England's Greatest-Chapter 180: Written on the Wall

August 22, 2015 — 11:41 PM, Leicester / 3:41 PM, Los Angeles

Tristan lay stretched across the bed, one leg hanging off the side, shirt half-rumpled on his chest. The house was still. No barking. No footsteps. No barking and footsteps. Biscuit was gone — in L.A. with Sophia and Barbara for the week. Sophia had practically insisted.

"She needs a proper routine," she'd said. "You'll forget to feed her twice a day with training. Don't argue."

So now it was just him. Empty house. Post-match adrenaline still buzzing through his limbs. He unlocked his phone and tapped Love. FaceTime started ringing.

Once.

Twice.

Then the screen lit up.

Barbara.

She was standing next to a tall hotel bed in soft California light — still damp from the shower, her hair half-wrapped in a towel, the other half tumbling down over bare shoulders. A loose pair of shorts and nothing else. No top. No modesty. No apologies.

She looked right at him and grinned.

"Hey, love," she said. "You alive?"

He blinked, trying not to bite his lip. "Barely."

Her smirk curled higher. "What? I just showered. You called me."

"You picked up looking like that."

"And?"

"You're cruel."

Barbara giggled, then slowly turned toward the dresser to grab lotion, completely aware of what she was doing. The camera caught everything.

He groaned into his pillow. "This is why you took the dog, isn't it?"

She raised a brow. "So I could tease you in peace? Mmm, maybe."

"You're evil."

"I'm yours."

He sighed. "That makes it worse."

Barbara perched on the edge of the bed now, still glowing from the shower, skin flushed, body language relaxed. "How was the tunnel?"

"Hot. Smelled like turf and Vardy's protein farts."

She scrunched her nose and laughed. "Disgusting."

"The goal was alright though."

Barbara leaned in a little, resting her chin on her hand. "It was beautiful," she said. "Drury lost his mind. He called you the boy who became a banner. I nearly cried."

Tristan swallowed. "You watched it?"

She scoffed. "Obviously. Who else am I watching on a Saturday in L.A.?"

He didn't reply. Just looked at her.

Barbara noticed. She stretched her legs out in front of her. "I got something today."

He raised a brow. "Good or bad?"

"I don't know yet." She exhaled. "Email came this morning. From Ed Razek's team."

Tristan sat up slightly.

"Victoria's Secret?"

She nodded. "They're casting for this year's show early. New York. November. They want me to come in."

There was a beat of silence.

Barbara looked down. "It's not official. Just a casting. But... I haven't done this stuff in a while. Not like this. Sophia says it'd be big for exposure but—"

"You said before, 'never say never.' Thought you wanted it."

"I did," she said. "Still kind of do. But things are different now."

Tristan watched her. She looked small, despite how confident she always came off.

"You don't need them," he said. "But if you want it, I'll be there. Front row. Screaming like a lunatic."

"And if I don't?"

"Then they lose. Not you."

Barbara blinked. Smiled.

"You're getting too good at this."

"I've been studying," he said. "Chapter Five: How to make your girlfriend fall in love with you again every night."

She leaned closer to the screen, eyes low. "You're lucky you're not here."

"Don't say that unless you're catching the next flight."

Barbara bit her lip. "Two more weeks. Then I'm back."

"Dead sure?"

"Sure as your little trophy sitting on the kitchen table."

They both smiled.

The call didn't end quickly. They stayed like that. Talking. Laughing. Teasing. Until her hair dried. Until his eyes got heavy. Until the screen dimmed and the night folded quietly around them.

Somewhere between Los Angeles and Leicester, they fell asleep together.

.

Next Morning

The sun spilled lazily across the kitchen floor.

Tristan sat at the end of the table, legs half-tucked under the chair, one arm hooked behind his head, the other tapping idly against the edge of his glass.

Felix was at the stove, apron tied crooked, humming as he flipped a pan. The smell of roasted tomatoes, herbs, and warm oil drifted through the room — sharp enough to make Tristan's stomach growl, but mellow enough to feel like home.

