2-3-1 worked against Burton. But against PAOK and Sevilla? Too open. The 4-3-3 gave us width but not bite. 4-4-2 looked okay in the first half versus Derby. But we’re still missing that one piece.”
“Kanté,” Ranieri muttered. “Still not cleared.”
“He’s close,” Benetti said. “Club sorted personal terms. It’s just his agent being a dick. Should be done this week or early August before the season starts.”
Ranieri nodded slowly, eyes on the frozen frame — Sevilla countering, Inler jogging in the background, space wide open.
“Once he’s in and he’s good as we think he is,” he said, “everything changes. The different systems work. Tristan pushes higher. We can drop deeper. We recover faster.”
He glanced around at the group.
“Until then, we stay compact. Less press, more structure. Don’t burn out the front six trying to do everything.”
“And Derby?” Robson asked.
“Good test. They pressured well. But they didn’t have Tristan,” Ranieri said with a faint smile. “No one does.”
The screen flickered off. The film room was quiet.
“As soon as Kanté arrives,” Ranieri said. “We move from patchwork to full blueprint. And settle on the formation. I talked to Tristan as well; he’s fine playing in the midfield, whatever that team needs. That team will still focus on counterattacks; we can play possession ball, but that’s not what this team is about.”
..
Next Day
The session had ended half an hour ago, but none of them were ready to leave.
The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting golden streaks across the pitch. Sweat clung to skin..
A loose circle had formed near the edge of the box—half the first team, still buzzing, still bouncing insults back and forth.
“Alright, alright,” Vardy called out, walking toward a ball like he owned it. He placed it down with both hands and stood back.
“One shot each. Crossbar and in. Clean bounce, no lucky bounces out. Loser pays for dinner.”
Mahrez raised an eyebrow. “Loser?”
“Yeah,” Vardy said. “You’ve been wearing £200 boots all week and haven’t hit anything but seagulls.”
A few players barked out laughter. Fuchs gave a slow clap. “That’s personal.”
Schmeichel, now standing in goal with his gloves off and leaning on the bar, nodded. “Let’s see who’s actually got it today.”
Vardy stepped up first. He backed off five steps, shook out his legs, then took a run at it. His foot smacked the ball clean—low drive, perfect contact—but the bar rang out like a bell as the ball ricocheted off and flew backward.
A mix of groans and applause followed.
“Oof. Close,” Albrighton said.
“Fuck me,” Vardy replied, walking back with a sad face. “Next!”
Fuchs took a long breath and walked to the spot. He adjusted his stance before he kicked it, ball curled off his foot with a smooth arc, bending slightly before clipping the outside of the post and bouncing wide.
“Unlucky,” King muttered.
“You Austrian fraud,” Vardy said. “Technique for nothing.”
“Fix your hairline,” Fuchs replied, already turning away.
Albrighton stepped up next. His run-up looked fine—until he leaned back too far and blasted the ball into the clouds.
“Jesus,” King said, raising a hand over his eyes. “You trying to hit a drone?”
“I slipped.”
“No you didn’t,” Mahrez said flatly.
King stepped forward next. His strike was clean, maybe too clean—driven just under the bar, into the back of the net.
“Nope,” Vardy called out. “That’s a goal, not a winner.”
King shrugged. “Still better than Marc.”
Everyone turned toward Okazaki.
He jogged forward quickly and took his shot without hesitation—absolutely launched it.
The ball thumped off Schmeichel’s thighs.
The keeper flinched and stepped back, grabbing at his leg.
“Oi!” he barked. “You trying to send me to physio?!”
“Sorry! Sorry!” Okazaki said, bowing quickly. “No mean!”
Laughter broke out again. Okazaki stood frozen for a second, eyes wide, then gave a sheepish nod. “Strong legs…”
“You think?” Schmeichel muttered, still shaking out his thigh.
“Alright, someone else before I lose a knee,” he added.
Inler stepped forward. He took his time—adjusting the ball, stepping back. His strike was clean, slicing through the air. It hit the underside of the bar with a loud smack but bounced out instead of in.
“Close,” Mahrez said. “Real close.”
Everyone turned to Schwarzer.
“You having a go?” Fuchs asked.
The veteran keeper didn’t move. He unscrewed the cap on his water bottle and took a drink.
“Goalkeepers don’t entertain,” he said. “We watch. We judge.” Trying hard to look cool.
Vardy shook his head. “Must be nice being old.”
King looked around. “Who’s left?”
No one answered.
Then all eyes turned to Tristan.
He hadn’t moved the whole time. Just stood quietly at the back, arms hanging by his sides, watching.
Mahrez let out a breath. “Here we go…”
“Let my boy cook,” Ben said. He had his phone out, camera rolling.
Tristan walked up, rolled the ball forward with his foot, and took two steps back.He struck it clean—no extra power, just crisp and smooth.
