Sinbad
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Chapter 138: The Attention
🕑 Added 2025-02-25 20:38:03 +0000 UTCOctober 7th, 2014 - St. George’s Park...
The crisp autumn air carried the scent of freshly cut grass as England’s squad jogged onto the training pitch. The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, stretching long shadows across the pristine field.
For most, this was another session—sharpening movements, maintaining rhythm, getting ready for the qualifiers. But for Tristan, it was another step forward in a journey that had started in Brazil.
At just nineteen, he had carried England on his back at the 2014 World Cup, dragging them past the group stage with his vision, dribbling, and ability to create something from nothing. Now, a few months later, he wasn’t just a talent.
He was the player England was being built around.
Hodgson, flanked by assistant coaches Ray Lewington and Gary Neville, stood near the center circle, observing as the squad finished their stretches.
Then, he clapped his hands together. “Alright, lads, gather up.”
The players moved in, forming a loose semi-circle—some bouncing lightly on their feet, others rolling their shoulders in quiet preparation.
Hodgson’s voice carried across the field.
“Today, we’re running through different setups. The goal is simple—play to our strengths. We need the right balance to control games, break teams down, and stay compact.”
A few murmurs passed through the squad. They had tried different formations before, but this felt more targeted.
“We’ve got the talent. We’ve got the depth. And we’ve got players who can change a game. It’s about making sure everyone is in the best position to succeed.”
There were nods of agreement—Rooney, Henderson, Cahill—all listening intently.
Hodgson’s eyes flicked briefly to Tristan. “That means getting the most out of our playmakers, midfield engines, and front line.”
He didn’t need to spell it out. The squad knew exactly who he meant.
Tristan adjusted his socks, rolling his shoulders as he listened. He wasn’t just another squad member. He was the player expected to dictate play, break defenses, and deliver when it mattered.
The entire country had placed an impossible weight on his shoulders, and yet—
He welcomed it.
He wanted it.
“Alright,” Hodgson called out, motioning the players into shape. “We’re starting in a 4-2-3-1. Tristan, you’re in the central attacking role behind Rooney. Henderson and Wilshere in midfield, Sterling and Ox on the flanks.”
As the players took their positions, Gary Neville leaned into Hodgson, murmuring quietly.
“Rooney and Tristan together could work, but I don’t think this setup lets him push forward enough.”
Hodgson nodded, taking mental notes. “We’ll see. Let’s run it.”
The drill began with a simple buildup from the back, but from the moment Tristan received the ball, it was clear how the team was adjusting to his influence. He turned on the half-turn, skipping past Wilshere's pressing challenge before threading a pass forward—perfectly weighted for Vardy.
Vardy exploded past his defender, latching onto the ball and firing a shot past the keeper. A clean goal.
“Good!” Hodgson called out. “That’s what we need—quick transitions!”
But despite the early success, Tristan started to feel the limitations. The double pivot of Henderson and Wilshere offered solid control, but they also crowded the central areas, limiting his space. Every time he picked up the ball, he had two midfielders behind him and a striker ahead—but little space to drive forward himself.
Gary Neville frowned, jotting something down in his notes. “He’s being boxed in. We need someone running beyond him or pulling defenders away.”
Lewington, arms crossed, nodded. “He thrives when he has room to carry the ball forward, but right now, he’s waiting for space instead of creating it.”
Hodgson clapped his hands. “Not bad, but let’s tweak it. Let’s see how it flows in a 4-3-3.”
With Henderson dropping deeper as the sole defensive midfielder, Wilshere and Tristan played as two advanced eights, giving them more license to roam forward. Vardy and Sterling played wide, while Rooney remained central.
Immediately, Tristan found himself with more space.
Instead of waiting for a pass, he drove forward with the ball, pulling defenders toward him before cutting a disguised reverse pass to Sterling on the left. The winger skipped past his man and whipped in a cross.
Rooney rose highest—burying a header into the net.
“Better,” Hodgson muttered to himself, eyes sharp.
Tristan was getting more involved, but there was still one problem—the lack of movement ahead of him.
“You see that?” Neville muttered to Lewington. “He needs options. If Vardy drifts wide, Rooney needs to drop deeper so Tristan has someone to link up with centrally.”
After running through 4-2-3-1 and 4-3-3, Hodgson called the squad over.
