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Chapter 167: New Roads, Same Fire
🕑 Added 2025-04-05 14:27:16 +0000 UTCJuly 2, 2015
..
The summer morning was nice for once in the country.
No clouds, no wind — just warm light pouring over the winding Leicestershire roads as Tristan drove to Belvoir Drive, blasting one of Barbara’s playlists.
Biscuit had been a storm of protest when he left — tiny “rrrowfs” and sad twitches of her tail as Barbara tried to hold her back at the door.
He’d kissed them both goodbye and promised he’d be back by evening. He really liked Biscuit; she was good for Barbara with the pre-season starting today.
His phone buzzed in the cup holder. He glanced down.
Maguire
Tristan tapped the Bluetooth button on the steering wheel.
“Yo, what’s up? Did your pre-season start?” He said. It’s been a while since they talked with Maguire leaving; he really wanted him to stay; he would have helped with the depth, but it is what it is.
Maguire’s voice crackled through the car. “Not yet. I—uh, actually, that’s why I called.”
Tristan sat up a bit straighter. “Yeah?”
There was a pause. Then Maguire let out a breath. “Leicester called me this morning.”
That pulled Tristan’s eyes off the road for a split second. “What? Really? I didn’t know about that.”
Ranieri was probably interested in Maguire to improve the defense with Esteban Cambiasso leaving.
“Yeah. Not a loan this time — full transfer.”
Tristan frowned. “And Huth’s interested in selling you?”
“Looks like it,” Maguire said, quieter now. “Didn’t say it straight up, but I could tell. They said it’d be a good opportunity, good money, blah blah.”
Tristan didn’t answer right away.
“I’m… nervous, man,” Maguire admitted. “I just left, you know? I barely unpacked. Feels weird even considering another move. But I love Leicester, mate. I loved playing with everyone.”
Tristan glanced at the training ground gates now visible in the distance.
Tristan exhaled. “Whatever you decide, make sure it’s for you. Not the money. Not the agent. Not the idea of ‘what looks smart.’ Do what you’d regret not doing.”
“But just know I would love to have you on the team again; I know everyone would.”
There was silence on the other end. Then—
“Thanks,” Maguire said, softer. “I needed to hear that.”
“You’ll figure it out,” Tristan said. “Just don’t let your agent decide your career for you.”
“Copy that.” Maguire laughed. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Good. Let me know the second you decide.”
“You’ll be the first call.”
They hung up just as Tristan pulled into the lot, engine humming low as Belvoir Drive came into view, sharp and sunlit.
..
Tristan stepped through the front doors of the training base, the scent of fresh paint still faint in the air — like someone had tried to scrub away the past few months.
The lobby looked the same. The feeling didn’t.
He walked in distracted as he walked to the locker room, greeting staff members before someone shouted his name in the hallway.
“Tristan!”
Tristan turned. A tall man in a navy tracksuit stepped out, silver hair slicked neatly back, a leather folder under one arm. His voice carried an Italian accent.
“Welcome back. I am Paolo Benetti. Assistant to Ranieri.”
They shook hands — Benetti’s grip was solid, strong.
“Come,” he said. “Ranieri is in the tactical suite. He asked to speak with you before the full session begins.”
Tristan nodded and followed him through the corridor. A few of the club staff nodded his way — physios, one of the equipment guys he remembered from last season — but there were new faces, too.
Paolo glanced over at him as they walked. He was nervous, to be honest, as he didn’t know how Tristan would react to the new changes and new manager. Whether this season was a success in any form depended on Tristan.
But so far everything seems to be good. The higher-ups did say Tristan had a high view of Ranieri.
Tristan stood still for a moment as he stood outside the manager’s office. This used to be Pearson’s room.
Tristan entered the room as Ranieri came into his view; he looked around—same walls, new shelves, new scatterings of tactical boards and diagrams. But the old coffee machine was still humming in the corner. The one Pearson never cleaned out.
Claudio Ranieri stood from behind the desk, blazer off, sleeves rolled up over his forearms. He looked exactly as he did on film
“Welcome back. Tristan, good to see you.”