Across the table, Soma was already in her zone.

Tablet open, stylus dancing, glasses halfway down her nose as she flicked through charts and weekly breakdowns.

"Alright," she said, without looking up. "This week I've got three variations I want to test. One's a salmon-based carb-load dinner for two days before matches. One's quinoa-heavy — not ideal for flavor, but the energy curve is good. Third is just clean protein with beetroot and kale, but only if Felix doesn't murder me."

Felix made a noise near the stove. "You try plating kale for a twenty-year-old footballer who grew up eating pub chips. You try it."

Tristan sipped his water, leaned back in the chair, and said, "Put it in a wrap and I won't complain."

Soma tapped twice. "Deal. Wrap version gets trialed next week."

Felix slid a plate in front of him — eggs, grilled sweet potato, avocado, spinach, and a thin slice of toasted sourdough.

"This one's called Recovery Deluxe," he said, drying his hands with a dish towel. "Soma's blessed it. High protein. Low regret."

Tristan didn't even ask. He just picked up his fork.

Soma finally looked up, pushing her glasses higher. "You're already back to base weight. That's good. I was going to yell about the shake, but I know you handled it after."

Tristan nodded. "Hydration was fine. Just didn't want to chug it in front of five camera guys."

"Fair," she said, marking something down. "Still — next time, sip it during the cooldown jog."

Felix raised an eyebrow. "You want him running and drinking?"

"You'd be amazed what this idiot can do," Soma said, without missing a beat. "He could probably balance it on his head."

Tristan smirked. "I'm not doing that."

"You will if I add it to the plan," Soma replied, deadpan.

Felix laughed.

"Also," Tristan said between bites, "can you make two more plates for lunch? Mendes and Sofia are coming."

Felix raised an eyebrow. "Both?"

"Yeah."

Felix turned back to the counter. "Got it."

Soma scribbled something down again. "Tell Sofia I want her weight and macros if she's eating my plans. No freeloaders."

Tristan grinned. "I'll let her know."

Then he picked up his phone and leaned back again, the kitchen hum settling around him like clockwork.

He eventually found himself scrolling a Reddit page on football; he found it to be better than Twitter.

Thread Title: "Just how good is this Leicester team??"

Posted by: u/PitchsideProphet - 1 day ago

Tristan clicked it.

The post loaded instantly — crisp, clean, and already well into triple-digit upvotes. The username stood out.

Thread Title: "Just how good is this Leicester team??"

Posted by: u/PitchsideProphet

I know it's only three games, but this isn't the same Leicester from last season.

The shape. The tempo. The pressing. The belief.

Ranieri didn't come in and change everything. He came in and refined. He took what Pearson built and added control. Discipline. Identity.

And Tristan Hale? Somehow even better than last season. And last season WE WERE CALLING HIM THE BEST PLAYER IN THE LEAGUE AT 19. And now he's stronger. That final-third decision-making? Levels above. And now he's adding goals from range — scored a free kick in the opener, danced through Spurs like he was possessed last night.

I heard he wants the Golden Boot. I genuinely think he might do it. First midfielder since Lampard to even come close, but Tristan's ceiling is different. He has the highest ceiling of any English player in history.

But it's not just him.

Vardy just scored his first Premier League hat-trick. He's in amazing form with 5 goals in 3 games. Mahrez is consistent now. Albrighton is slept on. And Kanté?

He's not just a steal. He might go down as the greatest scouting find in Premier League history. £7 million. Dude covers the whole field.

Added in their new signings for depth and all the defensive players they added. Oh man, I don't even know what to say.

If you're still calling this a fluke — you haven't been paying attention.

There's a reason they finished sixth last season. And there's a reason they might do even better now.

Tristan scrolled down.

Top Comment – u/Torrent

Bro... Tristan's got 3 goals and 3 assists in three games. It's not even September. If he stays fit, he's blowing past last year's 75 G/A.

