England's Greatest
Chapter 219: Start of a Friendship

Chapter 219: Start of a Friendship

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..

November 22, 2015 — 6:12 AM

Leicester, Hale Residence

The rain had stopped sometime in the night. A dull gray glow filtered through the bedroom curtains, soft and colorless.

Depressing as always in the U.K.

Tristan lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped over Barbara’s hip. Her body was pressed close, legs tangled with his under the sheets, her cheek resting just above his heart. She’d barely moved all night.

He had. Not by choice. His shin ached like hell. His ribs, too. Every time he rolled, it felt like his bones were rubbing against each other.

Barbara stirred.

Her hand flattened against his chest. Then curled. Then patted, like she was checking he hadn’t slipped away in the dark.

He smiled to himself. "Still here," he whispered.

No reply. She didn’t wake.

Usually she was up by now — same time as him, like clockwork. They’d built that habit together. But today, her breaths stayed slow and steady. Her fingers just brushed his collarbone, then stilled again. She was out cold.

Tristan kissed the top of her head. Then her forehead. Light. Careful.

She sighed softly in her sleep. Didn’t move.

He considered getting up. Really considered it. There was no training today — Ranieri had told them all to rest — but he didn’t want to waste the morning.

Then he moved his leg an inch.

Nope. Not happening.

The dull throb under his taped shin made its case. So did his ribs. His whole body still felt like it had gone a round with a cement mixer.

Tristan exhaled and let his head fall back against the pillow.

"Alright," he muttered. "Let’s see it."

His eyes closed.

The system blinked into existence in front of him.

[Name] – Tristan Hale

[Age] – 20

[Team] – Leicester City

[SHO] – A

[PAS] – A

[DRI] – B+++

[PAC] – B++

[DEF] – B

[PHY] – B+++

[Auxiliary] –

• Anti-Injury Cards (x1)

• Minor Injury Prevention (x3)

• Stamina Recovery Cards (x3)

• Training XP Boosters (0)

[Templates] –

• Kevin De Bruyne

• Federico Valverde

• Fernando Torres

• Alisson Becker

• Jadon Sancho

’Huh, System... did my defense go up?’ Tristan asked, eyes still closed. ’I see it’s finally a B?’

Granted he didn’t do much defensive work, he left that up to Kante and that players behind. But getting B was still an accomplishment. He saw no other improvements sadly which expected to be honest. That system pretty much him going from B to A would take years unless he gets some pretty broken templates and that only players that could actually provide some improvements to his stats and game are players like Messi or Ronaldo. In other words he needs the top 5 players in history.

[CONFIRMED.]

[DEFENDING: Increased from C ++++ – to B.]

[Cause: sustained positional tracking, interceptions, and backtracking]

[EXPERIENCE COMES IN MANY FORMS. YOU SIMPLY WEREN’T DEFENDING ENOUGH BEFORE. TRACKING BACK CAN OFFER LITTLE TO NO EXPERIENCE.]

’I’ll take it.’

His fingers absently traced along Barbara’s spine, careful not to wake her.

’Show me the season stats.’

The system shimmered. A new panel slid into view — neat, gold-framed, pulsing softly like it was proud of itself.

[CURRENT SEASON STATS — 2015/16]

Tristan Hale

All Competitions (22 matches total)

• Goals: 27

• Assists: 26

• MOTM Awards: 18

• Average Match Rating: 8.94

Breakdown by Competition:

• Premier League (13 matches):

– Goals: 16

– Assists: 12

Europa League (3 matches):

– Goals: 3

– Assists: 7 International (England – 6 matches):

– Goals: 8

– Assists: 7 FA Cup: 0 matches played

• League Cup: 0 matches played

He stared at the numbers a second longer than usual. He didn’t even realize his stats. Wow, no wonder people were saying he was better than Ronaldo and Messi.

’Twenty-seven and twenty-six already?’ he murmured.

Barbara’s hair shifted slightly with his chest rise. Still asleep.

’System, what’s the league stats for the others?’