“Thanks,” Tristan said, stepping forward. They shook hands. Ranieri’s grip was firm but not aggressive.
“You look well,” the Italian said, motioning for him to sit. “Your summer was restful, I hope?”
Tristan gave a short nod. “More or less. Took a few days in Greece. Spent the rest here. Trying to stay ready.”
Ranieri smiled faintly, settling in across from him. “That’s good. You’re not like most players your age. They return from holiday fat with excuses.”
Tristan cracked a quiet smile. “Barbara wouldn’t let me gain weight.”
Ranieri laughed at that.
He reached across the desk and flipped over a few sheets on the whiteboard. Scribbles, player names, shifting arrows.
“I want to talk football,” he said. “Just us. Before practice starts, hear your thought.”
Tristan sat forward slightly.
Ranieri tapped a formation with his knuckle. “4-2-3-1 to start. This is what the team played with Pearson as well. I’m not here to make massive changes, just to build on from last season.”
Tristan nodded.
“You’d have freedom,” Ranieri said. “Not just position. Decisions. You are the tempo. But—” he held up a finger, “—freedom without structure is chaos. We will give you the framework, unlike Pearson, where he gave you total freedom.”
Tristan glanced at the names listed in midfield.
“Cambiasso’s gone,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” Ranieri said. “We will find others to balance. Perhaps Drinkwater. Or someone new. You need intelligence around you. We’ll build that.”
A pause.
“You will not do everything alone this season,” Ranieri added. “Even if you could.”
Tristan let that sit for a beat. Then: “And pressing?”
Ranieri’s eyes gleamed. “Aggressive. Line high. Recover fast. But smart. Not just running.”
Tristan smiled faintly. “I like that.”
“I know you do,” Ranieri said. “I’ve studied your tapes. You play with hunger. You see what others don’t. But sometimes you try to save the world in one touch.”
“Anyway, tell me about your suggestions. That club told me you were working on a bunch of new stuff during the off-season. And at the end of last season you were playing closer to the goal. So tell me your thoughts.”
….
Tristan rested his arms on the table, fingers laced together.
“I want to play higher this season,” he said plainly. “Closer to goal.”
Ranieri’s brow arched slightly. “False nine?”
“Something like that,” Tristan nodded. “Still the link, still pulling strings — but I want to be in the box more. Score more. I don’t just want to create the chances anymore. I want to finish them.”
After getting the Torres template, if he wasn’t playing closer to the goal, then he would be doing the template a disservice and himself as well. And with Kante coming in the midfield, he doesn’t have to be there at all times.
Ranieri didn’t interrupt, letting Tristan talk. He was surprised Tristan, one of the world’s best midfielders, if not the best, didn’t want to play the position anymore.
“I’ve been working on all of my weaknesses,” Tristan continued. “I gained more weight and strength as I worked on my free kicks, my dribbling, positioning, and shots. I tracked every goal I missed last season. I know where I rushed. I know where I hesitated. That won’t happen again. I’m a better player now; I don’t want to be just in the midfield anymore.”
The manager leaned back, arms crossing slowly.
“And why?” he asked. “Why this shift?”
Tristan looked him dead in the eye.
“Because I want to be the best in the world,” he said. “I can’t be the best in the world in the midfield position; I can’t be the one assisting; I would be only known as a passer.”
Ranieri didn’t blink. He just nodded slowly, like he respected the clarity of it.
“I believe you,” the Italian said. “And I believe it’s possible.”
A beat passed before he added:
“You’ve earned the right to speak about this. I watched your season — all of it. You played like you were from the future. 75 goals contribution, an all-time great season. The fact that you think you can have even a better season shows just how dictated you are.”
Ranieri studied him for another second, then turned the tactics board slightly.
“If this is what you want, then we will adapt,” he said. “We shift your role depending on the opponent. Some matches, false nine. Others, you drop deeper. But always near danger.”
“I want you arriving in the box, not just watching it,” he added. “We’ll build the shape around that.”
“This is your team,” Ranieri said softly. “No one from top to bottom will deny that. And if you want to score, then that's what we will do. After training, I look at different formations and tactics to support. But as I said before, I’m not going to shatter the foundation Pearson built here; I’m going to build on it. So if we are doing this, I need you ready.”