The ball clipped the bar, dropped down, and settled in the net.
Tristan didn’t say anything but smiled at Ben recording, trying to be nonchalant.
“Seriously?” Vardy said. “Again? Who the fuck trained him again? I need his number.”
“Every bloody time,” Mahrez added, walking over to collect the ball.
Fuchs shook his head. “This kid’s got some cheat code, I swear. Haven’t seen him miss free kicks yet.”
“Tristan, I’m posting the video online.” Ben shouted to Tristan before posting it on his IG. Anything with Tristan’s name does good.
Schmeichel stretched his arms wide. “That’s that. We’ve got our winner.”
“I hit the bar too,” Vardy said. “That should count for something.”
“Yeah,” King said. “Just not dinner.”
More laughter. The sun was nearly gone now, the light fading slowly off the pitch.
Wes Morgan was sitting on the sideline, towel over his neck, tying his laces. He looked up and called out.
“Alright, boys. We’re still standing. No pulled hamstrings, no broken Schmeichels. What do you say we take this energy somewhere else?”
A few players turned.
Morgan nodded once. “First team dinner. Players only. We’ve got four new faces. Feels like the right time.”
“I’m in,” said Fuchs. He was new to the team and felt like this dinner was another way to get to know his teammates.
Inler gave a simple nod.
Schwarzer leaned forward slightly. “I’ll come. Not paying.”
Okazaki raised his hand. “I come. I come!”
The accent was heavy, the words choppy, but the smile was honest.
Vardy leaned toward Tristan. “Does he even know what we’re saying?”
Tristan shook his head. “Not all of it.”
He walked over to Okazaki, dropped a hand on his shoulder.
“You hungry?”
Okazaki nodded quickly. “Yes!”
“Good,” Tristan said. “You sit near me. I’ll help you out.”
Okazaki nodded again, grateful. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Where are we going?” Albrighton asked.
Vardy was already scrolling through his phone. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a place.”
The place Vardy chose wasn’t fancy, but it didn’t need to be. It was a local pizzeria.
Vardy was the first through the door, calling out something to the waiter like he owned the place. Behind him, Fuchs ducked in, followed by Mahrez, King, Albrighton, Inler, and the rest. Tristan stayed near the back, walking alongside Okazaki.
They got along, and Okazaki learning English, Tristan took him under his wing. And with Tristan being a huge weeb, they become friends pretty quickly.”
"Smells good," Ben said as he looked around. "Better than the canteen."
“Anything’s better than the canteen,” Schmeichel muttered.
The squad filled two long tables near the back, pushing chairs and menus around. Tristan slid into a seat next to Okazaki without needing to be asked. Okazaki sat quietly, shoulders tight, flipping through the menu slowly like he didn’t understand most of it.
"Just point at what looks good," Tristan told him, leaning in. “You like chicken or beef?"
"Chicken,” Okazaki nodded. “And… noodle?”
Tristan pointed at one of the pasta dishes. “That’s spaghetti. Close enough.”
Okazaki gave a small thumbs-up, clearly relieved.
At the other table, the noise picked up quick.
“I’m telling you,” Vardy said, mouth already half full. “Tristan’s gonna end up starting as our striker. You saw the numbers—guy’s everywhere. Goals, assists, set pieces. It’s happening.”
“He’s playing deeper right now,” Mahrez said, tossing a piece of crust onto Fuchs’ plate. “Coach had him in midfield all week.”
“Yeah, and the week before that he was right up top,” said King. “Ranieri’s testing stuff. False nine, maybe.”
Someone shouted across the room. “Tristan, you a striker now or what?”
Everyone turned his way.
Tristan leaned back slightly, wiping his hands with a napkin.
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s up to the coach.”
Fuchs raised a brow. “C’mon. You’ve got to have a preference.”
Tristan looked around the table, then nodded slowly.
“I just want to score more goals. It doesn’t matter where I start — as long as I finish in the box.”
A few of the lads tapped the table or let out quiet laughs.
“Fair enough,” said Albrighton.
Vardy pointed his fork. “I still reckon you should play midfielder. I feel like I’m entering my prime; imagine the numbers I could get with your assists.”
“I’m not your babysitter,” Tristan said, laughing.
“Come on now, please,” Vardy replied, grinning. “I won’t send any more pics of you looking like a lovestruck dog with Barbara in the group chat.”
“Huh, that’s not a bad option; I think about it.” Tristan replied dead serious, Vardy got pics of him and Barbara from god knows where; the dude probably pays paparazzi for pictures.
That got a few actual laughs.
Plates started arriving, and the room filled with the sound of cutlery and overlapping voices. Schwarzer asked the waiter for tea, which got him roasted immediately by half the table. Okazaki tried to use a fork and spoon at the same time before Tristan gently took the spoon away and handed him a knife. They both said nothing — but the quiet exchange didn’t need words.