“Right,” he said, hands on hips, voice thoughtful. “We’ve experimented, but let’s go back to what’s been working—4-4-2 diamond.”
There were a few knowing nods among the players.
This was the formation Tristan had thrived in since joining the squad.
Henderson anchored the midfield. Wilshere and Oxlade-Chamberlain played as the shuttlers. Tristan took up his familiar free-roaming role behind Rooney and Vardy.
And suddenly, everything clicked.
Tristan dropped deeper when needed, drove forward when the space opened, and—most importantly—had two forwards ahead of him who were constantly making runs.
The midfield was fluid. The attack was direct.
One moment, Tristan chipped a ball over the top for Vardy to chase. The next, he skipped past two defenders and fired a shot from 20 yards out—forcing the keeper into a fingertip save.
The team moved as one, the system allowing Tristan to pull the strings without suffocating him.
Hodgson, hands on his hips, exhaled in satisfaction. “That’s it,” he muttered to himself.
Gary Neville, flipping through his notes, nodded. “It’s still our best setup.”
The session ended with the usual cooldown drills—short passing exercises, light jogging, and stretching. The players laughed and chatted among themselves, but they all knew the real work had been done on the pitch.
While the squad filtered back toward the dressing rooms, Hodgson, Lewington, and Neville remained behind, walking toward the training center. A few other analysts and coaching staff followed, laptops in hand, as they prepared to break down what they had observed.
Inside the coaching office, Hodgson took a seat at the long tactical desk, the large screen in front of them replaying clips from the session. The footage highlighted key patterns of play, movement, and decision-making.
Neville, arms crossed, exhaled. “We can’t keep changing things. The 4-4-2 diamond still gets the best out of Tristan.”
Lewington nodded. “Agreed. We’ve tried different formations, but everything still comes back to one thing—he thrives when he has freedom.”
Hodgson leaned forward, rewinding a section of play where Tristan cut through midfield, skipping past two defenders before threading a perfect ball to Vardy.
“And we know who he links up best with.”
The screen froze on Vardy sprinting behind the defensive line, perfectly anticipating Tristan’s pass.
Neville tapped the screen. “That’s why he has to start.”
There was silence as Hodgson considered it.
It wasn’t an easy decision.
England had four strikers in camp.
Wayne Rooney – Captain. Undroppable. The leader of the squad and a proven goalscorer. His experience was invaluable.
Daniel Sturridge—clinical but unreliable. His injuries meant he wasn’t at full fitness.
Danny Welbeck—energetic, disciplined, and a strong runner, but not as sharp in front of the goal.
Jamie Vardy—explosive, relentless, and—most importantly—the one who had the best chemistry with Tristan.
Hodgson exhaled, finally speaking. “We can’t drop Rooney.”
Lewington nodded. “So it comes down to Vardy or Sturridge.”
There was a beat of silence before Neville clicked back to another clip—one of Tristan feeding a first-time ball into space, where Vardy took off at full speed before slotting it home.
Neville pointed. “That. We don’t get that from Sturridge right now.”
Hodgson leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
Then, after a long pause—he nodded.
“Vardy starts.”
The decision was made.
Meanwhile, outside the office, the squad was completely unaware of the conversations happening inside.
Tristan, sitting on a bench inside the dressing room, pulled off his boots, chatting with Vardy, Henderson, and Oxlade-Chamberlain.
They had no idea that, behind closed doors, Hodgson had already made the choice that would shape England’s attack.
Tristan pushed open the door to his private room, exhaling as he stepped inside.
Most of the squad had roommates, but he didn’t.
He had asked for his own space after the first international break, and—well, who was going to say no to him?
At just 19, he had already carried England on his back in Brazil, played like a generational talent in the Premier League, and had the entire nation hanging onto his every move. If he wanted his own room to focus and recharge?
He got it.
The room was quiet—a stark contrast to the noise of training, the banter in the dressing room, and the chaos of his life outside of football.
Tristan dropped his bag by the door, peeled off his England training top, and tossed it onto a chair. His muscles ached from the intensity of today’s session, but the exhaustion felt… good.
He ran a hand through his damp curls, letting out a deep breath before walking over to the bed and flopping down onto the mattress.
For the first time all day, he was alone with his thoughts.