I know it's early — but you don't need to see the whole storm to recognize a hurricane.

u/Ethan_Brown

If you extrapolate his current pace (and I know it's insane to do this) — Tristan ends the calendar year with something like 58 goals and 57 assists.

That's Messi 2012 territory. I'm not saying he'll break the 91 goal record — but if anyone could do it. I think it be either Neymar or Tristan. Ronaldo is too old and I don't think he's good enough to break that record either.

u/Lenny

He was 8th in Ballon d'Or last year and he's already cooking like this? If he wins a trophy and keeps this up, top 3 minimum. Minimum.

u/Lucas

I've watched that Spurs goal 34 times now. I still don't understand how he beat Dier, Vertonghen and Walker in six seconds.

Man did a full ballet recital with studs on.

u/NeutralObserver23

The real scary part? These guys like playing together. Vardy runs for Tristan. Tristan looks for Mahrez. Mahrez dances, and Kanté cleans it all up behind them.

It's chemistry. You can't buy that. You build it.

And Leicester built something really special for the last three years. Add in a generational talent with talent rivaling Messi, and yeah, this team is good.

Tristan raised an eyebrow, thumb hovering over the upvote button. He was on an alt account, he did not want the media finding out about what he liked and didn't like on the internet. He was not that brave like Kevin Durant.

One comment had a looping GIF of the goal — his dragback, the flick, the snap of his left foot, and the ball slicing into the top corner.

The caption?

"And on the 88th minute, he said: Let there be light."

Tristan couldn't help but laugh at that one.

..

The knock came right after Felix wiped down the counter and stacked two extra plates on the sideboard.

Tristan didn't move from the table.

"Door's open!" he called.

A beat. Then the door creaked open, and two familiar voices came in.

"Damn something smells good," Mendes said, stepping in first, blazer open, phone already in his hand. "I might just have to borrow Felix from you for a few days..."

"Good afternoon to you too," Tristan muttered, not looking up. "And no you can't have Felix."

Sofia followed close behind in a sleeveless white blouse and sunglasses still perched on her head. She gave Felix a small nod on the way in.

"Hope we're not late."

"You're early," Soma replied without looking up from her screen. "Which means I still get five more minutes of peace."

..

The chairs scraped softly as Mendes and Sofia eased into their spots.

Felix poured fresh water into their glasses, then slid over two matching plates of the "Recovery Deluxe." Not that either of them would touch it for its nutritional value.

"Looks too pretty to eat," Sofia said, eyeing the spinach curls and avocado fan with faint amusement.

"That's the idea," Felix called from the stove. "But eat it anyway."

Tristan leaned back in his chair, one hand resting on his glass, the other lazily tapping the table.

Mendes sliced into a piece of sweet potato and pointed his fork like a baton. "Let's talk endorsements."

"Let's," Sofia echoed, already unlocking her iPad.

Mendes dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin, set his fork down, and finally leaned forward.

"First off—Nike's thrilled."

Tristan didn't react. He just kept chewing, elbow braced on the table.

"The Crown the Streets campaign? That Uncle Drew-inspired rollout? It's pulling numbers we didn't see coming. 11 million views in three days. 30% watch-through rate. Conversion rate is through the roof. You know what that means, right?"

Felix raised a brow from the counter. "Means I gotta buy more ad-blockers?"

Sofia cracked a smile. Mendes ignored them.

"It means those ads aren't being skipped. They're being rewatched."

Sofia tapped her iPad. "Storm & Silk — the fashion short with Barbara — is doing even better. 19 million views and climbing. Mostly from Asia. Chinese fan forums translated the whole thing with fan-sub captions and edits."

Tristan finally blinked. "What?"

"Yeah," Sofia said. "There's already a fan account tracking every boot variation you wear. That matte sole you insisted on? Trending on Weibo. They said it looks like 'warrior armor.'"

Tristan let out a slow breath through his nose.

"I didn't think anyone noticed soles."

"They do now," Mendes said, grinning. "Especially when they think it makes them play like you."

Tristan leaned back in his chair, eyes flicking toward the window. Sunlight cut through the edge of the glass, casting a diagonal across the table. His name. His boots. Kids halfway across the world trying to lace up like him.