[REQUEST ACCEPTED.]

[LEAGUE ONLY — TOP THREE REQUESTED PLAYERS:]

Jamie Vardy – Premier League (13 matches)

• Goals: 17

• Assists: 0

• Shots per 90: 3.2

• Conversion rate: 32%

Note: No assists on record this season.

Riyad Mahrez – Premier League (13 matches)

• Goals: 4

• Assists: 7

• Chances created: 25

• Successful dribbles: 34

N’Golo Kanté – Premier League (13 matches)

• Goals: 1

• Assists: 2

• Interceptions: 51

• Tackles won: 45

• Duels won: 66%

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

’Vardy has seventeen and still zero assists? That can’t be right.’

[IT IS.]

He let out a breath through his nose. Quietly amused.

’He’s gonna hear about that.’

He committed the number to memory. Seventeen goals. Zero assists. All striker. No mercy.

He could already picture the team group chat later.

Then his eyes drifted over to Mahrez’s statline.

’Mahrez is doing alright... four and seven. Not bad.’

And Kanté? He didn’t even need the numbers to know he’d been a monster — but still, seeing the data confirmed it.

’Sixty-six percent duels won. Jesus.’

[REMARK: LEICESTER CURRENTLY LEAD THE PREMIER LEAGUE IN INTERCEPTIONS, TRANSITIONS, AND COUNTER-ATTACK GOALS.]

[YOU ARE THE TOP SCORER EUROPE.]

Tristan blinked.

’Wait, really?’

[AHEAD OF MESSI AND RONALDO.]

’Add that to the flex list.’

The system didn’t reply this time.

He glanced down again.

Barbara hadn’t moved. Still curled in tight, her face relaxed, lips parted slightly in sleep.

Tristan closed the system menu. Let the stats fade.

Then he kissed her forehead again and whispered, "Seventeen goals, zero assists. He’s gonna get roasted for that."

No way he wasn’t taking advantage of that.

Tristan closed the system menu. Let the stats fade.

He let his eyes drift back up to the ceiling. The gray morning light still hadn’t changed. That washed-out British kind of light, like the world was permanently stuck on low brightness.

He looked down at her again.

It didn’t matter how many goals he scored or what the numbers said — moments like this reminded him what actually kept him grounded and what mattered.

Her arm curled a little tighter around his ribs.

"Zero assists," he whispered again, quieter this time. "Gonna write that on a sticky note and slap it on Vardy’s locker."

Barbara didn’t react. Still deep in sleep.

He gently brushed a few strands of hair away from her face.

’System,’ he thought suddenly, eyes narrowing a little, ’what’s my physical condition rating right now? Like... internal.’

[PHYSICAL STATUS: LIMITED EXERTION ADVISED.]

[Current Stamina: 47%. Shin trauma: 41% recovery complete. Rib soreness: 3–5 day inflammation expected. Sleep: Slightly deficient. Mental focus: Stable.]

’Slightly deficient,’ he echoed. ’That’s generous.’

He could use the stamina cards but the team didn’t need him for Rosenberg, whatever they were called.

His muscles still felt like jelly wrapped in lead. But he wasn’t dreading it — not today. There was nothing to rush for. No early call time. No gym session with Bentti. No barking from Claudio in Italian-accented English.

His phone buzzed once on the nightstand. He ignored it.

The world could wait.

Twenty Minutes Later

A soft rustle broke the silence.

Barbara shifted against his chest, her leg curling tighter around his. She blinked once, twice, then slowly tilted her head back just enough to look at him.

"...You’re awake."

Her voice was hoarse. Barely above a whisper.

"So are you," Tristan said, his voice low, eyes still half-lidded.

Barbara didn’t answer right away. Her gaze moved across his face, then down to his taped leg under the sheets. Then back up.

"You didn’t sleep much," she murmured.

"I slept enough."

She gave a tiny, skeptical squint. Then gently pressed a hand to his ribs. He winced.

She saw it.

Her lips tightened slightly. "You’re sore."

He didn’t deny it. "Little bit."