Toward the end of the meal, Inler leaned across to Tristan.
“You think the coach sticks with the 4-2-3-1?”
Tristan shook his head. “No idea. He’s been trying everything. We just need balance. That’s what he keeps saying. We are just waiting for two more players, Maguire and Kante; don’t ask how I know.”
..
After an hour, Tristan finally made it back home.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Tristan let out a long, tired breath.
It had been a full day — hours in the film room, another grinding training session, then dinner with the squad, all while his mind refused to shut off. Still, as the faint scent of rosemary drifted through the air — warm, earthy, and unmistakably Felix — something inside him eased. The guy used it in everything, to the point where it clung to the walls now like part of the house.
He kicked off his shoes by the entryway, rolling one foot at the arch. His legs were still heavy. Biscuit was most likely asleep otherwise she would have came running to him.
The lights in the living room were low, but the kitchen was lit up like a work zone. Paperwork covered the island — folders, contracts, pens scattered like someone had lost a battle with a filing cabinet.
He stepped closer and saw them.
Barbara, elbows on the table, wearing one of his oversized training shirts. Her hair was up, a few loose strands falling near her cheeks. Sophia had her sleeves rolled and a pen tucked behind her ear, her eyes flicking between a highlighted contract and her laptop screen.
Neither of them noticed him at first.
He walked up without a word and leaned down, one hand settling lightly on Barbara’s waist as he kissed her.
Her lips parted softly, and she tilted her chin up like she’d been waiting for that exact moment all evening. Her fingers slid across his jaw as she kissed him back, slow and warm, like the rest of the world could wait.
“You’re home late,” she whispered when they broke apart.
“Sorry, love,” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. “Team dinner. Vardy picked the place. Might need a detox after.”
She smiled, her eyes searching his face like she could see every inch of his day written there.
He kissed her again, slower this time. His thumb brushed gently against her cheek as her hand curled into the front of his shirt.
Sophia cleared her throat without looking up. “Can you not make out on top of my contract review?”
Barbara laughed into the kiss and pulled back. “We’re being quiet.”
“You were not being quiet,” Sophia replied.
Tristan dropped into the chair beside Barbara, arms resting on the edge of the table. “Alright, what’s all this?”
Barbara leaned back slightly, exhaling. “My contracts. The U.S. agency and the Paris one. Both are expiring next month.”
He glanced at the mess on the table and frowned. “That sounds… serious.”
“It is,” Sophia said, eyes still on her notes. “They want her back. But she’s got leverage now — more than ever.”
Barbara reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. “I’m thinking about walking away from both.”
Tristan blinked. “Really?”
She nodded once. “They take a big cut, and I barely have a say in anything. Which campaigns, what to post, even when I can speak publicly. I don’t want to be someone’s product anymore.”
Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked to him with something deeper — something searching.
“You’ve helped me get here,” she said. “It’s not just you, but... you’ve made me feel like I could say no.”
Sophia slid a folder across the table. “She wants me to take over as her full-time agent. No more middlemen. Just us. Everything in-house.”
Tristan looked between them, his eyes lingering on Barbara.
“You’re sure?”
Barbara gave a soft nod and leaned in to kiss him again. It wasn’t dramatic — just firm and honest.
“I want control. And I trust her more than anyone.”
Tristan took her hand in both of his, lacing their fingers.
“Then do it,” he said. “If that’s what you feel like now. Not like you need full-on agencies now with how popular you are, plus more money for you.”
Her shoulders dropped slightly, like someone had finally lifted a weight off them. She smiled, and the tension in her jaw eased.
Sophia leaned back and stretched. “Alright. I’ll draft the exit notices tomorrow and talk to legal. We’ll make it clean.”
Barbara rested her head against Tristan’s shoulder, pulling his arm around her waist. He wrapped it around her without thinking.
“Thanks for not trying to talk me out of it,” she murmured.
Tristan kissed the side of her head, his lips brushing the soft spot near her temple.
“I’d never talk you out of being your own boss,” he said.
She smiled quietly, nestling closer into his side.
Across the table, Sophia made a face. “God, you two are the worst.”
Barbara looked up just long enough to stick her tongue out before curling back into Tristan’s chest.
Tristan’s fingers traced absentminded circles on her hip. His mind wandered briefly — to Mendes.
“I love you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
He leaned down and kissed her again — forehead, cheek, lips.
“I love you too.”
..
Next Day - King Power Stadium
Ben Ben stood just off to the side of the tunnel, fidgeting with his collar. His kit looked perfect, but he kept adjusting it anyway — shoulders tense, mouth pressed into a line.
Tristan spotted him while walking past the makeup table and slowed down.
“You alright?” he asked.