“I am,” Tristan said.
“We’ll start light today,” Ranieri said. “Fitness, rondos, then shape work. I want to see how the team breathes again and who's in shape.”
As Tristan walked to the door, the manager called out one more time.
“Tristan.”
He paused, turning.
“Let me know how the locker room is,” Ranieri said. “I know everyone looked up to Pearson, but we have to move on, and I hope that team knows that as well.”
Tristan nodded once more before heading to the locker room.
..
The familiar clack of boots on tile echoed as Tristan pushed open the door to the locker room.
For a second, he stood in the entrance.
Everyone looked up.
Vardy was the first to whistle. “Well, well. Look who finally rolled in.”
Andy King grinned from the other side of the room. “Did Biscuit let you leave the house, or did you have to bribe her with bacon?”
Tristan shook his head with a smile and stepped in.
The room felt… lighter than expected
Wes Morgan stood in the center — captain’s armband not on, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need it to command the room.
“Alright,” Wes said, clearing his throat. His voice cut through the noise like it always did. Everyone quieted.
Tristan took a seat on the bench beside Mahrez and leaned forward, elbows on knees.
Wes glanced around the room. “Pearson’s gone. And yeah, it’s weird. We all know that. Lot of us owe him more than a little.”
A few heads dipped in agreement.
“But it’s done,” Wes said simply. “Ain’t no going back. We’ve got a new manager now, and we show him the same respect. He’s come in to build, not tear us down. So we move. Together.”
The words settled over them, solid and grounding.
Then Wes pointed at the group. “Also — and I’m only saying this once — no one here is allowed to visit any bloody brothels or record themselves doing anything remotely stupid. Please. For the love of the gods.”
That broke the room.
Laughter ricocheted off the walls; some guys doubled over, and Vardy nearly choked on his water bottle.
“Vardy, I’m looking at you,” Wes added without missing a beat.
“Oi!” Vardy barked. “I’m a reformed man now. Bible in one hand, protein shake in the other.”
“Right,” King muttered.
Wes cracked a smile but sobered quickly. “One more thing. If you’re wondering where the rest of the squad is, Cambiasso’s gone. Konate’s out. Upson and Moore too. They haven’t left the club yet, but it’s pretty much the same. They’ve all moved on. Club’s working on new signings, and we’ll meet them soon enough.”
Tristan glanced around. The lockers felt… emptier. Lingard’s was cleared out too — back to United. His absence was felt, even if no one said it out loud.
Wes finished, “It doesn’t matter who’s here or not. We’re Leicester City. We fight with what we’ve got.”
A murmur of agreement followed.
Ranieri might’ve been new — but this group wasn’t. The cores of the team were still here with everyone still hungry for success.
…
The sun hung higher now, baking down on the training pitches as the players trickled out in navy gear, boots laced, smiles flashing, and shouts echoing across the grass. It was pre-season, but it wasn’t a holiday. Not today.
Ranieri watched from the sideline, arms crossed, sunglasses perched just low enough that he could see every detail. Beside him, Paolo Benetti jotted notes into a leather-bound folder. On the table nearby, tablets blinked to life as performance analysts began tracking biometric data — heart rates, movement patterns, and anaerobic bursts. One staff member checked players' recent weights, while another adjusted GPS trackers clipped to their training tops.
“Most of them look fit,” Benetti said, scanning the early readings. “Tristan last season was 80 kg now he’s 83.5 kg with a body fat of 7.5%. He’s faster than last season. Stronger too. We can do a few different tests to measure his exact speed.”
Ranieri didn’t say anything — just kept his eyes on the pitch as warmups began.
Down on the field, no one was dragging their feet.
“Start with the rondos,” shouted Paolo, clapping his hands. “Three groups. Five minutes each.”
The players broke into circles. The ball started flying fast. One-touch, two-touch, nutmegs.
The fitness coaches ran checks between drills — sprint times, short-lap endurance, even body-fat readings. Some of the older players grimaced at the machines. Vardy joked about hiding in the bush during the beep test. But no one protested. Everyone knew what was at stake this year.