He called the system in his head just to check his stats.
*****
[Name] – Tristan Hale
[Age] – 19
[Team] – Leicester City
[SHO] – B
[PAS] – A
[DRI] – C
[PAC] – B
[DEF] – C
[PHY] – C
[Template] – Kevin De Bryune
[Auxiliary] – Anti-Injury Cards(2)
*****
[I won’t lie, I lost track of the system and all the fucking points and templates and stuff so I just decided to make my own with the help of Mark, a Patreon reader. I will explain the new system in more detail at the end of the chapter. For now, just think Tristan only has the De Bryune template for my own sanity, please.]
Looking at the stats, Tristan was pretty satisfied.
"Not bad, looks like I need to increase my dribbling more."
He couldn't really do anything about his physicality, he was gaining weight and muscles at a safe speed under the watch of the entire team at both England and Leciester.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand, knocking him out of his thoughts.
FaceTime – Babe
A small grin tugged at his lips as he accepted the call.
He exhaled, running a hand through his damp curls before answering. The screen lit up, and instead of seeing Barbara curled up in bed, like usual, he was met with open fields bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. The sky stretched wide behind her, blue fading into hues of orange and pink, a wooden barn in the distance, and a dirt path winding toward fenced pastures.
And there, in the middle of it all, wrapped up in one of his hoodie—was Barbara.
Tristan blinked, tilting his head slightly. “Wait. Where the hell are you?”
Barbara’s lips twitched as she flipped the hood up dramatically. “Welcome to the countryside.”
His brows pulled together as he scanned the screen. "Damn, okay. I wasn’t expecting this.”
Barbara’s eyes glowed with amusement. "What, didn’t you pay attention to a single thing I said?"
Tristan leaned back against his pillows, lips twitching. "I know you said you had a farm and everything but not this?"
Barbara huffed, shaking her head, the loose strands of her hair catching in the evening breeze. “Listen next time, than babe.”
Tristan’s gaze drifted past her, taking in the open space. The occasional chirp of crickets, rustling leaves, and distant neighbors made the place feel like a completely different world.
He hummed. "Alright, so this is home, huh?"
Barbara flipped the camera, tilting her phone slightly as she walked, letting him see more of the land. “Yup. And since you’re here, virtually, I might as well introduce you to everyone.”
"Alright, show me the animals."
The screen shook slightly as she moved toward a cluster of chickens pecking aggressively at the dirt near the barn.
Barbara sighed, flipping the camera to zoom in. “These are the chickens. They may look harmless, but don’t be fooled.”
Tristan squinted. "They're literally just chickens."
Barbara snorted. "Tell that to this one—her name’s Bori, and she’s been plotting against me since childhood.”
Tristan pressed his knuckles against his mouth, shoulders shaking as he held in laughter. “Babe, you’re in a whole rivalry with a chicken?”
Barbara crossed her arms, looking comically serious. “You don’t understand. This demon has chased me across the yard more times than I can count.”
Tristan raised a brow, lips twitching. "You realize I need video proof of this."
Barbara groaned, tilting her head back dramatically. "One day, you’ll see."
Leaving Bori and her alleged criminal history behind, Barbara walked toward the pasture. The screen panned to two horses standing near the fence—one a sleek black stallion and the other a gentle white mare.
She reached up to stroke the stallion’s neck, murmuring something softly before addressing Tristan.
"Alright, meet Villám—means ‘Lightning’ in Hungarian." She patted his side affectionately. “And this is Csillag—‘Star.’”
Tristan observed them with interest, his gaze following the way Villám tossed his head dramatically, his black mane rippling.
His lips parted slightly, then he let out a breathy chuckle. "Yeah, okay. Villám definitely knows he’s the main character."
Barbara jerked her head up, narrowing her eyes. “Excuse me?”
Tristan gestured lazily at the screen, voice warm with amusement. "Look at him—he’s standing there all poised, flicking his mane like he’s in a movie scene."
Barbara scoffed, resting a hand on her hip. "I take offense on his behalf."
Tristan leaned back, eyes glinting with mischief. "Like owner, like horse."
Barbara let out an exaggerated gasp, her free hand clutching her chest in mock betrayal. "Wow. Rude."
Tristan grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "I call it like I see it, babe."