Barbara let her hand slide from his chest to his face. Her thumb traced the edge of his jaw. "You’re never good at lying when I can see your face."

Tristan caught her hand and kissed it once. "And yet I try every morning."

That got the faintest smile from her.

She leaned in and kissed his collarbone, then rested her forehead against it again.

Neither of them moved for a while.

Then she said, "Your mum’s probably up already."

"Probably."

"She’s going to knock on the door any second."

"Probably."

Barbara sighed. "Should we get up?"

"No," Tristan said. "Let her knock."

Barbara chuckled softly against his chest.

Then she tilted her head up again, her hair messy and half-fanned across his neck. "How bad’s the pain?"

"Manageable."

She stared at him.

"...Six out of ten," he admitted.

Her brows twitched.

"I’m fine," he added quickly. " I’ll recover by the Rosenborg game. But I might skip it anyway. Not worth risking it."

Barbara’s fingers grazed his shoulder. "You shouldn’t even be thinking about Rosenborg."

"Exactly. That’s what I said."

"Good."

She kissed him once more, just under the jaw.

Then—

Knock knock knock.

Barbara didn’t flinch. "Told you."

"Yeah." Tristan sighed. "Coming, Mum!"

From behind the door: "You’ve got ten minutes or I’m sending Biscuit in!"

Barbara snorted and flopped onto her back. "That’s a real threat."

Tristan rolled onto his side — carefully — and looked over at her, hair spilled across the pillow, eyes still half-shut.

"You can go back to sleep," he said. "I’ll hold her off."

"You won’t last ten seconds."

"Then you better hurry up."

Barbara laughed again, then reached for his hand under the covers. "I’m already up."

.

Tristan made it downstairs with one sock on and his shin wrapped in fresh tape. Barbara trailed just behind him, hair pulled back into a quick ponytail, wearing one of his hoodies — oversized, soft, and clearly stolen on purpose.

The kitchen was already warm with the smell of eggs and toast. Steam curled from the kettle. Julia stood at the stove, apron on, flipping something in a pan with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d done it every morning for twenty years.

Ling sat at the corner table, glasses on, reading something on his tablet.

"Morning," Tristan mumbled, easing into a chair.

Barbara leaned over to kiss Julia on the cheek. "Smells amazing."

"Oh, don’t lie to me, darling," Julia said without turning. "It’s not Felix’s. It’s just eggs and whatever was left in the fridge."

"Don’t say that," Tristan muttered. "I haven’t even tasted it yet."

Julia finally glanced back over her shoulder. "Well then lower your standards. This is a mum-made breakfast, not a Michelin-starred private chef experience."

Ling chuckled quietly. "She’s been waiting to say that."

Barbara grinned and sat down beside Tristan, folding her legs beneath her. "Honestly? I missed it."

Julia smiled at that — just a little.

Tristan unlocked his phone as the toast popped up. A dozen unread messages blinked in the team group chat. He scrolled for a second, chewing absently on a corner of toast.

Marc: I swear my back’s still bruised. We need yoga recovery today.

Kasper: I need therapy

Ben: My thighs haven’t forgiven me.

Mahrez: I’m not moving until Tuesday.

Vardy: Y’all are soft. I already went for a jog.

Tristan: You’ve got 17 goals and zero assists. You jog for yourself only.

Vardy: Proud of that, actually. No passengers on the Vardy train.

Danny: Bro’s been playing solo career mode for 13 games straight.

Tristan smirked to himself.

"Something funny?" Barbara asked, taking a sip of tea.

"Just Vardy being Vardy," Tristan said. "They’re all moaning about their muscles, and he’s bragging about running already."

Julia slid two plates onto the table — scrambled eggs, toast, grilled tomatoes, and beans. No garnish. No parsley sprig. Just the kind of breakfast that made you feel full for six hours.

"Eat that and you’ll stop texting," she said.

Barbara nudged Tristan’s knee under the table. "She’s serious."

"I know," he said, picking up his fork. "And I love it."