Ben glanced up quickly, like he hadn’t noticed anyone was watching. “Yeah… yeah. Just—these things feel weird, you know?”
Tristan gave a small nod. “Nervous?”
Ben nodded. “Sky Sports. Two cameras. Smoke machine. I mean, seriously?”
Tristan cracked a smile. “Yeah, they love the drama.”
Ben let out a shaky laugh but didn’t quite relax. “I’m not good at this stuff, though. What if I mess it up?”
“You won’t,” Tristan said. “And even if you do—they’ll cut it. That’s the best part about media shoots. They only keep the parts where you look good. ”
Ben looked skeptical.
Tristan nudged him with his elbow. “Trust me. Just smile. They’ll do the rest in editing. You won’t even recognize yourself in the final cut. Last year we didn’t get this promotional stuff you know. Shows how much attention is on the club now so take pride in it.”
Ben finally grinned. “That sounds terrifying, actually.”
“You’ll be fine,” Tristan said, slinging an arm lightly over his shoulder. “Just don’t let Vardy distract you. He’ll be in your ear trying to make you laugh the whole time.”
Ben exhaled and nodded. “Thanks.”
Tristan gave him a gentle pat on the back before stepping forward.
Up ahead, the makeshift studio was already in full swing — softbox lights on stands, cables taped down, two cameras rolling from different angles. A green screen covered half the wall behind a small turf mat. And someone, of course, had brought in a smoke machine.
For “atmosphere.”
Tristan stood in full kit, arms crossed, while a production assistant adjusted a rogue hair sticking out near his temple.
“Alright,” the director said, clapping his hands. “One at a time. Smile, point to the badge, hold for two seconds. Then we’ll move into the dynamic shots. Same routine.”
Behind the cameras, Vardy was already goofing around, pretending to model with the ball like it was a fashion shoot.
“You’re not GQ material, mate,” Mahrez called out.
“Says you, the only one who can say that is our Beckham,” Vardy shot back, then pointed at Tristan. “Let the golden child go next.”
Tristan stepped forward, keeping his face calm. By now he was already used to doing promotional stuff and looking pretty for the cameras. Plus Barbara helped a lot teaching him how to do poses and certain model “faces.”
The jersey clung under the studio lights. He could already feel a light sweat at the back of his neck.
“Tristan, just look into Camera A and give us the usual badge-point. Confident, calm, but not stiff.”
He nodded. Took a breath. Stepped into position.
Smile. Point to the badge. Hold.
Then the second take — cross arms, stare down the lens. One shot with a ball at his feet. One without.
Easy stuff.
Behind the camera, someone muttered, “God, he’s a natural.”
“Alright,” the director shouted. “Fuchs, you’re next. And then we do the group lineup. Let’s go, let’s go!”
Vardy clapped his hands together. “Team pose incoming. Everyone look scary.”
“Except Tristan,” Ben said. “He already is scary. Stats merchant.”
“You’re just mad he’s prettier than you,” Schmeichel added.
..
The smoke machine hissed again, way too dramatic for a Tuesday morning.
“Alright, group pose, let’s go!” someone from Sky Sports shouted. “Line up behind the ball rack — arms folded, one look mean, one look smiling.”
Players shuffled into place. Vardy popped his collar just to annoy Mahrez. Schmeichel grabbed a bib and threw it at him. Laughter echoed in the tunnel.
Tristan stood near the middle, arms folded across his chest again, smiling.
Ben ended up beside him, still fidgeting a little. He leaned closer.
“So,” Ben said under his breath, “how are you feeling about Ajax?”
Tristan turned his head slightly. “What about them?”
“Last pre-season match,” Ben said. “And it’s Ajax. I mean… we beat them in the Europa League last year, yeah, but it still feels bigger now.”
“They’re still Ajax,” Mahrez chimed in from the end of the row. “We’ll be fine.”
Another round of camera clicks.
“Alright,” the director called. “One last shot — walking slowly toward the camera. Swagger. Pretend it’s a Champions League promo.”
Vardy groaned. “Bit early for that, innit?”
Ben shook his head, but the nervousness had eased. They all lined up again, this time walking forward together, boots clacking on the concrete floor as the lens followed them.
Ajax loomed. But no one looked worried.
Not yet.
..
3655 word count
Just setting up some stuff with Mendes; I don’t really like him; he’s shady as fuck. But he was part of the Chinese story, so I have to find a way to get rid of him whilst still keeping it as realistic as possible.
Also, when you guys cancel memberships, can you folks just answer the survey? I would love some feedback.
Besides that, power stones on Webnovel would be nice.
And thank you for your support
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks for the chapter
Adam M
I realize Mendes is shady af but isn’t that kinda exactly what you want in a manager? But if you want to get rid of him it could be something as simple as a government investigation into tax avoidance forcing him to close up shop or at least tarnish his reputation.