"I just wanted them to be clean," he muttered. At times like this, he still couldn't believe the chance and opportunity he was given.

"Well, they're clean and viral," Sofia said. "Nike wants to capitalize while it's hot. They're pushing for a signature appearance — a signing event. Something international. Pair you with other global athletes."

"Who?" Tristan asked, lifting a brow.

"Durant. LeBron. Possibly Kobe, if schedules line up," Mendes said. "They want to launch you into that next tier. You're already one of the most famous athletes in the world right now. The next tier is being in the same league as Messi and Ronaldo.

Tristan didn't answer right away. He pushed his fork around the edge of his plate, thinking.

"I'm open," he said eventually. "But I want to do it here. In Leicester. If the mural's done before the month's end, we do it downtown. Invite the fans. Do it right."

Sofia's fingers moved fast over her iPad. "That's a strong pitch. Community angle. Legacy narrative. It writes itself."

Mendes gave a single approving nod. "Alright. I'll line it up."

He reached down into his leather bag, pulled out a thick folder, and slid it across the table. Tristan didn't touch it yet.

"New Nike contract," Mendes said. "Finalized last night. Four years."

Tristan glanced down at it. Finally that deal was done at least. Mendes and Nike were going back and fourth on the amount.

"How big?" he asked.

"£21.7 million per year," Mendes replied. "Base. That doesn't include performance bonuses. Win the Ballon d'Or? League title? Golden Boot? That triggers legacy payouts — your name gets locked into a royalty deal on all future signature products."

Sofia added, "That would put you higher than Neymar's deal. In the same financial bracket as Ronaldo and Messi. You'd be the youngest athlete Nike's ever offered that to."

Tristan stared at the folder. Then looked back at them.

He didn't say it out loud, but it didn't feel real.

"I'll read it," he said.

"Good," Mendes said, voice lowering. "Because there's more. Range Rover's deal ends in three months. They're offering an extension. Seven figures. Higher than last time. More cars. But I know how you felt about it before."

Tristan made a face. "Man I'm already tired of driving them, I wanna drive my dream cars."

"We know," Sofia said calmly. "So we've drafted a lighter version. No exclusivity. Just a few appearances, a handful of photo shoots, and they'll deliver the fleet for the media use only. You won't have to touch a steering wheel unless you want to."

Mendes chimed in. "And we can include clauses — permission to use family-owned vehicles, be chauffeured in non-Range Rovers. You get freedom. They get branding. Everybody's happy."

Tristan opened the folder. Read the first few lines.

Performance-based incentives. Signature series rights. Image licensing control. Dual-market rights in the UK and Asia.

He set it down.

"Add the clauses," he said. "I'll sign it."

Sofia nodded. "Done."

Mendes leaned back with a smile, tapping two fingers against the table.

"There are a few more sponsor deals still in the process," he said. "But by the end of this season? You're going to make more than 99% of athletes in the world."

Tristan didn't flinch.

That number didn't scare him.

What scared him was letting that number change him. But he was mature enough for that; he had his parents, Barbara, and friends to keep him in check. He wouldn't let money change him.

Sofia tapped her iPad. "Investments are moving too. We picked up another batch of Bitcoin last week, like you asked.And we're shifting another 300K into high-growth tech.

Mendes nodded. "We're also diversifying your portfolio slightly — dipping into sustainable energy and clean mobility. Just hedging long-term."

Tristan set his fork down. "And stocks?"

"Still holding Apple, Amazon, Tesla, Netflix," Sofia said.

Then Mendes leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice a little lower.

"I know you told me not to speak to clubs... and I haven't," he said. "Not even United. Especially not United."

Tristan looked up at him, spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Good," he muttered. "That badge gives me hives."

Mendes smirked. "I have no intention of forcing your hand. But that doesn't mean the calls have stopped. Real Madrid's holding out until the end of the season. Barcelona too. Bayern's poking around. PSG sent in some polite French nonsense about their 'project.' Everyone wants you."