Julia pointed her spatula like a sword. "You better."

From the hallway came the sharp sound of Biscuit’s paws scrambling on hardwood, followed by a yip and a thump as she launched herself around the corner.

"Oh no," Barbara muttered, just before the puppy skidded into Tristan’s chair.

"Biscuit," Julia warned. "Not on the table—"

Too late. Biscuit hopped into Tristan’s lap like a furry heat-seeking missile, tail wagging at full speed, sniffing his plate.

"Someone else wants real food," Tristan said, scratching behind her ear.

"You spoil her," Julia said.

"Everyone spoils her," Ling added, not looking up.

Barbara scooped the pup into her lap. "She earned it. She watched the entire second half standing."

Laughter broke around the table.

The light outside stayed gray. The plates weren’t fancy. The toast was a little overdone. But Tristan wouldn’t have traded it for anything — not even Felix’s smoked salmon and poached eggs.

He sent one more message in the group chat:

Tristan: Also, Vardy — I’m printing "0 assists" on a mug for you.

Vardy: Make it gold. I’ll drink my protein shakes out of it.

Barbara peeked at his phone screen and laughed softly.

"You’re insufferable," she whispered.

"Top scorer in Europe," Tristan whispered back.

Barbara rolled her eyes and stole a bite of his eggs.

.

They finished breakfast slowly. Julia topped off tea. Ling took Biscuit for a walk. And once the table was clear, Tristan tapped Barbara’s shin under the table and nodded toward the stairs.

"Basement," he said simply.

Barbara groaned. "Right now?"

"I need recovery, love." Tristan said before getting up. "A light out work should be fine."

Barbara sighed dramatically and stood up with him, grabbing her water bottle from the counter.

"I’ll join you," she said, stretching her arms overhead. "But only because I need to make sure you’re not skipping your stretches."

"I never skip," Tristan muttered.

"You always skip." She flicked his elbow. "Especially glute bridges."

"I’ve got tape on my shin!"

"Oh please." She teased, nudging him toward the basement door.

.

The basement wasn’t fancy. Rubber mat flooring. A mirrored wall Julia had installed herself. A set of free weights, resistance bands, and a few battered yoga mats that had seen better days. But it did the job.

Tristan sat on the floor with one sock half-on, his taped shin resting on a foam roller. Shirt off. Ribs still wrapped lightly from yesterday. He exhaled through his nose and pressed his weight down slowly.

Barbara set her bottle down and pulled her hair into a bun, dropping beside him on the mat.

"You want me to count reps or mock your form?"

"I’d prefer a quiet cheerleader."

"No such thing."

A familiar ping echoed from his phone.

[CALL INCOMING: MENDES + SOFIA - MERGED LINE]

"Yeah, of course, can’t have peace." He muttered before answering the call.

Their voices came in together, overlapping slightly before sorting themselves out.

"There he is," Mendes said. "Alive, somehow."

"Good morning," Sofia added, drier. "How many bones still working?"

Tristan winced as the roller hit a tight knot in his calf. "Seventy percent functional. Mentally? Probably thirty."

Barbara arched an eyebrow but said nothing, watching quietly as she leaned into a seated stretch.

"Sounds about right," Sofia said. "Nike already sent over a clip of that third goal. They want to post it with the Storm & Silk campaign tomorrow. You good with that?"

"Yeah, go for it."

Tristan stretched his leg out and leaned into a groin opener. "What else?"

"Documentary offer from Amazon," Mendes said. "End of the season. You, Leicester, training footage, Barbara. Your whole life pretty much if all things go well like winning the league."

"Not yet," Tristan said. "Let’s wait."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Title race first. Everything else can wait."

Sofia sounded faintly approving. "Told you he’d say that."

"Alright," Mendes said. "I’ll stall them. Just rest. Get healthy."

"I’m trying." Tristan replied as they talked for a little bit longer before ending the call.

Tristan let his head rest back against the mat. Took one long breath. Barbara lay beside him now, leg bent, abs stretching under her hoodie as she moved into a side plank.