Barbara rolled her eyes, but the small smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. She moved the camera closer to Villám, running a hand through his mane.
Before Tristan could respond—
A loud voice interrupted, calling out in rapid Hungarian.
Barbara’s head snapped up, eyes widening slightly.
Tristan blinked. "What was that?"
Barbara groaned, already turning toward the source of the voice. "Oh no."
The screen shook slightly as Barbara whipped around.
Tristan blinked as a woman with long, dark hair and striking blue eyes—so much like Barbara’s—walked into frame. She had her arms crossed, an amused tilt to her lips, as she said something in Hungarian, her tone teasing.
Barbara groaned. “Oh my God.”
Tristan raised a brow, already entertained. “Translation?”
Barbara sighed, flipping the camera slightly to face both of them. “Tristan, meet my older sister, Anita.”
Anita finally acknowledged him properly, tilting her head as she gave him a slow, assessing once-over—the kind of look that made it clear she was analyzing every inch of him.
Then, she said something else in Hungarian, her tone dry but amused.
Barbara’s face immediately turned red. “Anita!”
Tristan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Babe, what did she just say?”
Barbara dragged a hand down her face. “She said… you look younger than she expected.”
Tristan scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I’m nineteen. What did she expect, a beard?”
Anita, watching their exchange, raised a brow, muttering something else in Hungarian before shrugging slightly—like she wasn’t entirely convinced yet.
Barbara sighed sharply. “Anita.”
Tristan, who had been watching them like a tennis match, leaned forward. “Alright, what now?”
Barbara gave him a halfhearted glare, then reluctantly translated. “She asked if you were just another dumb footballer.”
Tristan immediately beamed, sitting up straighter. “And?”
Barbara exhaled sharply, clearly reluctant. “I told her you were the best footballer.”
Tristan’s grin turned smug. “Damn right.”
Anita huffed in amusement, then—without warning—reached out and yanked Barbara’s hood up over her head, laughing.
Barbara yelped, swatting at her. “ANITA!”
Anita ignored her, saying something else in Hungarian—this time, her tone mockingly sweet.
Barbara ripped the hood down, her face now fully red. “Oh my God. You’re the worst.”
Tristan, watching the entire thing unfold, tilted his head, thoroughly entertained. “Babe. What did she just say?”
Barbara turned to glare at her sister, who was grinning smugly.
Tristan laughed, resting his chin on his palm. “Oh, this has to be good.”
Barbara, clearly resigned to her fate, finally muttered, “She said you’re cute… and that I obviously like you way too much.”
Tristan broke into a full grin, rubbing a hand across his jaw. “She’s got good instincts.”
Anita, watching Tristan’s reaction closely, suddenly softened. She looked at Barbara briefly before turning her gaze back to the screen, then said something else—this time, her voice serious but kind.
Barbara’s eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone.
Tristan waited, his expression curious but patient. “And?”
Barbara’s expression softened too, a small, genuine smile forming. “She said to take care of me.”
Tristan met Anita’s gaze through the screen, his expression turning earnest. “Always.”
Barbara sighed dramatically, flopping against the fence. “Great. First, I have to deal with her, and now you?”
Tristan stretched lazily, still smirking. “Life’s tough, babe.”
Barbara rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t fade as she continued walking and showing the farm.
She walked toward the wooden fence, fingers skimming the rough grain as she leaned against it. The Hungarian countryside stretched behind her—open fields bathed in the late afternoon light, the barn standing sturdy in the distance, the occasional sound of horses stirring in their pens.
Tristan watched through the screen, head propped against his pillow, his body still loose from training. The sun in England was probably just starting to dip, but in Hungary, the sky had already begun to shift into shades of warm gold and soft blue.
Barbara adjusted her phone against the fence post, freeing her hands. “Finally, some peace and quiet.”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Did Anita leave, or did you make a run for it?”
Barbara exhaled dramatically, tilting her head back. “Bit of both.”
Tristan chuckled, the sound easy. “She’s growing on me.”
Barbara snapped her head toward the camera, narrowing her eyes instantly. “No. You are not allowed to take her side.”
He smiled, eyes crinkling slightly. “Too late.”
Barbara groaned, muttering something under her breath in Hungarian before turning her attention back to him. “She’s a menace.”