He paused, let the moment hang.

"So the real question is — what do you want?"

Tristan sat back, tapping his spoon against the edge of the bowl. His brain did a half-spin around Europe.

"No point going to Italy," he said. "No one even watches that league, and besides Juventus, there's no other club that could even afford me."

"Same thing with Germany; it's just Bayern dominating one league, and that be too boring. I still want challenges. Same thing with France."

Sofia snorted into her glass. "So Spain or England?"

"Yep" Tristan said, already feeling a rant coming on. "But Madrid has Ronaldo. It'll always be his club. You don't walk into his house and start touching the silverware."

"And Barca?" Mendes asked.

"Messi's mural is literally carved into the walls. No matter what I do, I'd still be second billing to Messi. I can't change that even if I win them 10 Champions League."

"So you don't want to leave England," Mendes said, tapping the table once.

"Not yet," Tristan said. "Not when my parents are still 30 minutes away. Not when I can have Felix cook for me and yell at me in Portuguese when I ask for ketchup."

"Big Six then," Sofia said. "That narrows it."

"Yeah," Tristan replied. "Chelsea. Arsenal. City. Liverpool."

Sofia raised an eyebrow. "Not United?"

Tristan didn't even blink. "Please. I'd rather get tackled by Kante." It's not that he hated that club, but rather he didn't want to ruin his career.

Felix let out a loud snort from the kitchen. Soma didn't even look up. "Amen."

"And Spurs?" Mendes asked, just to poke the bear.

Tristan tilted his head. "Only if I want to retire from winning." Spurs were a little better than United but again he wanted to be better than Messi. Even if he gave the club a list of future superstars, he wasn't sure that club even had ambitions to win in the first place.

Mendes laughed properly at that one, fingers steepling again. "Well then," he said. "Looks like you just gave me my off-season checklist."

He reached into his blazer and pulled out his phone.

"Because every single one of those clubs? They've already reached out."

Tristan raised an eyebrow.

"I'll give you an update soon. But no rush," Mendes added. "We're in control now."

Now there were multiple reasons he didn't want to go to Spain. He thought about this for a long time now since Real Madrid wanted him after Brazil. One he just didn't want to leave England, this was his home, depressing as it may be. His parents wouldn't move from Leicester no matter what he did. And he didn't have the heart to live too far away from them. Another thing to considered would be Real Madrid politics, how would Ronaldo react to him moving in, how would the other players react. What would be his status in the club. Would Ronaldo even leave knowing he has someone who can just feed him the ball.

And that was another thing, if he joined Real Madrid, he would be joining a club with legends, players you can make the case for GOAT. So he wouldn't be that special say compared to reviving Liverpool to it's former glory and more.

.

August 24, 2015 – Belvoir Drive, Leicester

The sun broke through patchy grey clouds, casting thin, warm streaks across the training pitch. Boots tapped through dew-damp grass. Bibs were swapped. Balls rolled between cones like lazy planets in orbit.

Tristan stood near the halfway line, arms crossed over his chest, watching as Ben tried to ping a long diagonal toward Fuchs. It bounced twice before falling short.

"Closer," Tristan called. "You're aiming for Austria, not Austria-Hungary."

Ben groaned and jogged back. "That's not even a real—never mind."

Shinji was up next. His first touch was tight, his second too soft.

"Shinji," Tristan said, clapping once, "You score a thousand goals in Japan, but can't pass ten yards?"

Shinji glanced back, smiling faintly. "I... I score... when matter come."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "Is that a threat or a haiku?"

Shinji gave a thumbs up. "Bench not forever. You watch."

Ben cracked up. "That's terrifying."

Tristan grinned. "Well, if Ranieri gives you lot a chance this weekend, don't embarrass me. Ulloa hasn't played a minute yet, and even he's ahead in the queue."

Maguire jogged by, quiet as usual, stretching out his shoulders. He paused just enough to speak.

"I'm not in a rush," he said evenly. "But I'll be ready."