"See?" she said. "You need me for more than cheerleading."

He glanced over. "You just want to make me look lazy."

She smiled. "Only a little."

Barbara rotated into a plank, elbow under shoulder, core tight. "Ten-second hold. Don’t cheat."

"I’m not cheating," Tristan muttered, already shaking.

She smirked. "You’re trembling."

"You’re a menace."

"You’re soft."

"Says the woman wearing my hoodie while doing core work."

"Because I’m comfortable enough to still outperform you."

Tristan groaned through his exhale. "I’m injured."

"Excuses."

They both dropped to the mat at the same time. Barbara flopped onto her back dramatically, limbs sprawled.

"Okay, that was awful," she muttered.

"You picked the set," Tristan said, breath heavy.

"You followed it."

He rolled onto his side and looked at her, sweat curling lightly at the edge of her hairline. Her cheeks were flushed. The hoodie had slipped just enough to show her collarbone.

Barbara noticed the stare. "What?"

Tristan leaned forward and kissed her. Soft, warm. Just once. Then once more, a little slower.

She didn’t pull away. Just smiled into it.

"You taste like toast," she whispered.

"You stole half my eggs."

"I was hungry."

He rolled on top of her gently, careful of his ribs, resting his weight on his forearms. Her hands slid around his back, slow.

"We’re supposed to be stretching," Barbara said.

"We’re warming down."

"This is not rehab."

"It’s mental rehab."

She laughed softly, and he kissed her again.

They lay there for a bit. Not really talking. Just tangled together, breath slow, heart rates easing.

Thirty minutes passed.

Then came the chaos.

Rapid footsteps upstairs.

Then the sharp skitter of claws on the top step.

Tristan sat up. "No way—"

A blur of cream fur launched down the basement stairs at full speed.

"Biscuit!" Barbara half-yelled, arms going up just in time—

The Maltipoo flew straight into her chest like a guided missile, yapping joyfully.

"Oh my God," Barbara wheezed, falling back into the mat.

Tristan cracked up, watching the dog scramble up and try to lick her face.

"Didn’t even break stride," he said. "She’s got elite acceleration."

"She’s an assassin," Barbara muttered, clutching Biscuit as she wiggled wildly.

Julia’s voice floated down from upstairs. "She ran the whole way.."

"That explains the speed," Tristan called back.

Biscuit circled once on the mat, then flopped between them with a huff.

Barbara scratched behind her ears. "I guess that’s the signal to stop."

"Probably." Tristan stood slowly, brushing sweat off his stomach. "We should head back soon anyway."

"You want to bring her?"

He glanced at Biscuit, now happily chewing a resistance band.

"Let her stay," Barbara said. "She’ll be spoiled. Your mum’s already teaching her Hungarian commands."

"She listens better than I do."

"Because she’s smarter."

He offered a hand to Barbara, pulling her to her feet. She bumped into his chest lightly before leaning in for one last kiss.

"I’ll pack the car," he murmured.

"I’ll get her toys."

Biscuit rolled over, belly exposed, paw swiping at Barbara’s ankle.

She crouched to kiss the dog’s head. "You be good. And no table surfing."

Biscuit yipped once.

Outside, the rain had cleared. The car was warm. The day still slow.

And their home was waiting.

Later That Evening — Tristan & Barbara’s Home

.

The couch was deep, warm, and perfectly molded to Tristan’s body. One leg stretched across the cushions, the other bent beneath him. Barbara lay sprawled across his lap, her head nestled comfortably against his thigh, a soft throw blanket draped over both of them.

The TV cast a quiet blue glow across the living room. Steam curled from the mug in Tristan’s hand. He’d only taken one sip so far.

Barbara was half-asleep, scrolling through her phone without looking at anything in particular on IG.

Tristan clicked the remote once. A YouTube tab popped up.

Autoplay had loaded an old FIFA 16 Ultimate Team video.

KSI’s face filled the screen.

"Come on! Give me someone big—"

The pack opened.

A golden card spun.

Tristan’s name flashed across the top.