Tristan leaned back against the pillows, studying her with quiet amusement. “Says the girl who stole half my closet.”
Barbara scoffed, crossing her arms. “That’s different.”
Tristan let out a laugh, watching her for a moment before his voice softened, turning quieter.
“I miss you.”
Barbara’s teasing faltered instantly. Her expression softened, her voice losing the usual playfulness. “I miss you too.”
Tristan exhaled slowly, running a hand over his jaw. “Two weeks is too long.”
Barbara let out a breath, her fingers playing absently with the sleeve of his hoodie. “You gonna survive?”
Tristan sighed, completely serious now. “Not a chance.”
Barbara bit her lip, tilting her head slightly. “Big, bad football star can’t handle a little distance?”
Tristan’s gaze flickered over her, his eyes darkening slightly. Even through the screen, the weight of it made her breath hitch. “Nope.”
Barbara looked away for a second, her fingers tightening slightly around the fabric of his hoodie. A slow warmth curled in her stomach.
Then, Tristan’s voice pulled her attention back. “You cold?”
Barbara raised a brow. “You do realize I’m literally wrapped in your hoodie, right?”
Tristan hummed, leaning back lazily. “Just making sure my clothes are doing their job.”
Barbara rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “You’re such an idiot.”
Tristan laughed. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”
Barbara snorted, shaking her head. “Unfortunately.”
His expression softened slightly as he watched her through the screen. “Go inside before you freeze.”
Barbara arched a brow. “Look who’s being protective.”
Tristan stretched, grinning like he wasn’t going to deny it. “Someone’s gotta look after you.”
Barbara scoffed playfully but pressed her cheek against the phone for a second—like it was the closest thing to leaning into him.
“Get some rest, big boy.”
Tristan nodded, his voice quieter now. “You too, and enjoy your birthday, farm girl.”
Barbara rolled her eyes, but her heart felt full.
And as the call ended, Tristan let out a slow breath, staring at the ceiling.
Maybe he should start learning Hungarian before meeting the rest of her family.
But before he could dwell on it too long, his stomach grumbled loudly, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten since training.
Right. Food.
With a stretch and a yawn, he pushed himself off the bed, grabbed his phone, and headed toward the common room.
The common room buzzed with energy as the England squad unwound after training. A flat-screen TV played Premier League highlights, but the real entertainment?
Vardy scrolling through his phone.
Tristan sat lounged on the couch, arms stretched along the backrest, lazily flipping through channels. Around the room, Luke Shaw, Raheem Sterling, Henderson, and Lallana were either sprawled on the furniture or locked in a FIFA battle on the PS4.
Vardy, however, was way too invested in whatever was on his screen.
"Oi, Tristan," he called out, his voice dripping with mischief.
Tristan didn’t even look up. "No."
Vardy blinked. "I didn’t even say anything yet."
Tristan switched the channel. "I know that tone. Whatever it is—you’re about to chat shit."
Luke perked up, sensing incoming entertainment. "Oh, this is gonna be good."
Sterling grinned. "It always is when Vardy’s got that look."
Henderson, shaking his head but clearly amused, muttered, "Lad’s got no chill."
Vardy ignored them, turning his phone around and holding up the screen for everyone to see.
A massive digital billboard in London, featuring none other than Tristan Hale, front and center for Burberry’s latest campaign.
Dressed in a tailored trench coat, his sharp cheekbones and signature messy curls giving him an effortless model aesthetic, the whole thing screamed old-money British charm.
Lallana let out a low whistle. "Bloody hell."
Sterling leaned in, grinning. "Man looks like he just inherited half of Mayfair."
Luke, eyes locked on the image, shook his head. "Tristan, mate, you look like you should be sipping whisky in a penthouse, complaining about ‘the decline of true luxury.’"
Tristan finally glanced at the screen, barely reacting. "Oh, that. Yeah, it dropped today."
Henderson arched a brow. "‘That?’ You’ve got your face plastered all over London, and that’s all you’ve got to say?"
Tristan shrugged, completely unbothered. "I mean… yeah?"
Vardy scoffed. "Look at him. Man does one Burberry campaign and suddenly he’s too big-time for us."
Lallana nudged Tristan’s knee. "Be honest. How many people have called you ‘model boy’ today?"