Tristan gave him a look. "That sounds ominous."

Maguire shrugged. "Just means I'm listening."

"You were listening when you got booked in training last week?"

"I slipped," Maguire said, barely smiling.

"You two weren't even near the ball," Ben added.

Shinji nodded, helpful as ever. "He tackle me... near water. No ball."

Maguire glanced at Shinji, half a breath from apologizing. "Timing was off."

"It was lunch break," Tristan muttered.

Vardy jogged past then, catching just enough to join in. "Oi, Harry, if you start this weekend, we're switching to rugby."

Maguire didn't bite. Just looked at him, stone-faced. "You wouldn't last five minutes."

"Don't worry," Tristan added. "He'll bring his boots. Just needs to remember they're not cement blocks."

Maguire gave a slow nod, like he was mentally adding names to a future tackle list.

"Keep talking," he said quietly. "I'll deal with it later."

Behind them, Kanté zipped a clean five-yard pass through two cones without even looking up. Schmeichel stood in goal, catching one-footed volleys from Mahrez like it was just hand-eye warm-up.

And just past the edge of the pitch, Ranieri blew the whistle twice.

"Alright," he called. "Cool down. Film room in twenty."

Vardy looked up. "Can we skip the part where they show me not tracking back?"

"You didn't track forward," Drinkwater said.

.

Twenty-five minutes later – Film Room

The blinds were half-drawn, casting the room into a low tactical glow. The projector hummed. The screen up front showed a paused frame — Dele Alli mid-stumble, the ball pinballing off his shin.

Ben Chilwell dropped into the seat next to Tristan with a protein bar in one hand. Vardy stretched across two chairs behind them, slouched low like a man awaiting sentencing.

"Do we get popcorn for this?" he muttered.

"No," Mahrez replied flatly. "You get shame."

"Same thing," Vardy said.

The door opened. Ranieri entered without a word. Benetti followed, remote in hand. Shakespeare stood near the whiteboard, tablet under one arm.

Ranieri gave a slow glance across the room. Then nodded.

Benetti clicked the first clip.

63:52 — Dier Substitution Sequence

Bentaleb off. Dier on. Spurs reshaped instantly. Hale marked tighter. Walker pushed higher. Lamela drifted in.

"This is where they change it," Benetti began. "Everything tilted here."

He drew a line on the screen with the laser pointer.

"Dier sits here. Just inside Mahrez's lane. That forced him to drop deeper. Look—" he clicked the next frame.

"Now Mahrez is twenty-five yards from goal instead of fifteen. That kills the counter."

Mahrez frowned. "I was told to stay tucked."

Ranieri answered simply. "You were. But not pinned."

Benetti didn't wait. Next clip.

64:22 — Quick Switch Left

Rose and Chadli execute a fast one-two. Simpson hesitates. Rose slices between Kanté and Drinkwater and sends it to Kane.

Tristan leaned forward. "That's where Huth stepped. Wrong call."

Benetti nodded. "Right idea, wrong timing. Kane dropped deep—Huth followed. But no cover behind."

Ranieri added, "That's shape awareness. Simpson's stuck between Lamela and Kane. Mahrez is still recovering. Kanté's late because of the switch."

66:40 — Lamela vs Fuchs

Lamela chops inside. Fuchs holds ground. But no pressure on the pass lane. Eriksen runs off Drinkwater's shoulder. Clean pass. One touch, and it's nearly a shot from twenty yards before Kanté intervenes.

"Now look here," Ranieri said, pausing it mid-motion. "This is recovery brilliance — but preventable brilliance."

The cursor circled Mahrez again. "Too slow reacting to the overload. Riyad, this isn't about pressing. It's about closing off space early."

Mahrez gave a nod. "Understood."

Benetti flicked ahead.

80:18 — Dele Alli's Goal

Everyone in the room stiffened. That goal was more than preventable but that team got lazy at that moment.

Rose's ball was hopeful. Not aimed. Just dumped. Huth stepped. Morgan hesitated. Drinkwater deflected it. Then Vertonghen. Then it dropped.