KSI screamed.

"OH MY GOD—NO WAY! I GOT HIM! I GOT HIM!"

He jumped out of his chair on-screen, knocking over a can of Red Bull, headphones flapping off his head as he ran off-screen and came back.

"TRISTAN BLOODY HALE! LET’S GOOO!"

Barbara blinked. "Was that... you?"

"Yep."

"Why’s he screaming like that?"

"Because my card was cracked."

"Is it that big of a deal?."

"Kind of yeah, I’m like that third highest rated player in the game and my cards are pretty rare to pull.," Tristan said, watching KSI hold his face like he just saw God. "Of course he screamed."

"I used to do that same thing when I prayed to pull any cards of Messi or Suarez."

Barbara shifted slightly, her cheek warming against his thigh. "You were that kid who watched this stuff all night, weren’t you?"

Tristan didn’t deny it.

He used to watch these guys a lot. KSI. Miniminter. Sidemen Sundays. Sidemen Tinder. He knew their intros, their edits, their jokes before they happened.

And now they were reacting to him.

His own damn card.

His brain flickered.

What if I reached out?

KSI was still yelling on-screen. "Nah, we’re building the team around this guy. Tristan FC. Say less."

Tristan smiled to himself.

Maybe... a Sidemen FC collab?

He could reach out privately. Not through Mendes. Not through some PR team. Just him, casually.

A video? A five-a-side challenge? Something light.

He rubbed Barbara’s shoulder gently.

"I think I might do something with these guys," he said. "The Sidemen. KSI."

Barbara looked up at him, curious. "Really?"

"Yeah," he said. "I like those guys. Plus I don’t think I did anything with youtubers. Fans of me you know."

She nodded. "I think you’d fit in." She said smiling before going up to kiss his jaw.

On-screen, KSI held up the controller and shouted into the camera.

"How can we lose with this guy—Tristan Hale’s my GOAT."

Tristan chuckled under his breath.

"Can’t argue with that."

.

Tristan picked up his phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

He opened Twitter going to KSI’s account.

@KSI: Still can’t believe I packed @Tristan_22 — bro’s too cold 😭🔥

Tristan tapped reply. Then thought better of it.

Nah.

He went straight to the DMs instead.

"Hey man — saw the video. You didn’t even let the animation finish before screaming 😂 Appreciate the love tho. If you ever want to link up for something, I’m down. Could be fun."

He hit send.

Barbara raised an eyebrow from below. "You actually messaged him?"

"Yeah," Tristan said, locking his screen. "Could be fun. Besides, I kinda need some friends. ED is too busy most of the time to hangout. I need some new people besides those guys from just Leicester."

"Fair enough." Barbara replied, thinking about it. Tristan really didn’t have many friends. He kept a close circle and stuck with it. Fact he even became friends with Ed Sheeran of all people was a surprise to her.

She herself didn;’t really have many male friends if any at all so she couldn’t exact help in the department but she was glad he was thinking of meeting new people. Her love at times was too much of an introvert.

.

Later That Night — Sidemen House

JJ was still in his office editing when he saw the DM notification pop up. At first, he didn’t clock it. But the name—

@Tristan_22

His eyes widened.

"Yo. Yo... no way."

He sat upright, mouse forgotten. Opened the message.

Hey man — saw the video. You didn’t even let the animation finish before screaming 😂 Appreciate the love tho. If you ever want to link up for something, I’m down. Could be fun.

JJ’s jaw dropped. "What the—"

He bolted out of his chair.

"SIMON! TOBI! COME HERE RIGHT NOW!"

Simon appeared first, mid-yawn. "What is it now ?"

JJ turned the phone to his face like it was holy scripture.

Simon read it. Blinked. "Wait... that’s actually from Tristan?"

Tobi leaned over. "No way... you’re joking."

JJ scrolled down and read it again out loud. "He messaged me, bro. Said he wants to link."

Simon whistled low. "I mean, he’s the biggest footballer in the world right now... and he wants to do content?"