And Ranieri? He watched everything.
He watched how Drinkwater adjusted when paired with a younger midfielder. How Albrighton changed tempo based on Tristan’s movements. How Schmeichel roared louder when the defenders looked unsure. He watched chemistry, not just cardio.
After the rondos, they moved into 4v4 small-sided games — intensity ratcheted up. Tristan didn’t score every time, but it was scary watching a midfielder score more than Vardy, one of the best strikers last season.
The session wound down with a final sprint circuit — ten short bursts across the pitch and back. Vardy predictably finished first, then collapsed in the grass, wheezing dramatically. Most of the others followed close behind, hands on hips.
..
The training pitch had long emptied out. Boots were off, GPS vests handed in, and the players were either stretching in the physio room or in the showers, swapping preseason banter. But inside the coaches’ office, the air was heavier — not tense, but loaded with thought.
Ranieri stood at the front of the whiteboard, arms crossed. His sleeves were still rolled, and a bit of sweat lingered at his collar. Around him, Paolo Benetti and two other assistants were seated, going through printouts, tablet screens, and notes scribbled during the session.
“Alright,” Ranieri said, breaking the silence. “Let’s start with the obvious.”
He pointed to the large magnet in the center of the whiteboard — a blue dot marked HALE.
“Tristan wants to play higher this year. False nine, not just a ten.”
A quiet beat passed. Then one of the assistants — James Robson, the fitness coach — spoke up first.
“He looked sharp. Quicker than last season. More powerful in his sprints. But I won’t lie — I’m nervous pulling him too far from midfield. That’s where he’s been the engine.”
Benetti nodded. “We lose that rhythm if we drop him from the middle entirely. The team leans on him to carry possession. To dictate.”
Ranieri didn’t disagree. He understood every word of it. Tristan was a metronome and a flamethrower rolled into one.
“But,” Ranieri said calmly, “he scored more than our striker last season.”
The room went quiet again.
He tapped his knuckles gently on the board. “He doesn’t want to just create anymore, he wants more trophies, last season he almost won the golden boot. He wants to finish more. And with what I saw today? He can. He’s stronger. His runs and dribbles are timed better. And his shooting — you saw the small-sided games.”
Another coach murmured, “Six goals in 4v4s. He’s already operating like a forward.”
“Exactly,” Ranieri said. “And we need to see it in match conditions. Pre-season is the time to test. Let him start higher. If it works, we commit. If it doesn’t, we adapt. But we owe him that trial.”
Benetti scratched his chin. “He mentioned Kante during warmups,” he said. “He’s... optimistic.”
Ranieri snorted lightly. “That boy is more than optimistic. He’s already talking like Kante’s signed. From what I understand, he told the club to sign Kante before the scandal.”
A chuckle went around the table, brief but real.
Ranieri added, “And he might not be wrong. The deal’s close. Just the agent now — he’s playing hardball on bonuses.”
“Should we be worried?” someone asked.
Ranieri shook his head. “No. Not unless the agent grows another head overnight. Jon is confident it’ll be done soon. Maybe after the pre-season ends we also have to account for that as well.”
Benetti leaned forward. “If Kante joins and he’s everything that Tristan and Jon say he is, it gives us balance. Then we can afford to let Tristan float higher. We’ll have a destroyer behind him.”
“And if not?” Robson asked.
“Then we adjust. We bring in someone else who can sit.”
Ranieri looked around the room again, making sure he was understood.
“We can’t exactly say no to Tristan Hale,” he said simply. “Not after what he gave this club. Not after last season.”
He pointed at the whiteboard one last time.
“Next match, he plays false nine. Let’s see how the team bends around him. I want data. Movement maps. Interplay heat zones. I want it all.”
There were nods.
“Alright,” Ranieri said, finally easing into his chair. “Let’s see how far this goes for all of our sakes.”
..
3075
2-5 chapters left of the buildup. I would have said we would be done in 2 chapters but I dont have the energy to write long chapters anymore
Peace
Comments
Sicario_1011
Thanks for the chapter a lil sad the long chapters are gone. those were always a treat. I completely understand tho.