Alli, half-rising, fell again. The ball caught his shin. Then his knee. Then it rolled in slow motion past a stunned Schmeichel.

Benetti let the clip run again. Slower.

"Right here," he said, rewinding. "Simpson is square. Drinkwater backtracks too late. Huth is forward but doesn't check his line. This wasn't just unlucky. It was slow. Disorganized."

Vardy finally spoke. "He didn't even kick it."

"No," Ranieri replied. "But we let the ball bounce three times inside the box. That's on us."

He let it hang for a moment before gesturing to Benetti.

88:03 — Tristan's Goal

Dier tight. Vertonghen shadowing. No angle. No time.

One flick. One shift. Then a shot. No backlift. No hesitation. Top bins.

The room didn't cheer — but even the veterans leaned back in their seats.

"That's brilliance," Shakespeare said. "But we shouldn't have needed brilliance to claw back a point."

Benetti nodded. "Last season on the last day, you guys promised a miracle to the fans. And for any type of miracle to happen we need to stay focus at all times during the games, we can't get lazy just because we are ahead."

Ranieri capped the marker, stepped forward slowly.

"We were out-thought. Outrun in moments. That second goal? It's the kind that kills belief if we let it."

He looked around the room. Mahrez. Drinkwater. Kanté. Tristan last.

"You want trophies?" he said quietly. "Then you close games. You don't let two ricochets and a stumble cost you three points."

Schmeichel from the back: "We start faster against Bournemouth. No more drift starts."

Vardy raised a hand. "Do we have to watch the cross I skied in the 72nd?"

"You do," Tristan said. "Frame by frame."

Vardy groaned. "They slow it down, I'm suing."

A few snorts of laughter cut through the tension.

Ranieri offered the faintest smile. "Alright. Pool and recovery. Tomorrow we reset."

.

The projector had gone dark, but the tactical board was still covered in arrows. Outside the film room, players filtered off toward the recovery pools and gym—voices low, footsteps light. The

Ranieri stood by the whiteboard, one hand on his hip, the other slowly recapping a marker. His face unreadable.

"Bournemouth," he said quietly.

Benetti nodded. He was already pulling up clips on the office screen. The Bournemouth crest hovered beside a still frame of their overlapping fullbacks pushing high.

"They press in bursts. Lots of running. But they're open in transition—especially second phase after they lose shape."

Craig Shakespeare leaned in, arms crossed. "Midfield gets dragged when they go forward. You beat the press clean, you're at their back four in three touches."

Ranieri didn't look up yet. "And they play like they've got nothing to lose."

"Because they don't," Benetti said. "Promoted teams always start that way. Momentum instead of fear. But it breaks fast if you hit early."

A pause.

Then Shakespeare added, "If we go two up by halftime, we can rotate."

Ranieri finally looked up. He didn't blink.

"I want to."

He turned to the whiteboard, erased a corner, and drew four names:

Maguire. Chilwell. Okazaki. Ulloa.

"They've trained well," he said simply. "But they need minutes. Real ones. Not just injury-time handshakes."

Shakespeare stepped forward. "Okazaki's still adjusting. But he's clever. He'll press like hell if we give him a lead to protect."

"Maguire's calm," Benetti said. "Not perfect, but... not nervous. He's good for the bench.

"Chilwell needs confidence; he's good, and he's from the academy as well," Ranieri murmured. "And Ulloa—he won't complain, but he hasn't played a second. He deserves a target."

They all stood in silence for a moment.

Then Ranieri tapped the names again.

"But not as gifts. Only if the job is done early. I won't hand them pity minutes."

Benetti clicked to a Bournemouth stat sheet. "If we start fast, we can control it."

Shakespeare nodded. "Then we start fast."

"Two goals," he said quietly. "Then we reward the ones still waiting."

.

The players' lounge still smelled faintly of chlorine and protein shakes. Flip-flops slapped tile. Water bottles clunked against gym bags. One of the TVs played muted Sky Sports footage on loop — endless punditry about Tottenham's draw, about Kane's goal, about Tristan's.