JJ grinned. "You know what this means?"

Tobi nodded. "Sidemen FC vs Tristan Hale. Five-a-side."

Simon was already typing on his phone. "We’re making this happen."

JJ replied quickly:

Bro. I’m 1000% in. You’re a legend for even sending this 😂

Say when, say where — we’ll bring cameras, boots, and everything else.

And if you ever want to pull up for a Sidemen Sunday, we’ll make a Tristan-themed challenge.

No cap.

A few seconds later — a message appeared.

@Tristan_22: I’ve got tickets for the Leicester vs United match. Box seats. You and the lads want them?

JJ’s scream echoed through the hall.

"BOYS. BOX SEATS FOR UNITED. COURTESY OF TRISTAN BLOODY HALE."

Tobi stood with his arms in the air. "Let’s gooo."

Simon grinned. "JJ’s gonna wear a suit and cry during the anthem."

JJ typed back: You’re spoiling us. I’m gonna scream like I packed you in real life. 😂 Appreciate you, bro. We’re there.

Back in Leicester, Tristan chuckled as the reply rolled in.

Barbara peeked up from her book. "That them?"

He nodded. "It’s happening."

She leaned against his chest, content.

Tristan opened his notes app. Typed:

Collab Plan: Sidemen x Hale

– 5-a-side Challenge

– Sidemen Sunday guest

– Tristan vs KSI FIFA challenge

– "Who knows Hale best?" quiz?

– Secret content drop: Tristan prank appearance as old man coach?

He locked the phone before giving Barbara his undivided attention.

.

November 25, 2015 — Morning

Belvoir Drive Training Ground

The sky over Leicester was gunmetal gray and wet enough to soak a man just for looking at it wrong. A cold drizzle tapped the windows of the training facility, turning the parking lot into a shallow sea of puddles. Inside the main hallway, the hum of suitcases rolling across tile mixed with the low chatter of players heading toward the team bus.

Tristan adjusted the strap of his duffel as he walked past the physio room, a light wrap still visible around his shin beneath tapered joggers.

"Oi, celebrity boy," Vardy called across the lobby. "You get my mug printed yet? Zero assists, gold trim?"

Tristan grinned. "It’s coming. Ceramic. Limited edition."

Ben Chilwell slid up beside him. "Forget the mug. Have you seen Twitter?"

"What about it?"

Ben pulled out his phone. "KSI posted. Something like ’Shoutout to Tristan Hale for the box seat hookup. Gassed doesn’t even cover it.’ He’s buzzing. All of Sidemen are. Look."

He shoved the screen in front of Tristan. Sure enough, there it was.

@KSI: Shoutout to @Tristan_22 for the United tix. Box seat settings. We’re pulling up loud. #SidemenFC

Tristan let out a short laugh.

"Man actually used a hashtag for his crew?" Marc Albrighton said as he walked by. "They filming the game too, or just screaming for content?"

"Both," Tristan said. "Knowing them."

"You close with them now or something?" Kasper asked, a brow raised.

"Just reached out. Casual thing."

"So what," Vardy smirked, "we getting YouTube merch in our kits now?"

"Only if yours says Solo Career Mode."

The locker room burst into laughter.

.

Tristan sat on the edge of the examination table, rolling his ankle lightly while the staff physio updated the report.

"Shin’s healing. Ribs are stable. You’re good for 60, maybe 70 minutes max if the game calls for it."

Tristan nodded. "Not pushing it."

"Good. Let the others earn their paycheck this week."

11:12 AM — Tactics Room, Belvoir Drive

Ranieri stood at the front, arms folded, looking at the projection of Rosenborg’s recent formations.

"Even though Tristan is cleared to play," he began, eyes sweeping the room, "Tristan is going to sit on the bench. Marc too. And Kante."

A few heads turned, but no one argued.

"We are undefeated. We stay smart. If we need the firepower, we use it late. But I want legs saved for United."

Tristan leaned back in his chair, nodding. He wasn’t going to complain. Norway could have its chill. He had plans for Saturday.

.