Tristan sighed dramatically. "You lot are the first, but I’m sure it’s coming."
Sterling, still grinning, pulled out his own phone. "Bro, your girl has already commented on the pictures."
Tristan’s brows lifted slightly. "Yeah?"
Sterling cleared his throat, then— mimicking Barbara’s voice in an overly dramatic tone—read aloud:
"‘@BarbaraPalvin I’m actually dating a model, send help. 😭😂’"
The room erupted into laughter.
Vardy wiped a fake tear from his eye. "Bro, she’s got it bad."
Tristan rubbed a hand over his face, trying (and failing) to fight back a grin. "Shut up."
Luke, still laughing, nudged him. "Nah, come on, mate. What’s it like, being a Burberry model and the best young player in England at the same time?"
Tristan stretched lazily. "Busy."
Henderson chuckled, shaking his head. "Modest as ever."
Vardy tossed his phone onto the couch and clapped his hands together. "Alright, enough about Hale being Britain’s Next Top Model. Who’s up for a game of pool?"
Luke stood immediately. "Oh, I’m in."
Henderson smirked. "You do know I’m undefeated, right?"
Sterling rolled his eyes. "Man, everyone here thinks they’re undefeated."
Tristan leaned back, watching them bicker. This was the part of camp he liked best—the easy moments in between the pressure and the media watching every single little thing he does.
Tristan leaned back on the couch, one leg stretched out, bottle of water in hand, watching as Henderson lined up his final shot.
With one smooth motion, the cue ball struck, knocking the eight-ball into the corner pocket.
"Still undefeated," Henderson said casually, setting his cue down with a smirk.
Luke groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "Fluke. Rematch tomorrow."
Vardy, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table, exhaled dramatically. "I dunno, mate, I think Hendo just owns you at this point."
Sterling, lounging with his arms crossed, laughed. "Bro, he owns all of us at this point."
Henderson just chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "Some things in life are guaranteed—taxes, bad refereeing, and me winning at pool."
The room buzzed with laughter, but Tristan’s attention shifted when he caught Hodgson and the coaching staff passing through the corridor, their heads bowed in deep discussion.
Even from across the room, he could make out key words.
San Marino. Estonia. Tactical adjustments.
The energy in the common room subtly shifted. The joking died down slightly, and a few of the lads exchanged glances.
Lallana, running a hand through his hair, finally broke the silence. "You lot ready for tomorrow?"
Sterling stretched, his usual smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If we’re not, something’s seriously wrong."
Everyone knew San Marino were one of the weakest sides in Europe. The real test would be Estonia a few days later. But that wasn’t the point.
Tristan, still absentmindedly spinning his water bottle, finally spoke. "It’s not about them. It’s about us."
A few heads turned toward him.
"We win, we dominate, we keep momentum," he continued, his voice steady. "Then we roll into Estonia ready to do the same."
Vardy nodded, his usual grin turning serious. "Exactly. Big scorelines build confidence. Let’s make a statement."
Henderson, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, eyed Tristan. "What’s the over-under on how many goals you score?"
Sterling laughed. "At least three."
"He’s gonna stat-pad."
Tristan huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. "You lot are acting like I’m a striker."
Vardy clapped him on the shoulder. "You shoot like one."
Tristan just rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t hide the competitive fire in his expression.
They talked tactics for a while longer, going over who was most likely starting (though Hodgson kept his final lineup under wraps until matchday).
Then—
Sterling, who had been casually scrolling through his phone, suddenly burst out laughing.
"Mate, you two have been trending since yesterday," he said, looking at Tristan.
Tristan raised a brow. "What now?"
Sterling grinned and turned the phone around.
On the screen?
The entire internet was talking about his airport goodbye with Barbara.
@EnglandFansHQ:
"Tristan Hale with the most whipped energy I’ve ever seen. This man is COVERED in red lipstick, holding onto Barbara like she’s leaving for war. My guy is IN LOVE."
@DublinUpdates:
"The way Tristan picked Barbara up in the middle of the airport… this man is NOT okay without her."
@ProudIrish:
"Hale’s about to drop a hat-trick on San Marino out of pure heartbreak. Y’all not ready."
The lads absolutely lost it.
Vardy practically doubled over. “Bro, you’re finished.”
Sterling wiped a fake tear. “We’ve lost him, boys.”