Tristan sat near the corner sofa, towel slung around his neck, one leg folded under him. He was half-listening as Vardy loudly accused Mahrez of dodging squats during the morning session.

"I didn't skip anything," Mahrez said. "I did ten reps while you were flirting with your reflection."

"It winked first," Vardy replied.

Drinkwater chuckled nearby. "Let's get you two a room."

On the far side, Ben leaned against the vending machine, still toweling off his hair.

"They finished the mural last night, didn't they?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else.

Mahrez looked up. "Which mural?"

"The new one. North side wall. I think it's two panels now."

Albrighton perked up. "Really? What is it this time—Shinji scoring a screamer?"

Shinji, seated quietly near Inler, tilted his head and offered a grin. "Maybe... next week."

"I heard it's the FA Cup team on one side," Ben added, "and Tristan on the other."

That got everyone's attention.

Vardy whistled low. "Oi. Poster boy gets his own wall now?"

"Hey, I'm important to this country," Tristan said, trying to sound arrogant, which ended up making everyone laugh. He just couldn't pull that role off.

"Relax," Schmeichel called from near the window. "It's about the club. You just happen to be the crown."

"That why the mural's taller than the building?" Mahrez asked.

A few laughs. But the jokes softened as curiosity settled in.

Fuchs — said, "Come on then. We're already sweaty. Let's go see."

.

One Hour Later

They walked as a group. No rush. Shinji and Inler near the back, Maguire and Ulloa side by side, talking quietly. The air was warm, the sun just beginning to slope.

They turned the corner.

And then they saw it.

The new paint still gleamed under sunlight. Massive. Seamless. The wall had been completely transformed.

🔵 Left Panel – Wembley 2014

Leicester in blue, hoisting the FA Cup. The whole squad rendered in bold brushwork. Vardy mid-shout, Wes Morgan lifting the trophy with both hands. Schmeichel crouched beside it, hair slick with rain. In the bottom corner, Ulloa's arms raised in disbelief. And just off-center—

A young Tristan Hale.

Beneath it:

"Against All Odds – Wembley, 2014"

[Wembley > Image Here]

Silence settled. Even Vardy didn't joke.

Kanté stopped walking.

Shinji stepped forward, lips parted slightly.

"Was good day," he murmured.

Schmeichel let out a slow breath. "We were babies."

Drinkwater leaned in. "And still they didn't believe in us."

🟡 Right Panel – 2014/15 Season, Tristan's Year

Tristan, dressed in Leicester blue, arms spread wide in his signature celebration — the same pose that had become iconic across highlight reels and magazine covers.

Below him, arranged in polished detail, sat the ten individual trophies he'd won last season: the Golden Boy, the Puskás, the PFA double, England's Best — and the rest.

Bold lettering stood like scripture against the paint:

"Seventy-Five Goal Contributions. Ten Awards."

"The Miracle of Leicester."

[Tristan's Mural > Image here]

Mahrez said nothing. But he stepped closer.

Ben Chilwell stared longer than anyone. "One day," he said quietly, "I want to be on that wall. Even just the edge."

Schmeichel nodded slowly. "You will be. If we get it right."

No one said what "it" was. But they all knew.

Tristan didn't move. He just stood there — this was his first time seeing it. He made sure he didn't see it on the internet. Seeing it for the first time almost brought him to tears. This was how the city saw him.

And that forget he would after this season just felt like the final stab to his heart. But thats why he had to bring them more trophies than just one Premier League, it had to be a historic one somehow.

"Oi," Vardy finally said. "So when do we paint me in gold?"

"Win another cup," Albrighton muttered.

Tristan cracked a faint smile. Then turned to the group.

"Next time," he said, voice low but clear, "we all go up there. So let's make this season count."

He looked at the right mural again — at the version of himself holding trophies that still felt warm in memory.

Then, under his breath, just for him:

"Not done yet."

He turned. And walked back into the light.

.

End

Need them power stones

Leave some comments too please lol