November 26, 2015 — Matchday

Rosenborg BK vs Leicester City

The air in Trondheim bit like broken glass.

It was just below freezing when the Leicester City coach pulled into the shadow of Lerkendal Stadion. The players descended in thick coats and thermal layers, boots crunching softly against patches of frost on the concrete.

Stadium lights casted a harsh white cones through the darkness, giving the place a surreal glow. Scandinavian drums pounded from the home end, echoing like war drums in the chill.

Tristan tucked his scarf higher as he stepped off the bus.

The locker room smelled of liniment and fresh-washed kits. The usual energy was subdued. Mahrez rubbed his hands together next to a portable heater. Kanté had on three layers. Vardy—who wasn’t starting either—was poking fun at Fuchs for putting deep heat on his neck.

"I’m not trying to seize up and die out there," Fuchs grumbled.

"Mate," Vardy said, pointing at his own breath in the air, "we’re already halfway dead."

Tristan smiled, half-listening as he eased into his warmup gear. The lineup was full rotation. Schlupp, Okazaki, Ulloa, Inler, King. Solid guys, good energy—but not the A-team. Ranieri wanted to rest key players for the clash against United.

"Even though Tristan is cleared to play," the Italian had said at the morning briefing, "he is not starting. Maybe not playing at all. This game needs effort, not glory. You, Marc, Kanté—you sit unless it’s desperate."

Tristan didn’t argue. His body agreed.

.

Kickoff came under a black sky. Cold wind whipped around the open bowl of the stadium. Every clearance echoed like it was punched out of metal.

Rosenborg didn’t come to lie down. They pressed from minute one. Their front three buzzed around Leicester’s back line like bees in a bottle. Long balls. Set pieces. Throw-ins hurled like missiles. The crowd screamed with every possession won.

On the bench, Mahrez sat beside Tristan, gloves on, bouncing his knees up and down like a kid needing the toilet.

"Should’ve brought a blanket," Mahrez muttered, breath visible in front of him.

Tristan grinned. "And hot chocolate. The proper kind. Marshmallows."

They watched in silence as Okazaki slipped on a through ball. Schlupp had a tame shot saved. Ulloa fired over the bar after a scrappy one-two.

"First half’s a funeral," Mahrez muttered.

Tristan stayed warm. Light stretches. Jacket zipped. Hat pulled low.

Halftime came. 0–0. Ranieri didn’t speak much—just clapped, gestured, repeated: "Stay patient. Stay compact. One chance is enough."

Second half. Same intensity. A Rosenborg volley flew just wide. Then another corner—cleared by Inler. At the hour mark, Tristan leaned forward, halfway out of his seat.

Nothing.

"Still good?" Mahrez asked.

"Still good," Tristan said.

But Ranieri didn’t look over. Not once.

Seventy minutes in. Still 0–0. Then came the danger.

Rosenborg’s number 7 cracked a curling shot from 25 yards. It beat Kasper. Hit the post.

Gasps from the crowd. Groans from the bench.

Ranieri turned to his assistants.

Tristan started rising. Finally.

But the boss just shook his head. "Let them finish."

Back on the pitch, Ulloa battled for a half-chance. Drew a corner.

Eighty-ninth minute.

Inler took it.

Right-footed. Whipped. Back post.

Ulloa rose above his man, arched backward, and powered the header down. The keeper got a hand to it. Not enough.

GOAL.

The away bench exploded. King nearly threw his bib. Schlupp sprinted to the flag. Ranieri didn’t even turn around—just raised one fist in the air and held it.

Tristan leapt up with the others, ignoring the twinge in his ribs.

"Big Leo!" Vardy bellowed, pounding the plexiglass barrier.

1–0.

Full time came minutes later.

Leicester had done it. Ugly. Late. Frozen.

But still unbeaten in Europe.

As they filed back down the tunnel, Mahrez clapped Tristan on the shoulder.

"Didn’t even need you."

Tristan grinned. "Don’t get used to it."

The cold didn’t feel quite as cold anymore.

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