Luke, shaking his head but clearly entertained, added, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s about to retire and move to Hungary.”
Henderson, biting back a grin, shook his head in mock sympathy. “Football’s finished, man. Tristan Hale is a family man now.”
Tristan rubbed his temples, exhaling dramatically. He needed to find dirt on all of them, he can’t be the only one suffering.
Vardy threw an arm over his shoulder. “It’s alright, mate. We’ll get you through this difficult time.”
Tristan just shook his head, but he wasn’t even annoyed as he scrolled Twitter, looking at the memes and jokes at his expense.
The video of him standing at their table in the chinese restaurant, tapping his fork against his glass before breaking into a full-on rendition of "Happy Birthday" in the middle of the place.
Barbara was absolutely mortified in the video, face buried in her hands, while the entire restaurant joined in.
@WB: "Tristan Hale is singing to his girl in a fancy restaurant. Meanwhile, I can’t even get a text back. Life isn’t fair."
@Commentpeople: "Hale does one Burberry campaign and now thinks he’s Hugh Grant in a rom-com. Insane behavior."
@Likethechapterfolks: "Tristan Hale is the standard. If your man isn’t serenading you in a five-star restaurant, he’s not your man."
Yeah, the internet was roasting him alive, but—
He didn’t care.
It was worth it.
Barbara was worth it.
And, of course, the mainstream media was fueling it.
The Sun: "Tristan Hale – England’s Brightest Star or England’s Most Whipped Star?"
Daily Mail Sport: "Tristan Hale & Barbara Palvin: England’s Golden Boy and His Supermodel Romance—Will It Affect His Game?"
Sky Sports News: "Tristan is the best player in the world right now but can he carry this England squad again? Or will off-the-pitch distractions play a role?"
The Guardian: "A future England captain? Sources inside the FA believe Tristan Hale is the man to build around for years to come."
Tristan scrolled through his phone, skimming the headlines while sipping his protein shake.
Some of it was standard media nonsense, but a few caught his attention.
Especially that last one.
A future England captain?
Tristan leaned back, thinking about it.
That wasn’t just an idea floating around anymore.
People expected him to lead this team one day.
…………….
5040 word count, not counting this end section, not 6k but I felt like ending it here was the smart choice
Now for this chapter, I wanted to focus more on the England players than the games; that will be the next chapter, and if you noticed the players Tristan are so close to, its by intention for the future.
Now to the system, I didn’t want to write this into the chapter just for the sake of it. I felt like this doing was better.
System
Attributes are ranked from E to A.
A-level attributes is like the peak of any historic player
Ceiling Indicators
When an attribute reaches its ceiling within a rank, it is marked with three +++ signs which is like the max. An improvement would push it to [B].
Since A is already the highest for most players in history, very few players would have any + signs next to any A attribute. Only two active players with A+ in any stats are Ronaldo and Messi. To even get the + next to A would mean you're like the greatest of all time.
Template Draw Mechanics
When Tristan wins a major trophy, he earns a chance to draw a player template.
If the drawn player has a higher status than Tristan in a specific attribute, that attribute will increase.
Example: If Tristan’s Dribbling is at [C] and he pulls a player known for dribbling, it may rise to [B], while his other stats remain unchanged if they are already on par or superior.
However, if Tristan pulls a weaker template, his attributes remain the same.
Trophy-Based Restrictions
Templates are limited to one per major trophy category.
If Tristan wins the Premier League, he gets one template draw from that achievement.
Subsequent wins of the same competition do not grant new templates. He must seek other major trophies such as the Champions League, World Cup, Euros, or La Liga to earn additional draws.
Stat Progression
Tristan cannot gain attribute points through arbitrary upgrades.
His only means of improvement are:
Training
Experience
Template Draws
This system ensures that Tristan must earn his growth rather than having stats handed to him without effort.
Comments
noname_marco
yeah he will templates for that
mlungisi mguni
Does he get a player template for personal trophy ? Like say ballon d’Or and PFA players player the year in PA young player of the year?
l K
Some things in life are guaranteed—taxes, bad refereeing, and me winning at pool." - u got that from chad ochocino?
Lord Shiva
Can he draw Messi next lmfao. I need to see the world’s reaction to him suddenly having the ball glued to his feet.
